The Holy Zygote

I have been appreciating Stockholm’s  new crop of seemingly highly fertile youngsters emerging from the cocoon of winter into this glorious summer. Nature has a plan for them, despite what each rational mind, shaped by culture and family, importunes.

Males and females, each in their peculiar way, dress, decorate, perfume, preen, position and display their charms for attention. Some will seem to dress to avoid attention, but we know they want attention from others who appreciate the subtle and understated ways.

It is, of course, all part of the pre-mating ritual organized by the double-helix that rules our lives, no matter how earnestly some opinionators will argue that “nurture” is at least as important to an individual’s development and motivations as is Nature.

Nature is telling us to go forth and multiply.

“Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth…” — Genesis 1.

Everything else is just to support this multiplication. The oldest structure in the brain of vertebrates, other than the brain stem, is the limbic system where the reproductive impulse originates:

The limbic system is a set of evolutionarily primitive brain structures located on top of the brainstem and buried under the cortex. Limbic system structures are involved in many of our emotions and motivations, particularly those that are related to survival. Such emotions include fear, anger, and emotions related to sexual behavior. The limbic system is also involved in feelings of pleasure that are related to our survival, such as those experienced from eating and sex. (Source).

Here’s my punch line: our bodies are the living support systems and vehicles for the gametes which will, for some, unite with the gametes of another or others to create The Holy Zygote.

There are some who will say that humans are a scourge upon the earth and should die out to save the planet. I am not one of these. Such people are implicitly positioning the human cerebrum, where human rationality is located (a recent evolutionary development), against the ancient limbic system.

I have no say in the matter. The old brain will rule.

However, for those who do not reproduce, by choice or any other reason, they still can assist The Holy Zygote in preserving and advancing the species Homo Sapiens Sapiens and its successors.

I wrote this list in a moment of reflection on this notion:

The purpose of any individual is to contribute to the survival of its species. This purpose can be achieved in any one or more of these ways:

  • Create and nurture progeny
  • Protect the progeny of all or any member of the species (until each can or should be able to protect itself?)
  • Provide nourishment/sustenance to members of the species
  • Provide for the widest possible dispersion of gametes throughout the general population to enhance the possibility of favorable genetic combinations and, thereby, enhance the opportunity for adaptability of the species to changing external conditions
  • Aid and comfort the diseased and injured
  • Teach others in the ways of the above and below
  • Honor the force(s) that have created the resources to fulfill these contributions to one’s species
  • Preserve information about exemplars and their successes in these contributions, and recount them in stories
  • I ask readers to please add to this list.

    Missy, Sissy and Stokes at the Iditarod

    “Missy, Sissy and Stokes.”

    Andy said this with such fervor it seemed his heart was about bursting through his puny chest, thought Gardner “Hutch” Hutchins as he made a record of the lead dogs for this team.

    “We don’t usually record more than two lead dogs per team, but there ain’t a rule against it.”

    “Missy is their mom, so they all get along. And anyway they take turns of course. One of ‘em is always on the sled to rest while the other two work.”

    “OK, Andy, another unusuality, but no rule against it. Where ya’ from?”

    “We’re from Stokes, Montana, right where the Mississippi River starts. That’s how the lead dogs got their names.”

    Hutch could now understand the source of Andy’s passion and pride. “What’s your full name and age?”

    “Well, I prefer Andy but my given name is Anders. Anders Andersson, with two esses, and don’t start makin’ wisecracks about Swedes and squareheads. I’ve got as much Irish in me as Scandihoovian and my Irish is a little touchy. My middle name is Aloysius. My mom has a sense of humor. I’m 23. This is my first time in Alaska. We’ve trained for two years, summer and winter, all in Itasca County, where Stokes is.”

