Quantum foam (also referred to as space time foam) is a concept in quantum mechanics devised by John Wheeler in 1955. The foam is supposed to be conceptualized as the foundation of the fabric of the universe.^[1]

Additionally, quantum foam can be used as a qualitative description of subatomic space time turbulence at extremely small distances (on the order of the Planck length). At such small scales of time and space, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle allows energy to briefly decay into particles and antiparticles and then annihilate without violating physical conservation laws. As the scale of time and space being discussed shrinks, the energy of the virtual particles increases. According to Einstein’s theory of general relativity, energy curves space time. This suggests that—at sufficiently small scales—the energy of these fluctuations would be large enough to cause significant departures from the smooth space time seen at larger scales, giving space time a “foamy” character.

With an incomplete theory of quantum gravity, it is impossible to be certain what space time would look like at these small scales, because existing theories of gravity do not give accurate predictions in that regime. Therefore, any of the developing theories of quantum gravity may improve our understanding of quantum foam as they are tested. However, observations of radiation from nearby quasars by Floyd Stecker of NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center have placed strong experimental limits on the possible violations of Einstein’s special theory of relativity implied by the existence of quantum foam.^[2] Thus experimental evidence so far has given a range of values in which scientists can test for quantum foam.

The fabric of space time is a mess of probabilities out of which everything you know and love takes the form of a wave through time.  You are not who–or what–you think you are:

Studies at the Oak Ridge Atomic Research Center have revealed that about 98 percent of all the atoms in a human body are replaced every year. You get a new suit of skin every month and a new liver every six weeks. The lining of your stomach lasts only five days before it’s replaced. Even your bones are not the solid, stable, concrete-like things you might have thought them to be: They are undergoing constant change. The bones you have today are different from the bones you had a year ago. Experts in this area of research have concluded that there is a complete, 100 percent turnover of atoms in the body at least every five years. In other words, not one single atom present in your body today was there five years ago.

Thinking back to my post on Triggers, how is it a fragrance from a flower shop takes me back to the frigid room I played in as a child, if I’ve literally been replaced several times over?

On John Muir, who’s name marks the trail Jolene is exploring above:

Of sensory perceptions and light

During his first summer in the Sierra as a shepherd, Muir wrote field notes that emphasized the role that the senses play in human perceptions of the environment. According to Williams, he speculated that the world was an unchanging entity that was interpreted by the brain through the senses, and, writes Muir, “If the creator were to bestow a new set of senses upon us . . . we would never doubt that we were in another world. . . “^[41]:43 While doing his studies of nature, he would try to remember everything he observed as if his senses were recording the impressions, until he could write them in his journal. As a result of his intense desire to remember facts, he filled his field journals with notes on precipitation, temperature, and even cloud formations.^[41]:45

However, Muir took his journal entries further than recording factual observations. Williams notes that the observations he recorded amounted to a description of “the sublimity of Nature,” and what amounted to “an aesthetic and spiritual notebook.” Muir felt that his task was more than just recording “phenomena,” but also to “illuminate the spiritual implications of those phenomena,” writes Williams. For Muir, mountain skies, for example, seemed painted with light, and came to “…symbolize divinity.”^[41]:45 He often described his observations in terms of light:

“. . . . so gloriously colored, and so luminous, . . .^[44]:4-5 awakening and warming all the mighty host to do gladly their shining day’s work…^[34] to whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.”^[34]

When Jolene walks into a room she tries every seat, just to see what it’s like.  I think I will start doing the same again.  At what point in life does one stop doing that?  Isn’t it better to gather all the different points of view?