“How can there be a start without a beginning?”

Here is the conversation that led up to this question:

Seven-year-old kid (coming from a pile of LEGOs, looking concerned): “I’m all mixed up.”

Me: “How so?”

Kid: “In order to start, you have to have a beginning.  But how can you start when there’s no start?  Everything has to have a beginning!  How do you start when there’s no beginning?!”

Me: “Is this about building a Lego robot or is this about the existence of the universe?”

Kid: “The existence of the universe.”

I reassured the worried youngster that his was a question that has been pondered by human beings ever since human beings could ponder, and that, frankly, we don’t know how the universe began.  We do know that it’s a really big question.  We also debate whether it’s relevant to our daily lives (short of the relevance in that it, apparently, happened.)  But relevant or not, answerable or not, we humans forge on to find out, and there are always some reigning theories.

Photo from WikiImages

The Universe Begins: Bang!

The currently prevailing model regarding the beginning of the universe is, of course, the Big Bang theory.  The idea is that everything started out as a singularity – that is, a single point containing all the matter that now comprises the universe.  There was no space or time yet, just that little dot of everything, with all four fundamental forces (electromagnetic, gravitational, strong and weak) combined as one (hey, maybe that was the Force!)  The dot blew up and expanded outwards, creating the universe as we know it.

The problem with this theory, math-wise, is that Einstein’s theory of general relativity – which works so well at explaining and predicting how the universe behaves – doesn’t work at the actual point of the singularity.  Quantum physicists are working on that (more on that later.)

The Universe Begins: Bounce!

There’s another idea out there that describes the universe as continually expanding and contracting down to almost a point, then bouncing back outwards again.  As explained by one of the authors, James Hartle, the universe “collapsed from a previous large phase, bounced at a small but not zero radius, and expanded again to the large phase we are living in.”

This theory doesn’t work perfectly well, math-wise, either, which the study authors readily admit.  As Hartle says, “our model does make a number of strong assumptions…this is a standard trade-off in physics.”  So far the math indicates “a good chance” – yea, a “significant possibility” that the universe started out with a bounce.

The Universe Begins: Splat!

The “big splat” theory (formally known as the ekpyrotic scenario) fits in with both big bang and big bounce theories, but has an explanation for what got things going in the first place.  The idea is that, rather than starting as a singularity, the universe rose to existence from the collision of two branes (or as quantum zombies would say, braaaaaanes!)

Part of string theory, branes are basically objects that can exist in various dimensions.  The term “brane” comes from “membrane,” the term for a two-dimensional brane.  Branes exist under the auspices of quantum physics, and they hang out and multiply anywhere/when in spacetime.  According to Paul Steinhardt at Princeton University, branes collide every trillion years or so.  When they do, they essentially destroy and recreate the universe.

The Universe With No Beginning

A new universe origin story has recently been proposed, which attempts to marry somewhat the relativity and quantum camps.  As Ahmed Farag Ali of Benha University says, “Our theory serves to complement Einstein’s general relativity, which is very successful at describing physics over large distances...But physicists know that to describe short distances, quantum mechanics must be accommodated."

Applying quantum corrections to the Raychaudhuri equation (which deals with the motion of matter in close proximity) and fitting the whole thing in with the theory of relativity, the result suggests that the Big Bang didn’t happen and the universe has just always been around.  And always will be.

 

So how do you start with no apparent beginning?

Well, as it applies to we humans making things happen, we make those beginnings by, well, starting.

Here’s what some sages have to say about it:

“The beginning is the most important part of the work.”  ~Plato

 "There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth…not going all the way, and not starting."  ~Buddha

“The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”  ~Walt Disney

“Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”  ~Arthur Ashe

“Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.”  ~Yoda

“Just go!”   ~Me, when it’s time to go

The Final Word...

…goes to the kid who started all this.  He ponders: “There might have been something that grew to fit space.”  He questions: “What was before the universe?  If there’s something more out from the universe, what is it?  It’s not nothing!”

He mulls it over: “I don’t think there was any start of everything.  But there had to be a start of everything.  How can there be a start without a beginning?  There would have to be a beginning!”

He concludes: “If you’re getting confused about this, throw away the word ‘beginning.’  Then you wouldn’t think there would be a beginning.”

Well that’s a start.

Think Fast: Falcon vs. Thought

Photo from Pixabay user "70154"

Watch out!  There’s an animal alive on Earth right now that moves faster than you can blink.  Possibly faster than you can even think to blink!

Death from above

What amazing creature is this?  Presenting the peregrine falcon, the fastest-traveling creature known to science.  Although the adored cheetah gets more fame for its fastest-running-speed ability, it is the falcon, unhampered by having to move any of its feet across the ground, that really gets up some speed. 

