Is this a picture of the moon taken from the space station
as it glides silently through deep space?
No, it’s more mundanely the view from under the eaves of the
house, with the new guttering looking all glossy and high-tech.
The bench I sit on to have my morning coffee rests directly
against the back wall. Sometimes I look
directly up into the blue sky and wonder how much sky is above me. How deep is it? How much does it weigh? We could
go and Google those questions right now and find out precisely, but let’s
not. Forcing the beauty of the sky into
a straight-jacket of numbers and statistics will not adequately convey that
spine shivering feeling when you realise how small you are compared to the
enormity of the Earth.
Scientists like Richard Dawkins would perhaps disagree with
me:
“The feeling of awed wonder that science can give us is one of the highest experiences of which the human psyche is capable. It is a deep aesthetic passion to rank with the finest that music and poetry can deliver.”
In a way he is right, in that I am a child of my times. At
school I was taught about weather systems, now I passively watch BBC 4
programmes on the wonders of the universe, and at the weekend idly read newspapers.
Without really trying I know far more about the natural world than any
generation before, and so any feelings I have about it are informed by
scientific facts and theories. And yet, if any of us pauses for a moment and
really looks at the sky, or the sea, or inside a flower, surely that sense of awe
is instinct alone?
Does science allow for spirit?
 |
| When I was 10 I wanted to be an astronaut |
 |
| How thin and vulnerable the sky looks from space |