    “All right Andy. Your secret’s safe with me. Have you filled out the release and insurance forms and all that? Yeah, give ‘em here. How many dogs ya’ got, and what’s their names? I’ve already recorded Missy, Sissie and Stokes”

    “They’re all named after some place in Itasca County: Effie, Jessie and Swannee. Swannee’s named after the Swan River. Spang, Bovey and Nash. Nash is from Nashwauk, but that’s too hard to say when I’m yellin’at ‘em. Inger, Birch and Bear, after Bearville. The rest are Morse, Kelly, Whiskey, Beaver, Mak, and Coon. The last six are the newest and youngest, but they’ve got great heart.”

    “I don’t doubt it, Andy. They all do, don’t they? Let’s see, I count eighteen. One lead dog, sixteen behind her, or him—I guess Stokes is a male?—and one spare lead resting on the sled. Is that your plan?”

    “You’ve got it.”

    What’s your local address?”

    “Itasca’s Sons of the Pioneers put me up at the Captain Cook Hotel, and it’s so grand I feel guilty. My God, what luxury. How can people stay hard and fit with all that?”

    “They don’t, Andy. OK, that’s it. Thanks for the info. Oh, I almost forgot—who’s your contact back home?”

    Hutch now saw Andy’s mood change swiftly. He seemed to be holding back tears.

    “It’s my brother, Casey—he’s in Grand Rapids, the main city in Itasca County. It would’ve been Lorie, but she kicked me out of the house saying it was either the dogs or her. What a helluva choice to give a man just as he’s about to run the greatest race in world. And for the first time. But I ain’t gonna let that affect me, except maybe to prove somethin’ to her.

    “Women in the Lower 48 just don’t understand,” said Ralph with some anger in his voice. “Andy, I hope you don’t mind hearing some advice from me.”

    “Go ahead Hutch, you’re old enough to be my Pop and I always listened to him.”

    “Just get out there on the trail to Nome and don’t think about anybody or anything but your dogs and how much you’re enjoying yourself. Like you said, it’s the greatest race in the world, and there’s very few who run it.”

    “I’m enjoying myself already, and your advice has solved a problem for me.

    “How’s that?”

    “I’ve pretty much used up all the names around Stokes for my dogs, and now I know what I’m gonna name the next pup.

    “Okay, I’ll bite, what’s the name, Andy.

    “Hutch.”

    Autumn

    The lake’s surface moves under the winds from the north and east, building troughs for the falling leaves of the Al trees on the water’s edge.

    Along the path which circles the lake, people scurry now, rather than stroll as they did just days ago.

    The commuter ferry, as it makes its run past my window, seems shuttered, its passengers hiding from the air.

    I sit 10 meters above the lake, protected by my room, but I feel winter slither toward me. I shiver.

    The ducks seem not to notice.

    Book Worship

    I recently ordered a number of books from Oxford University Press. Recognizing that I have bought other books by this publisher, directly and through other sources, I scanned my library catalog to see that 25 of my 454 owned titles were published by OUP.

    I have owned many thousands of books, but in recent decades I have sold or given away as many as I can without violating the limit of some fundamental acquisitive need. When thinking of (responsibly) disposing of a book I ask myself: Will I ever read this book again? Might I someday refer to the book’s contents for authority in some matter? Does it have indefinable personal values? I may ultimately give away some of my 25 Books published by Oxford University Press, for I have in mind that I should never have more than 500 titles in English.

    But what is it about OUP that draws me to them ever more often?

    OUP groups its offerings for their general readers (as distinct from their academic, professional and technical readers) into headings that are compelling to me: Very Short Introductions, Oxford Companions, and Oxford World Classics, and others less compelling.

    During the writing of this article I ordered another two books:

    • The Meaning of Life, by Terry Eagleton (£5.49)
    • The History of the (English) Rebellion, by Edward Hyde and Paul Seaward (£6.49)

    My son Greg, an outdoorsman whose favorite pastime is flyfishing, has a tee shirt with this image on it:

    trollart.com

    trollart.com

    I ask, likewise, “Book Worship–Is It Wrong?”