It may seem trite – almost sententious – to observe that each of us is a unique being. Of course we are: and in all respects. There is not a single thing about us that is identical to another being. Even though we share a lot of DNA with others, the expression of that genetic code is unique to each of us. Yes, there are many features that work the same way, but even then – even at the lowest level of our biochemistry – there are also variations.
It’s easy to mistake our similarities for identity: to assume, for instance, that because we can all [pretty much] eat the same kinds of food, our biological organisms must work the same way. But ‘similar’ is not ‘the same’, as the ‘pretty much’ rider illustrates. Each of us reacts a little differently to the food we eat; or in some cases, a lot differently. And our reaction can vary over time. Probably everyone has had a moment when one food seems ‘wrong’ or another seems ‘right’ – in that moment. And that’s because our physical bodies are in a constant state of flux: changing from moment to moment. Our cells are not constant: they die and are replaced. The balance of chemicals across our bodies changes by the moment. Even our bones are being repaired and replaced, continually.
What goes for the physical body also goes for the mind: for our thoughts and feelings. Each of us is affected differently by the mental ‘meals’ we take in: by the sensations that we experience and how we ‘digest’ them. However, I am sure, by now, that I don’t need to labour this point. Yes, each of us is unique, at every level and in every respect.
But, at the same time, we can recognise another human. We can tell the difference between a human and a carrot. Even though each thing we encounter is unique, we are quite capable of making a ‘fuzzy’ match with an abstraction, to which we attach meaning. And a virus does the same with our physical body: it has ‘fuzzy matching’ capabilities that enable it to enter a range of different cells, and begin reproducing itself. The real world isn’t mathematically precise; it’s inherently fuzzy. And yet, that fuzziness has boundaries. Each virus can enter some cells but not others. Each idea or experience strikes some people one way, and others quite differently – maybe even not at all.
The fuzzy matching that goes on in all things results, if all ‘singular’ events are aggregated, in a ‘probability function’. The inputs to the function are environmental conditions, and the output is a probability that a particular event – a fuzzy match – will occur. But of course those environmental conditions aren’t static: they’re changing all the time. So the probability of a fuzzy match changes, too. And even if the probability is “a million to one against”, a match could still happen.
In every ‘world’ – be it physics or biochemistry or even psychology – all major events are the result of a chain of smaller events. So for a major event to happen – like becoming aware of something ‘odd’ in one’s environment – a great many fuzzy matches have to occur, one after the other. And at any point, the probability could take a dive. You might wonder that anything happens at all, but all those smaller matches are still ‘events’ and they are changing the environment in which they occur. So repetition – on a massive scale – can still overcome poor odds. That’s how life got started. It’s how stars begin the nuclear reaction that produces heat and light. It’s how everything works.
Just as there is a probability function for an individual event, so there is one for each ‘compound’ event. And it’s really the same thing – even if the probabilities and conditions differ – because there’s not really any such thing as a single, ‘atomic’ event. Everything proceeds as a sequence in time and space. That’s perhaps a bit mind-blowing, because we’re used to the idea that there’s got to be some ‘tiniest part’ that cannot be divided any smaller. (That’s what the Greek word ‘atomic’ means: ‘can’t be cut’.) But in the real universe, things are interacting continuously, in multiple ways. The best we can do is map the process of change – which is exactly what the octave structure does, in the Hermetic teachings (also passed on by Mr. Gurdjieff).
The process of change – any change – is always a sequence, though it can ‘flash’ from start to end in a moment, and can sit as a ‘potential’ for an eternity. It consists of seven, distinct ‘states’, but these can be building or aligning in parallel with each other: hence the potential for a sudden ‘flash’ of completion. Gurdjieff called this the ‘Hepta-para-parshinokh’ or ‘seven lying alongside one another’.
So how did I get from the principle that everyone is unique, to the principle of a ‘common-cosmic’ pattern? Well, it’s because the whole universe consists of a constant turmoil of change. Not all of that change passes from potential to actuality, but it’s being repeated on a truly stupendous scale. Eventually, everything that can happen, does happen – somewhere. And it keeps happening, but each time the environment is slightly different and therefore so is the result.
Living DNA is one of the mechanisms by which things that could happen ‘by accident’ get a probability boost. It is – in a very real sense – the universe’s way of remembering how to repeat a particular set of biochemical changes, to create a new, living thing that is sufficiently similar to others that it stands a chance of mating and reproducing. But this memory is like the memory our minds possess: each time it runs, the effect is very slightly different.
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