Have you ever considered the possibility that our brains are quite inchoate?
The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines inchoate as “being only partly in existence or operation.” Dictionary.com describes the word as “just begun and so not fully formed or developed; rudimentary.”
From as early as I can remember, I was taught in school and church that humans are the most developed and intelligent creatures on earth. Through my Catholic elementary school training, I had “learned” that we, as humans, have dominion over the planet and all the creatures on it.
In fourth grade, I learned about the solar system. Like many children in the ’70s and ’80s, I had to create a physical model of the planets. I was fascinated and longed to learn more. The church and my classes preached that we are here in God’s image. There is no other intelligent life—but that always seemed like such a boring story to me.
My Catholic school did teach us about the Big Bang theory. They also taught creation. It didn’t make sense, of course. No one, including my parents, questioned what felt like an obvious conundrum to me. When I asked about it, my teachers or mom would seemingly make things up on the spot—explaining that the Bible’s or science’s exact numbers might be fuzzy, or that one day of creation described in the Bible was actually millions of years.
Sometime around middle school, in a science class, I first heard that humans only use 10% of their brain. It was unclear whether that was all we were capable of or simply all we used. I was a disinterested pre-teen and, though I wondered, I wasn’t curious enough to raise my hand and ask.
One night in high school, after a shift at my ice cream scooping job, I lay under my covers with the telephone cord stretched tightly from my nightstand, talking to the brother of one of my coworkers. He was a little older than me. We had flirted a few times, and he had asked me for my number. I had a private phone line in my room, so I was able to talk with a fair amount of privacy. The phone line was a Christmas gift from my parents one year—and thinking about it now as I write, it was likely a gift for everyone in the household.
We didn’t talk about anything scandalous, but the privacy allowed my mind to wander and random thoughts to surface. Somehow, the conversation led to the question of space and other intelligent life. I remember being totally engaged and just expressing thoughts as they arose. Some of them were:
If dogs can hear things we can’t, what makes us think there aren’t things we can’t hear?
Does that apply to our sight too?
Are there things right next to us we can’t see?
We only know the colors on the visible spectrum—what if there are more we simply can’t perceive?
I thought about this conversation many times over the course of my life and expanded on it into other thoughts and theories. When talking with others, I sometimes found myself in heated intellectual debates about science and what we know. Some argued that we would know if there were other things around us or other intelligent life. Others held strong religious beliefs that we are all there is and are made in God’s likeness—so stop asking questions. And some were more open-minded and curious when I shared these thoughts.
Last night, I was lounging on the sofa with my husband while streaming the latest Star Wars movie. Our dog Koji was on the floor below us. At some point early in the movie (before we fell asleep), Koji got up, seemingly perturbed. He stood in front of the TV in full soldier mode—tail high, the hair along his back raised. He was partially growling and partially squeaking in fear. He paused, cocked his head, and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Eventually, he decided there was no danger and came back to lie near our feet, this time with one ear alert.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Koji thinks of this rectangular box that we sit and watch. It makes noises—sometimes dogs barking or a doorbell ringing. When this happens, he becomes confused, running around barking or growling. He is completely incapable of understanding that we are watching a story. The concept of a movie or even a book is beyond the scope of his brain. We can’t explain it to him—and even if we could, he doesn’t have the sensory ability to perceive it the way we do.
This brings my thoughts back to us.
If we truly evolved from amoeba to monkeys to humans over trillions of years, what makes anyone believe, even for a moment, that humans will not continue to evolve into something even more intelligent than we are now? If we are only using a fraction of our brains, then perhaps our brains are inchoate. Perhaps there are things right next to us that we simply cannot see or understand—just as Koji cannot understand the television.
I personally believe there is so much out there that we just don’t know—and cannot possibly know—because we don’t yet have the sensory organs to perceive it. When I bring this up, people often seem uncomfortable and dismiss it quickly. I’m not sure why. Electricity existed long before we discovered how to harness it. It seems unlikely that we have already discovered everything there is to discover.
It would be even more unlikely to believe that the limitations of our five senses are enough to understand everything the universe contains.
If we evolved from monkeys, we know they are limited.
We are limited too.
Because, in my very humble (and perhaps slightly crazy) opinion, our brains are inchoate.
via Daily Prompt: Inchoate
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