Spheres In The Genes

"...we have to state that the heavens are spherical and move spherically..."

Ptolemy - "The Almagest"

Like an immemorial moonstricken hominid millions of years before recorded history, my 9 months old son, holding his newly acquired ball up in the air, smiles and look at it with an unexpected mixed of fascination and happiness. Intriguingly observing him, I have constantly, since his birth, lived amazed by his curiosity and thirst for knowledge. His surrounding world is nothing but an excuse to explore. Looking, listening, touching, and wondering how and why, are the things that he does.

He is completely honest and has developed no capability to hide his emotions. This is why, when I see his face lit by a wide spread smile, I try to pay close attention to whatever is prompting such happiness. Papa coming home from work, anytime he sees his mother, the anticipation of knowing we are going out, and a few others, are expected motives for his happy face. But although now in retrospect I should have anticipated it, the joy that my son experiences when holding his plastic ball, at first, took me by surprise. It is as if something that was previous imprinted in his brain was automatically triggered into action by looking at a sphere. I could not help but to think of all the humans that for ages have stared with magnetic interest at all the circles and spheres around them, the way I can see them all synthesized in my son’s posture, and how this ability to ponder about the intricacies of round things has giving us an evolutionary edge worth passing on to the next generation.

Although unable to precisely identify its origins, this awareness for circular shapes and their central role in our lives might have initially gotten imprinted in our souls in the darkest and earliest of all nights when, concerned by its captivating brightness at creation, mesmerized Mesoamerican gods tossed a rabbit onto the surface of the big circle of the evening sky, prudently dimming the Moon’s glow, giving reason to humankind for the lunar unchanging engraved features, and restoring balance with the Sun in an interchangeable celestial dance that cemented the idea that circles were the protagonists and determinants of existence on our own circle, the Earth. But the Moon’s spell over men remained strong, and for the longest time, this magnificent disk continued stirring our souls between the desire of romancing the idealized partner and the scientific awe of its regular patterns. Lovers eventually fall asleep, but recording the Moon seemingly capricious appearances and its intrusion in the path of sunlight kept ancient astronomers awake for centuries. Ancient Babylonians and Egyptians took on the task of documenting these patterns, and in doing so stamped the first chapters of recorded history with a clear premise; to understand oneself is necessary to understand the circles.

It was this legwork and enthrallment, revisited by the Greeks and preserved by the Arabs that fray Bartolomé Arrazola thoroughly studied at his Spanish Medieval monastery, and uses in Augusto Monterroso’s short story when, at a pyramidal sacrifice altar in the dense Guatemalan jungle of imaginary colonial times, desperately tries to save his life by impressing the Maya priest and telling him of the imminent solar eclipse it was about to occur, but to no avail. Arrazola’s cascading blood barely shined by the opaque sunlight of his predicted eclipse while the Maya priest, in an unexpected revelation of the universality of the astronomical passion recited, with astonishing precision, the dates of the next few hundred solar eclipses. Ancient independently developed celestial spherical fascinations, previously unaware of each other, clashing on newly found land turfs, and competing to death in a revealing obsession that seeks to guarantee survival for those who master the intricacies of circles.

Forced to play second fiddle to the Sun, the Moon bows to the disk king of the sky. Ra, the olden Egyptian Sun god, creator of the world, in a game of big circle eating the little one, displaces the Moon at dawn to begin his daily journey across the heavens. But the same circles that either owe their existence and nature to the gods, or are gods themselves, also inspired men in feeding the possibility of an understanding that would clear away their mysterious nature. Then, with painstaking patience, the children of Ra learned to divide circumferences by diameters, watching all circles always giving them the same magical amount. The elusiveness of this amount, while increasing the control of men over circles, also fascinated their minds with the ambiguity of its precision.

This passion for spheres and circles was Archimedes ticket to immortality as well. According to Plutarch, Archimedes met his death absorbed by his geometrical sketches while refusing to acknowledge soldiers’ orders to greet the Roman general Marcellus during the capture of his native Syracuse in the late 3rd century before the Common Era. “Do not disturb my circles” are often quoted as Archimedes last words as the Roman sword ended his life. And, as if mapping out the lifelong fascination that my son might eventually share with Archimedes, Cicero, while visiting the Syracusan last resting place, describes the engraving on the tombstone, a sphere inside a cylinder, a profoundly clever way to relate their volume and surface area, as his highest achievement.