Peregrine falcons can rival a cheetah for straightaway speed even when they’re just flying along on a horizontal trajectory.  But when the falcon hunts with its famous nose-dive technique – called stooping – it more than quadruples its flat-flight speed.

Hunting in this fashion, the falcon spies its prey – usually a medium-size bird in flight – either from a lofty perch or while up high in flight.  The falcon then goes into its stoop, streamlining its body to cut through the air before striking its prey with sufficient force to stun or kill it on impact. 

How fast is that?  A certain peregrine falcon named Frightful has been clocked at 242 mph during her stoop, and it is possible that she could go even faster.  (Some sources claim that peregrines have been clocked at 273 mph but sadly, their citations are absent…we’ll have to stick with the substantiated speed for now.  But still do consider that Frightful might not have been in a big rush that day!)

Now here’s the really cool part – that’s about as fast as we humans can think.

Think fast!

When someone says “think fast,” just how fast are we talking about?  What is the actual speed of thought?

Here’s the quick scoop on thinking: neurons are the cells that transmit information through our nervous system, so when I complain that I “have brain cells dedicated” to the likes of theme songs from 80s sitcoms, I’m talking about neurons.  Neurons transmit signals via chemical and electrical signals.  When a neuron gets an electric memo, it’s passed along via an electrical impulse known as an action potential.

According to a handy write-up by the National Institutes of Health, “the fastest action potentials can travel the length of a football field in 1 second.”  100 yards in 1 second – that’s 205 mph.  Falcon’s faster.

But wait, there’s more.  The “speed of thought” actually differs wildly depending on how we define “thought” and which cells come into play. 

Some nerve cells are myelinated, which means they have a coating that allows electrical signals to travel faster along their length.  Some neurons are not mylinated, as is the case with many in the brain.  The fastest signal speeds seem to occur along myelinated cells in the spinal column, allowing a message like “that surface is hot!” to get to the brain for further advisement (“pull back!”) really quickly.  Messages just between brain cells – straight up “thinking,” if you will, appear to move much more slowly (although bear in mind the distance between brain cells is really small compared to the distance from brain to toe.)

Here’s a rundown of the variations in our information processing speeds:

To assure us that our body can send some signals faster than a falcon can fly, it’s sources including DiscoverMagazine to the rescue, reporting nerve impulses reaching 268 mph – although that 268 mph is for spinal cord signals (and I haven’t been able to locate the original study even though that stat is quoted by numerous sources.)  At the low end, we have the sensory receptors in our skin which fire off at a paltry 1 mph.

In our brain itself, within the non-myelinated grey matter where thought-making neurons reside, the impulse transmission speed starts off at around 0.5 m/s …which is 1 mph.  Inner-brain impulses have been recorded as reaching 67 mph.

So depending on whether we’re defining “thinking” as something like “sensing and reacting” or more like “daydreaming,” our falcon might possibly be slower, in terms of mph, but for the most part (and especially if we look only at in-brain notion creation,) the bird’s got us beat. 

Dodge, pigeon!

While the speed comparison between thought and a falcon’s dive makes for a really cool statistic, in practical application it doesn’t mean the falcon is going to succeed every time because the bird has a lot farther to travel than its victims’ thoughts have to go.  Still, when you have to then translate the thought into action, you might feel like you’re stuck in molasses, if you happen to be the one trying to dodge the falcon’s dive.

It seems that a falcon’s target is in a whole lot of trouble once the raptor’s locked on.  As it turns out, a targeted pigeon does stand a chance if it sees the falcon coming from a long ways off.  Fast as they may be, many peregrine pursuits do not result in a catch, as is generally the case with all kinds of animal hunters.  Still, to quote D. Dekker from his report on peregrine hunting success, “The great majority of prey seen to be caught failed in the timely use of escape tactics routinely deployed by their kind.”

I just picture some poor shore bird scrambling in a panic, wide eyed, flinging its morning paper and coffee hither and yon amid a flurry of feathers.  And I bet the falcon moves faster than my synapses can fire before I’ve had the morning’s first cup of coffee.  Good thing I don’t look like a pigeon.

In the blink of an eye

After some unsuccessful hunting, let’s let the esteemed falcon regain some clout in the speed department by seeing what they can accomplish “in the blink of an eye.”  What can they do while you blink?  Travel about 115 feet, that’s what, because a falcon’s diving speed is way faster than your blinking speed.

