object permanence
That’s what they call it. They. In this case, the smiling man on the cover of the well-thumbed tome in our bathroom. A good book, it is. Though large, doesn’t pretend to be all-inclusive. Though opinionated, doesn’t pretend omnipotence. Arranged according to “touchpoints,” the developmental milestones in baby’s life (no article needed, now I see why).
This is the stage when she learns that an object, when not visible, is still there. Peek-a-boo. Where’s Phoebe? There she is. She gives her rabbit-toothed grin. Where’s Phoebe? There she is! She gives her hiccup-laugh. Where’s Phoebe? There she is. She reaches out her hand and screws up her face.
So we have to learn this. A stage. We are not born knowing of object permanence.
But how real is object permanence? How much should we be taught to expect—to anticipate—the reliability of “objects”? How misleading is it? In the era of string theory, dark matter, spooky particles, who can say that an object is permanent? What does permanent even really mean? As I understand it, these theories say that what is invisible to us in the universe is as binding as what is visible. There also seems to be some question, at the subatomic level, of the permanence of particles: they appear, waver, disappear. This is Schrodinger's Cat territory.
My father worked for a good company for thirty-eight years. This company put us through high school, college. I watched as father/object left in the morning (peppermint smelling, with briefcase) and returned that night (hungry, piqued smile, tie loosened) return. Objects roll out of sight. Then they reappear. A good job. A good family. I learned the lesson well: The universe is dependable.
It often seems to me that I have spent my adulthood since unlearning this lesson.
So what? Jobs come and go. People come and go. Technology comes and goes. Even our various selves come and go. (I am cleaning out my desk and find old photos, old letters; is that me? Did I say that?)
We must learn again and again that we essentially groundless beings: all that seems permanent, will indeed change, will pass.
So: If an object goes in one end of the tube, does it always come out the other end?
Really?
What can I tell her?
This is the stage when she learns that an object, when not visible, is still there. Peek-a-boo. Where’s Phoebe? There she is. She gives her rabbit-toothed grin. Where’s Phoebe? There she is! She gives her hiccup-laugh. Where’s Phoebe? There she is. She reaches out her hand and screws up her face.
So we have to learn this. A stage. We are not born knowing of object permanence.
But how real is object permanence? How much should we be taught to expect—to anticipate—the reliability of “objects”? How misleading is it? In the era of string theory, dark matter, spooky particles, who can say that an object is permanent? What does permanent even really mean? As I understand it, these theories say that what is invisible to us in the universe is as binding as what is visible. There also seems to be some question, at the subatomic level, of the permanence of particles: they appear, waver, disappear. This is Schrodinger's Cat territory.
My father worked for a good company for thirty-eight years. This company put us through high school, college. I watched as father/object left in the morning (peppermint smelling, with briefcase) and returned that night (hungry, piqued smile, tie loosened) return. Objects roll out of sight. Then they reappear. A good job. A good family. I learned the lesson well: The universe is dependable.
It often seems to me that I have spent my adulthood since unlearning this lesson.
So what? Jobs come and go. People come and go. Technology comes and goes. Even our various selves come and go. (I am cleaning out my desk and find old photos, old letters; is that me? Did I say that?)
We must learn again and again that we essentially groundless beings: all that seems permanent, will indeed change, will pass.
So: If an object goes in one end of the tube, does it always come out the other end?
Really?
What can I tell her?
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