Editor’s note: The original version of this column was published Feb. 11, 2001.
The distinguished-looking man with wiry hair and a beard to match seemed near retirement age. He carried himself with a rumpled air of relaxed authority, the type who might sport gray woolen socks with sandals. It would soon become obvious that he also was an educator with a powerful curiosity.
During the spring of 2000, an area bookstore manager in Fayetteville had asked me to lead an evening book discussion group about the convergence of science and religion. It seems I had written one too many weekend columns about books in that emerging field.
This gentle, older fellow appeared regularly amid the varied group of 40 or so who gathered each Thursday evening over five weeks. He usually arrived early to claim a padded chair near the podium. Then he would listen attentively, taking occasional notes as the evenings unfolded.
After the second week he lingered to introduce himself.
It turns out he was a student of Eastern thought, quantum physics, poetry and mysticism. The soft-spoken man believed that the theologians and philosophers from that region of the world were on to something when they spoke of a universal mind and the underlying oneness to everything.
He also seemed to place a lot of credence in theories of renewal and cycles of rebirth.
As weeks passed, our group shared many thoughts about the latest discoveries in the magical realm of quantum physics and how the many “illogics” being discovered in that field today point to the need for a creator, as well as a distinct beginning to our universe.
This man seated near to my right sometimes offered ideas that always edged the participants forward in their insights. There were many revelations over which to marvel. For instance, together we discussed that, while matter is energy created of atoms, the atoms themselves are composed of over 99 percent space, meaning that our physical bodies, despite appearances to the contrary, also are virtually nothingness.
We discovered that quantum research shows that a single particle of light (a photon) actually seemed to exhibit the ability to choose its opening when shot toward a double slit to land against a background screen, and how oddly fields of light will react to the presence of human DNA.
We read that some prominent researchers now theorize that the myriad energy fields and frequencies, which comprise and pervade our lives and the electromagnetic spectrum of the universe, may carry intelligence that regularly influences our behavior and our choices.
All agreed that in the last half of the 20th century, through the advances in quantum physics, cosmology and science, humans are being allowed to peer more deeply than ever into the mysteries of existence.
After one session, this friendly man and I also shared the conclusion that this conscious physical state we call existence is comparable to an iceberg floating in a vast ocean. For a short while, every iceberg assumes what appears to be its own unique form. It seems distinctive and separate from the water surrounding it, as well as from other icebergs.
But every ice chunk is only the same ocean water that briefly assumes a different shape. And it soon melts back into the ocean from whence it formed.
The man and I looked into each other’s eyes and shook hands after the final night of the bookstore session. I left Fayetteville soon afterward and unfortunately lost touch with him and the other fellow searchers.
I opened the newspaper a few months afterward to a photograph of my newfound philosopher friend smiling back from the front page. English Professor John R. Locke had been shot to death by a disgruntled graduate student in his office on the University of Arkansas campus.
He was described as a devoted educator and poet with abiding philosophical interests who cared deeply about others. I stared at the headline, remembering the intriguing thoughts we had shared. Then I imagined how he would have viewed such a terrible event had the tables been turned and I had been the victim.
John Locke would likely have thought something like: “Well, ol’ Mike’s melted back into the ocean again. I’ll miss recognizing his familiar peaks and edges. He and I had some fine chats together when he was a fellow iceberg. Oh well, I’m sure we’ll visit again in the ocean once I re-melt for the 10th time.
“No things. Just ings. I am writing. You are reading. We are ing.”
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master’s journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.