As if rehearsing for future male bonding, my son likes to hold the ball with his hand while raising an arm getting ready to throw it to me. Thrilled, since I am in front of him waiting for the pitch, he moves his arm forward in rapid motion. However, at his age, he has not mastered yet the correct timing for releasing the ball. This means that the ball sometimes rolls either to his side or even his back. But occasionally, the ball falls forward, giving me the chance to get it, bounce it a few times and then roll it back to him. His initial elation multiplies ten fold while watching my ball-bouncing skill. I like to think that for him, his Papa is this almighty being capable of amazing undertakings, some sort of a multiple reincarnation of all the dexterous ballplayers of the past. When stopping the bouncing and offer the ball to him, he graciously grabs it and full of pride tries to imitate his awesome father. But the bouncing of the ball is as old as the ball itself.

Almost four millennia ago balls were officially bouncing in the Americas. So much that by the time Hernan Cortez landed on the Mexica empire with his mental image of the leather European ball, he must has been amazed by seeing the smaller American rubber balls in action. He then decided to ship back to Spain two full teams of ball players including a good number of local rubber balls. The players performed their game for the king Carlos V, prompted stories and legends that swept the European continent, and were depicted and immortalized by German artist Christoph Weiditz. The commotion teased the ambition of other Europeans that dreamt of departing in search of undiscovered lands with bigger treasures and coffers of even more amazing bouncing balls. The original Indians, and probably even the rubber balls, were eventually given as gifts to the king. No record of their fate after this has ever been found.

As a young man I went to Brazil. Intoxicated by the country’s engulfing beauty I surrendered my mind and spirit to all Brazilian things. I learned and spoke the language, ate the food, studied the history, discussed the politics, and of course, desperately loved that woman. Mysterious for the vastness and diversity of its territory, these were the times when previously unknown communities were still been discovered in the dense and untamed jungle. A local friend who worked with these groups told me how as soon as newly found Amazon Indians were introduced to the soccer ball all they wanted to do was to kick it all day long. But if it easy to believe that Brazilians carry soccer in their blood, I dare to extend the thought to the natural allure that humans seem to have for circles and spheres, an attraction that has allowed us to document and theorize on the workings of the Universe and our place in it. What started as mystical and theological explanation, has sparked off a series of discoveries that has taken us from the contemplation of the celestial workings of the gods into mastering the mathematical patterns of circles and eventually, as a result, to physically landing and setting foot and probes on these very same extraterrestrial spheres. There is no telling on how far are we taking this perennial love affair with circles and spheres. But I believe that my son is among the latest in a long chain of beings inheriting the genetic marks that this appeal for round things has imprinted on us. And as such, my child is also the guaranty that such a productive urge will continue to pay off for future generations.

In The Genes

"...we have to state that the heavens are spherical and move spherically..."

Ptolemy - "The Almagest"

Like an immemorial moonstricken hominid millions of years before recorded history, my 9 months old son, holding his newly acquired ball up in the air, smiles and look at it with an unexpected mixed of fascination and happiness. Intriguingly observing him, I have constantly, since his birth, lived amazed by his curiosity and thirst for knowledge. His surrounding world is nothing but an excuse to explore. Looking, listening, touching, and wondering how and why, are the things that he does.

He is completely honest and has developed no capability to hide his emotions. This is why, when I see his face lit by a wide spread smile, I try to pay close attention to whatever is prompting such happiness. Papa coming home from work, anytime he sees his mother, the anticipation of knowing we are going out, and a few others, are expected motives for his happy face. But although now in retrospect I should have anticipated it, the joy that my son experiences when holding his plastic ball, at first, took me by surprise. It is as if something that was previous imprinted in his brain was automatically triggered into action by looking at a sphere. I could not help but to think of all the humans that for ages have stared with magnetic interest at all the circles and spheres around them, the way I can see them all synthesized in my son’s posture, and how this ability to ponder about the intricacies of round things has giving us an evolutionary edge worth passing on to the next generation.

Although unable to precisely identify its origins, this awareness for circular shapes and their central role in our lives might have initially gotten imprinted in our souls in the darkest and earliest of all nights when, concerned by its captivating brightness at creation, mesmerized Mesoamerican gods tossed a rabbit onto the surface of the big circle of the evening sky, prudently dimming the Moon’s glow, giving reason to humankind for the lunar unchanging engraved features, and restoring balance with the Sun in an interchangeable celestial dance that cemented the idea that circles were the protagonists and determinants of existence on our own circle, the Earth. But the Moon’s spell over men remained strong, and for the longest time, this magnificent disk continued stirring our souls between the desire of romancing the idealized partner and the scientific awe of its regular patterns. Lovers eventually fall asleep, but recording the Moon seemingly capricious appearances and its intrusion in the path of sunlight kept ancient astronomers awake for centuries. Ancient Babylonians and Egyptians took on the task of documenting these patterns, and in doing so stamped the first chapters of recorded history with a clear premise; to understand oneself is necessary to understand the circles.

