String theorists believe that all matter is just a bunch of subatomic strings that tense and slack and give off vibrations that are the source of everything humans can perceive. Unfortunately, our primitive brains can't see length in nanobillionths or in 11 spacetime dimensions, so we see separate-ness between all living things. The theory goes, though, that everything is actually one hunk of vibrating matter, that events are somehow aligned. That we are all connected.
The beauty of this theory is that it is completely untestable, so debate is moot. Either you believe it, or you don't. I'm more in the camp that life is chaotic and random, but every so often life throws me some wacky synchronicity that makes me reconsider. Like Saturday, when I was watching the end of Game 4 between the Yankees and the team they were supposed to bulldoze, the Tiggers. Just as the game and the Yankee season were ending, three unpremeditated things happened:
- I was typing "Yankees" in an e-mail, but my crappy typing skillz made me type "Tankees" instead;
- I ran over my son's Yankee hat (don't ask) with the wheels on my desk chair; and
- The iPod, which was shuffling songs, came up with Annie Lennox's "Money Can't Buy It."
I'm a Red Sox fan, so watching the Yankees collapse in the playoffs always makes my heart go pit-a-pat. This one was particularly helpful, because it ended a really grumpy week that began when my wife took the boys out of town for a long weekend.
Living alone had its perks. I never came home to find socks in the toilet or raisins mashed into the rug. I read when I wanted to, in places other than the bathroom. I saw movies, killed a few brain cells, slept late. And it was fine, but it was empty. And quiet.
I am a father. I've only been one for 4+ years, but Moxie always says I was a father when she met me, only the kids hadn't arrived yet. Having little halflings around to wrestle with, and give upside-down hugs to, and scrub the dirt off of, and do other things that end in prepositions is part of my make-up. It's what makes sense. When I'm alone, I revert to the pre-married self that veered and lurched through life like a dwarf planet without any gravitional pull. It's fun to re-live that existence for a day or two, but after that I get creeped out.
The family came home last Monday, but I still didn't see the kids much because they slept late (they were still on Central time) and I worked a lot later than usual. I got about an hour tops with the kids per night, if I made it home in time at all.
Finally, the weekend came, and while Moxie slept Saturday morning began as all Saturdays should: with Bagels With ButterTM. Robert babbled on about all the construction sites he was going to build in our bathroom, and TwoBert took every opportunity to wipe his nose on my shirt. A few hours later, the Tankees pissed away another postseason.
The other strings are home again. My life is back in tune.