Resilience

Back on Earth, the little acrobat is set to feel all the feelings. With the help of the Questioner, it hopes to craft a coffee table book with portraits of all it meets. It wanders along a four-mile stream on the Earth's surface and marvels at a long-legged bird wading through the shallow waters. As it observes the great egret, it wonders what it is to be a dazzling white bird standing still. Time surely must feel different to the slow-moving bird.

The Juggler, as it is also known, follows the stream flowing into the river that slowly merges into the vast Ocean. There, sea lions blow bubbles just like it does. Whistling dolphins and flying rays show the same free will to explore, breaking up and down surfaces. It meets a castaway crab on a flotsam waiting for a chance to hop on a passing turtle. Time surely feels different to the patient little crab. It then dives deeper into the uncharted forest beneath the surface of the waters and crosses paths with a tiny jellyfish, no larger than a fingernail, whose species, Turritopsis dohrnii, is swarming the Ocean. 

The moving carriage of time places us all in a constant state of transition that, for most, goes in one direction, except for the Turritopsis jellyfish repeatedly turning the clock back. Yet, even as it uses tricks to rejuvenate, its surroundings do not reverse. Time exists both externally and internally in a somewhat dissociative way. Nobel Prize winner Shinya Yamanaka achieved a similar process when he made an adult cell return to an earlier stage, a biological age close to zero. 

Surely, time must feel different for a cell and a tiny jellyfish. To be individually conscious of time is to be confined in solitude. Going upwards and downwards, the little acrobat can’t quite figure out what they feel. Shapes and colors of cells and jellyfish merge in its head with those of clouds of cosmic gas. If all those it meets would communicate, they certainly have stories to tell about time, the Universe, and Consciousness.

It hits the trail at the bottom of the Earth’s Ocean, where it bumps into a weird-looking frogfish with leg-like thins using its own built-in fishing pole. Time surely must feel different to the bottom dweller that lies still, relying only on its lure pole to catch prey. All of a sudden, the frogfish lunges forward and snatches in its mouth a fellow urchin whose time has just come to an end. Wary that the frogfish might feed on it next, our little ‘street urchin’ scurries away. 

Despite all the twists and turns, it persists and squeezes into every nook and cranny of hydrothermal vents that well up transitional beings. They remind the little acrobat of the outflows of gas pillars. It asks each of those strange beings whether, to them, time feels different, hoping that they could somehow communicate. Sounds, modulated up and down in pitch, postures and gestures relay the expression of their inner beings. It hopes to learn, from creatures that eat their own bodies and those that regenerate after being torn apart, how to let go of its own parts. Surely, time is right in their wheelhouse.

Taking a page out of their playbook, it blows and pops its parts ceaselessly. Ultimately, it realizes that what it really needs to build is resilience, also known as ‘riding it out’, ‘being patient’, and ‘waiting for better circumstances’. Whether to redirect its focus on every ounce of its bubbles or make them all disappear, it pledges to hold onto its head. With its last remaining bubble held up high, three red ‘dots’ are added to its soup for a thought as if actual eyes and mouth grew in its pursuit of evolution. 

It names them LBCA, LACA, and LUCA, otherwise known as the Last Universal Common Ancestor (LUCA), the Last Bacterial Common Ancestor (LBCA), and the Last Archaeal Common Ancestor (LACA). LUCA, to which time certainly feels different, is a 4.2 billion-year-old thermophilic anaerobe with an early immune system. It was thriving in one shallow hydrothermal vent that the little acrobat had earlier explored. It tagged along like a crab hitchhiking a ride. 

LUCA had sent messages about the newly found home to its closest relatives, LBCA and LACA. They, too, came along, delighted to find each other growing and evolving on the acrobat’s head. A series of exchanges develop between them and their host. With its new features as conduits for feelings, the one-head acrobat becomes increasingly aware of what it feels like to be others — a community of universal shapes. Reflecting on the patchwork of posts assembled by the Questioner over the years, it remembers those she has encountered so far, from the circle of poets to the scientists’ corner. 

    It mumbles through its new-found mouth, “There is no ‘I’ in ‘I’.” 

At the Boundary, the breath of nothingness fades in a sequence of events while the flow of things emerges. A unitary evolution unfolds, allowing humans to inherit the psychological trait of their inner child from a tiny jellyfish that ages backwards. Above and below, is time nothing more than an ability to withstand?

      “Surely,” it murmurs, “one is eventually followed by many.” 

Awaiting better circumstances, the one-head acrobat misses its body parts. Together, they have gone a long way from necklace beads to nebular Queen. Truth be told, each has a purpose. Feeling safer, it grows new ones — fungus-like cones on a pine tree — and returns to its old shape. It happily shakes its feet grounded in light, sound, and water, tapping intuitively into the divide between agency, sentience, and consciousness. In the end, it never lingers in one place for too long, investigating each microcosm as if it were the whole Universe. Trees breathe in the heat as the ozone spikes. Geese, ducks, and seagulls live side-by-side in the four-mile stream. The great egret walks slowly through the muddy water. 

“How does it feel like to breathe?” The little acrobat wonders. 

It leaves them all behind and flies off, reaching for stars.  From above, resting trunks and bare limbs on the ground resemble an elephants’ cemetery. It distinguishes no more between the deep fissures of the Grand Canyon and those of Victoria Falls, whose resounding waters have left the imprint of a ringing echo in the haunting silence that fills its head.

Nicklas Brendborg, Jellyfish age backwards

Arik Kershenbaum, Why animals talk