Numerous reports on blinking speed agree that the average blink lasts about 300-400 milliseconds, so about three blinks per second.  Lacking published statistics on the eyelids’ travel distance, I used my own eyes as the basis for my calculations (I’m pretty average, right?), so we’re looking at a half inch between eyelids, making a full blink equivalent to an inch of travel.  A travel speed of three inches per second works out to a paltry .17 mph.

So now you have a new bit of small talk party trivia in your arsenal: eyelids move at .17 mph!  In case it ever comes up.  And if you ever notice a peregrine falcon is diving at you from about 115 feet away, just close your eyes and brace for impact.

Why do we call cow meat “beef” and chicken meat “chicken?”

Illustration by Nemo

It is true that we English-speakers tend to name our meat courses after the animal in some cases, but not in others.  Case in point: the meat of cows, pigs, sheep and deer are usually referred to as beef, pork, mutton and venison respectively.  Why is that?

Blame the Normans!

The general belief is that the dawn of our not eating “cow” came around 1066 when the Saxons of England were compelled to welcome their new Norman overlords.  The idea is that, while the English-speaking Saxon peasants were raising the cows and pigs, they referred to them as such, while the Norman nobility used the French words for the animals when they encountered the creatures – which would have been on a platter.

Over time, the French words became commonly used for the cooked forms of the meat, while the Saxon words remained in use for the living animals.  This has borne out with some animals, but not all.  Here’s a quick rundown of the etymology of some of the creatures labeled under the alleged Norman conqueror effect:

Cow – Old English cu

Beef - Old French buef

Pig - Old English picg

Pork - Old French porc

Deer - Old English deor

Venison - Old French venesoun

Sheep - Old English sceap

Mutton - Old French moton

What about poultry and poisson?

Some meats escaped this effect, however, despite the fact that the Normans did eat such creatures as rabbit and fish and chicken.  Perhaps the French-speaking overlords called their chicken meat some variant of “poultry,” but if they did, it didn’t stick around in common dinner table usage.  We do categorize bird meat as “poultry” and “fowl” on restaurant menus and supermarket sections, but when it’s on the plate we’re inclined to call it “chicken, duck, turkey,” and so forth.

“Poultry,” by the way, comes from the Old French pouletrie, while “fowl” is from the Old English fugel. 

Back in the English day, your eatin’ chicken was often a “capon,” but both terms come from English regardless (“chicken” from the Old English cicen and “capon” from Old English capon – specifically a gelded rooster.)

Rabbits’ titles were under French influence all around.  Your eatin’ rabbits (specifically adult ones) were referred to as coneys.  “Coney” is billed as an Anglo-French word (from Anglo-French conis), and “rabbit” may come from a French-related Belgian dialect, so there appears to have been no fully English word in use for rabbits at that time anyway.   

Meanwhile, fish have not ended up being called anything like “poisson” in regular English usage.  We either refer to general “fish” or “seafood” or to the individual species being eaten (such as “cod, tuna and lobster”…or as spoken where I’m from, “cahd, tuner and lobstah.”)

Aquatic animals get to have the same name whether they’re in the water or on a plate, and they include a smattering of both French and English origins.  For example, “mackerel” comes from the Old French maquerel  and “oyster” from Old French oistr, while “cod” derives from Old English codd and “bass” from Old English bærs.

The general terms?  All English.  You’ll see your “poisson” on a French restaurant menu, but in English you’ll be ordering from a list of “fish” (Old English fisc) or “shellfish” (Old English scylfiscas) or that new-fangled American term “seafood” (1836, American English, from sea + food…aren’t we clever?).

As to why some meats are not referred to by their Old French dinner plate titles is unknown.  Maybe we wanted to call each fish type by its name from the stream to show off diversity in fishing skills.  Maybe the already-Frenchish word for rabbit was good enough.  Maybe the whole reason we don’t serve up a plate of country fried “poultry” is so that we don’t mess with the perennially useful phrase – “tastes like chicken!”

The proof is in the… garbage.

The exact reason we speak as we do has not been substantiated beyond all doubt, but I can leave you with a lovely little recipe from a fifteenth-century cookbook that refers to chickens as “chickens” alongside beef and mutton (spelled moton).   It’s a preparation of garbagys – that is, garbage – that is, the giblets and otherwise discarded parts of your chickens.  Or “chykonys,” as we shall spell them , back in these days of Middle English and nonstandardized spelling.

Garbage.—Take fayre garbagys of chykonys, as þe hed, þe fete, þe lyuerys, an þe gysowrys; washe hem clene, an caste hem in a fayre potte, an caste þer-to freysshe brothe of Beef or ellys of moton, an let it boyle; an a-lye it wyth brede, an ley on Pepir an Safroun, Maces, Clowys, an a lytil verious an salt, an serue forth in the maner as a Sewe.