It was this legwork and enthrallment, revisited by the Greeks and preserved by the Arabs that fray Bartolomé Arrazola thoroughly studied at his Spanish Medieval monastery, and uses in Augusto Monterroso’s short story when, at a pyramidal sacrifice altar in the dense Guatemalan jungle of imaginary colonial times, desperately tries to save his life by impressing the Maya priest and telling him of the imminent solar eclipse it was about to occur, but to no avail. Arrazola’s cascading blood barely shined by the opaque sunlight of his predicted eclipse while the Maya priest, in an unexpected revelation of the universality of the astronomical passion recited, with astonishing precision, the dates of the next few hundred solar eclipses. Ancient independently developed celestial spherical fascinations, previously unaware of each other, clashing on newly found land turfs, and competing to death in a revealing obsession that seeks to guarantee survival for those who master the intricacies of circles.

Forced to play second fiddle to the Sun, the Moon bows to the disk king of the sky. Ra, the olden Egyptian Sun god, creator of the world, in a game of big circle eating the little one, displaces the Moon at dawn to begin his daily journey across the heavens. But the same circles that either owe their existence and nature to the gods, or are gods themselves, also inspired men in feeding the possibility of an understanding that would clear away their mysterious nature. Then, with painstaking patience, the children of Ra learned to divide circumferences by diameters, watching all circles always giving them the same magical amount. The elusiveness of this amount, while increasing the control of men over circles, also fascinated their minds with the ambiguity of its precision.

This passion for spheres and circles was Archimedes ticket to immortality as well. According to Plutarch, Archimedes met his death absorbed by his geometrical sketches while refusing to acknowledge soldiers’ orders to greet the Roman general Marcellus during the capture of his native Syracuse in the late 3rd century before the Common Era. “Do not disturb my circles” are often quoted as Archimedes last words as the Roman sword ended his life. And, as if mapping out the lifelong fascination that my son might eventually share with Archimedes, Cicero, while visiting the Syracusan last resting place, describes the engraving on the tombstone, a sphere inside a cylinder, a profoundly clever way to relate their volume and surface area, as his highest achievement.

As if rehearsing for future male bonding, my son likes to hold the ball with his hand while raising an arm getting ready to throw it to me. Thrilled, since I am in front of him waiting for the pitch, he moves his arm forward in rapid motion. However, at his age, he has not mastered yet the correct timing for releasing the ball. This means that the ball sometimes rolls either to his side or even his back. But occasionally, the ball falls forward, giving me the chance to get it, bounce it a few times and then roll it back to him. His initial elation multiplies ten fold while watching my ball-bouncing skill. I like to think that for him, his Papa is this almighty being capable of amazing undertakings, some sort of a multiple reincarnation of all the dexterous ballplayers of the past. When stopping the bouncing and offer the ball to him, he graciously grabs it and full of pride tries to imitate his awesome father. But the bouncing of the ball is as old as the ball itself.

Almost four millennia ago balls were officially bouncing in the Americas. So much that by the time Hernan Cortez landed on the Mexica empire with his mental image of the leather European ball, he must has been amazed by seeing the smaller American rubber balls in action. He then decided to ship back to Spain two full teams of ball players including a good number of local rubber balls. The players performed their game for the king Carlos V, prompted stories and legends that swept the European continent, and were depicted and immortalized by German artist Christoph Weiditz. The commotion teased the ambition of other Europeans that dreamt of departing in search of undiscovered lands with bigger treasures and coffers of even more amazing bouncing balls. The original Indians, and probably even the rubber balls, were eventually given as gifts to the king. No record of their fate after this has ever been found.

As a young man I went to Brazil. Intoxicated by the country’s engulfing beauty I surrendered my mind and spirit to all Brazilian things. I learned and spoke the language, ate the food, studied the history, discussed the politics, and of course, desperately loved that woman. Mysterious for the vastness and diversity of its territory, these were the times when previously unknown communities were still been discovered in the dense and untamed jungle. A local friend who worked with these groups told me how as soon as newly found Amazon Indians were introduced to the soccer ball all they wanted to do was to kick it all day long. But if it easy to believe that Brazilians carry soccer in their blood, I dare to extend the thought to the natural allure that humans seem to have for circles and spheres, an attraction that has allowed us to document and theorize on the workings of the Universe and our place in it. What started as mystical and theological explanation, has sparked off a series of discoveries that has taken us from the contemplation of the celestial workings of the gods into mastering the mathematical patterns of circles and eventually, as a result, to physically landing and setting foot and probes on these very same extraterrestrial spheres. There is no telling on how far are we taking this perennial love affair with circles and spheres. But I believe that my son is among the latest in a long chain of beings inheriting the genetic marks that this appeal for round things has imprinted on us. And as such, my child is also the guaranty that such a productive urge will continue to pay off for future generations.