even if the universe is, for instance, a self-contained box, wouldn’t there be something outside the box? On the other hand, how could it go on forever? Or is our universe shaped like a multidimensional Möbius strip, a Klein bottle, or some other unimaginable shape? Infinity is a concept that hurts to think about: it pushes the mind into uncharted territories.
I have no idea how others come to terms with infinity; but, when I was young, it eventually brought a meditative state; 
from which, random thoughts burbled up and resolved themselves in flashing images. These states led, inevitably, to the terrifying concept of death, similar, in many ways, to my difficulty with either a finite or infinite universe. I couldn’t imagine me ending (my fears began with death of family members, but eventually manifested in the ghoulish prospect of personal death: I could comprehend the death of a family member (however sad the thought made me), but I could not imagine my own death; I suppose this is a fairly common ego-centric, immature worry). I knew the theories about what happens after death — heaven, reincarnation, etcetera — but these did nothing to quell my fears: whatever occurred after death, I would cease to exist. The unique being, me, would change in some unfathomable way. Either I’d metamorphose into something else: the being I was before I was born, an angel, another being in another cycle of life, or perhaps the unique consciousness that was me, within this organic body, would be snuffed out, and my organic remains would slowly fade into the universal continuum. Fortunately, my thoughts of death also had a happy conclusion: I decided that the concept of death taught me to enjoy the life I was living: nothing else mattered, because it was uncontrollable. Every moment of the present existence should be cherished. I’m not always conscious of death’s lesson, but it is an excellent reminder when life’s twists and turns lead me down negative pathways.
And one of the confusing pathways, for me, was religion. I think religion can be a wonderful thing (and attacks on religious beliefs are, in my mind, unconscionable — terrible things have been done in the name of religion, but these things are certainly not within the canonical belief systems): bonds are formed, a community of sharing is established, and deep spiritualism can be attained through the belief systems. Nevertheless, sometimes the philosophy/psychology of religious people confuses me; for example, the other day a born-again-something-or-another explained to me that she couldn’t trust a person who didn’t believe in God because they couldn’t possess a ‘high moral fiber’. I don’t know about other people, but my morals arise from a depth that is separate from religious dogma: morality and religious belief systems are certainly related, but they are not synonymous. I behave as a moral being because it is the right way to be, not because — for example — there is the reward of an afterlife. I take complete responsibility for my behavior: morality, an offspring of spirituality (personal and societal), should be inherent in religion, but spirituality flourishes in the secular world as well. I’ve known malicious Christians and altruistic atheists — and vice-versa; it is not the religion of a person that signifies character, it is their actions.
And for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; Newton’s famous third law: if I push a boulder, some energy is imparted into the boulder, hopefully enough to move it, if that is my objective, but the boulder’s momentum may be greater than my force and I may be pushed backward instead. Or, more correctly, a combination of the two occurs: some energy is imparted to the boulder and some reflection is pushed back at me. Emotional energy, expressed as action, evolves a greater reaction than physical energy. In mechanics, energy is conserved, but in emotions, there is no conservation: an action can propagate ad nauseam. If I yell at my daughter (it has been known to happen), there is a similar action-reaction principle to the mechanical system: some portion (probably more than intended) is absorbed by her and a reaction (guilt) is an immediate (or delayed, depending on her reaction) reaction absorbed by me. She can react by yelling back and, well, it can escalate into ridiculousness. And these actions can cause future reactions, directed at each other; or, unfortunately, at other innocents, merely as a result of a build-up of the action-reaction matrix. It’s a good thing to keep in mind when dealing with others; I try to think before acting (perhaps both my daughters would question this, but I assert the veracity).
I recall my delayed reaction to a parenting class I attended when my daughters were in elementary school (it was a course put on by the education system: my wife was quite fond of these; I, on the other hand, as a stereotypical, pig-headed male, thought they were a waste of time. In retrospect, nothing like this is a ‘waste-of-time’, but I’m not sure I got a whole lot out of it (this could, I suppose, be chalked up to attitude)). The instructor gave a parent, a Mom, a hammer and nail and asked the woman to pound the nail into a short length of two-by-four. After the nail was suitably inserted, the instructor said, “That symbolizes yelling at your child.” Then the instructor had the parent pull out the nail with the claw of the hammer: this was a bit more difficult that pounding it in, but the nail was eventually extracted. “That’s your apology,” the instructor said; “but, as you can see, the hole is still there. This is the emotional damage and it can never be filled. You can fill it with some other material, but it will never be the same.” It was a powerful metaphor, and I could see the guilt on the assembled parents’ faces (in particular, the woman who had done the hammering). And then the instructor moved on to something else, but the metaphor stuck in my head and I lost concentration; it was a powerful metaphor, but there was something wrong with it. It wasn’t until after my wife and I got home that I figured out what was bothering me (I am a slow, methodical thinker). Real people aren’t made of wood: when humans are involved, it is possible to fill in the hole. It’s challenging, but it can make relationships stronger. That is what the parenting course should have focused on. Yes, we should try to control our outbursts, but they’re going to happen, and it’s fruitless to allow guilt to cripple you; instead, work through the aftermath to resolve the issues that got you there. Be honest. Admit when you’re wrong: it doesn’t make you weak, it makes you genuine. If the breaking point was a culmination of daily frustrations, then explain that. Be open. Work through it, even if the other person doesn’t understand. You don’t control the other person, only yourself. Do the best you can, it’s all you can do. Try not to sink back into frustration, but defend your position if you feel justified: you may never get agreement and that’s okay; take satisfaction in knowing you put it all out there, left nothing hidden.
Well, I’ve been tripping almost stream-of-consciousness for quite some time: pseudo-connected ideas have been spilling out of my noodle, but it must end sometime. I just don’t know how to stop. I remember being young and wondering how the universe could end. How could there be an end;
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db johnston
almost falling 