Wanna try it?  Here’s a recipe!  I hear it tastes like chicken.  If you try this at home, do let me know how it goes for you.  Happy meat-eating!

“Can you follow a bee to its home?”

Photo by Christian Birkholz

Say you’re out in a wildflower field and you get a hankering for some honey.  Could you pick out a nearby bee and just follow it to the source of golden sweetness?

Got honey?

Your first step is to make sure you even have the right kind of bee.  Turns out there are about 20,000 species of bee in the world, and less than 2% of these are group-nesting bees like bumble bees and honey bees.  The rest are solitary bees, which you would only be following back to a honeyless bachelor pad.  But honey bees are reasonably easy to identify (for help, seek guidance from your preferred state university’s extension office), so let’s assume that you find yourself a target.

How fast and how far can you run?

Since you want to follow a bee back to its hive, you’ll have to stalk it until it’s loaded down with pollen and nectar and ready to deposit the load at home.  Since you’ll be following a bee weighted down with its collection as opposed to an unfettered speedster, you'll only have to travel at the speed of a pollen-laden bee, which flies at about 10-12 mph. 

No sweat, right?  The “Fastest Man on Earth,” Usain Bolt, clocks in at nearly 28 mph, so clearly a fit human should be able to outstrip that bee.  But wait – how far will you have to go?  If you’re practically on top of the hive, a sprinting speed such as Bolt’s (or even half that) will do you fine, but chances are that you’ll have to sustain your speed for a while.

Bees typically forage close to the hive, but venturing up to four miles away is not uncommon.  A 2008 research report by Hoopingarner and Waller reports foraging ranges reaching up to a crazy eight miles from home.  You might have to chase the bee for a ways, so sprinting, in this case, isn’t so advisable.

The laden bee speed of 12 mph is about the speed maintained by an elite marathoner, so unless you’re one of those elite, you’re likely to lose your bee over a long distance on speed differential alone. 

But say you’re pretty speedy for a human and your bee is pretty lazy for a bee.  You still have the problem of terrain.  Once a bee is full-up with pollen, it tends to fly in a straight line back to the hive (hence the phrase “make a beeline”) without consideration for the trees, shrubs, rocks, fences and traffic that you will have to navigate.  And forget about catching a break if the sun’s not out; bees do use the sun to navigate, but they also use metal maps with landmarks, so they’ll be flying right home despite the weather and regardless of your obstacles.

With all this in mind, I’m sorry to say that, unless you’re following a honey bee across a perfectly flat area with a bicycle to help you out, you will probably be left in the dust. 

But do not despair!

Just because your vision of traipsing off through the daisies after honey has been sullied doesn’t mean you can’t find the bee’s treasure another way.  There are bee-following methods available that may be more effective than just up and taking off after the first pollen-laden insect you see.

The standard suggestion among wild honey finders is to put out a bowl of sugar water – faux nectar, if you will – and take note of the direction taken by your gorged bee visitors.  Move yourself and the sugar bowl in that direction a bit, and keep on following departing bees until you get to the hive.  For a really detailed account of one way to do this, including bee-capturing box schematics and a supply list detailed right down to the wide-brimmed hat, check out this guy’s instructions for “beelining” as it’s called.

Another method, supposedly attributed to Australian Aboriginies, is to catch a laden honey bee, affix a bit of down to it with wax, and follow it as it flies super slowly thanks to the extra weight and drag (although from the account I read, the bee-followers still tripped over bushes and stuff during the pursuit.)

That method sounds like a precursor to what bee researches do nowadays when tracking which bees go to which hives and when – by marking them with paint, or, more hi-techly, attaching a barcode to captured bees and installing a laser barcode reader at the hives’ entrances.  (And if they wanted to annoy all the forest creatures they could include the “beeboop” scanner sound like at the supermarket.)

Where do I find these bees in the first place?

Honey bees range all over the earth, with the exceptions of the Sahara and arctic regions.  Look around flowering plants in your area and cross your fingers.  There is widespread concern these days that honey bee populations are dwindling, so if you have the ability and would like to help out our friendly honey-makers yourself, consider planting a bee garden with some of their favorite flowers.

And what is totally cool about bees and their favorite flowers is that not only do bees select flowers based on appearance and smell, they can actually sense the flowers’ electric fields!  Crazy.

What if a bee follows me home?

Those who find symbolism in the acts of nature might say that a bee following you is a sign that you are blessed with the gifts of community, communication, fertility and/or industriousness.  For bees who find symbolism in the acts of mankind, a bee following you means that you are wearing something that makes you seem like a flower, or that you have found the hive and the bee is escorting you back from whence you came.  Sprinting, in this case, may be advisable.