Intricate Dust

The rabbit was twitching and bleeding. Far away — a remote 10^27 centimeters — lay the edge of the universe. Less than one centimeter away waited the talons of a hawk, and soon, the rabbit would grow still.

You watched this drama unfold, and the springtime morning reminded you that you lived on a planet tilted in its orbit toward the sun, which created seasons. Above, unseen in daytime skies but real to you at all times, countless stars swirled within galaxies and super-clusters of galaxies. And you shivered. What did this vast universe want?

The rabbit knew. It wanted to live, but that answer seemed excessively simple. Your knowledge came hard-won: only sentient things felt real wants. The universe, with its great distances, existed impersonally.

So you moved on, sure the universe had no hidden intent, but you had too much at stake in your understanding of the cosmos to stop wondering.

Long ago, when the universe was young, it had been populated by huge blue stars that burned hot, collapsed, and exploded. New stars gathered from their dust, burned, collapsed, and exploded, each time creating more complex matter. Some of the stardust had accumulated into a planet — your home — orbiting a stable star, so in this particular place, the universe had grown exceptionally complex. Stardust had reached sentience.

That was you, full of doubt on a sunny spring morning, near a bleeding rabbit, and like the rabbit, you wanted to live. You had found your real question. Why was life so brief? But what did brevity mean in an expanding universe? Across vast time and deep space, the universe continued to form and re-form with wants and doubts generated by intricate stardust. When you looked at the rabbit, you saw yourself.

The rabbit must have had doubts, however brief and small. Did stars ever doubt in one sense or another? Because in this time and this space, the universe was twitching and self-aware, and it meant to move on with you.

Before the workshop began on that chilly spring morning, I wandered through the gardens, enjoying the beauty and variety. In one flower bed, though, I saw movement: a hawk with prey.

During the workshop, we learned about the size and complexity of the universe. I had seen one small life reach its end, but nothing in our grand and glorious cosmos could be small and simple.