NASA, ESA, CSA, and STScI, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
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By Geoff Carter
Over the past few weeks, as the recently deployed James Webb Space Telescope began transmitting interstellar photographs back to Earth, mankind has gotten its deepest and most comprehensive look into the far depths of the universe. The photo “First Deep Field”, an image of a distant galaxy cluster, contains a multitude of never-before-seen distant galaxies. According to NASA, because of the vast amounts of time it takes light to travel across space, this image shows that particular sliver of our universe as it appeared over four and half billion years ago—about the same time our own solar system was forming.
Turn on the lights in your dark kitchen. How quickly does the room fill with light? That’s the speed of light. How far would it go in a year? A light-year, right? Duh. Any sci-fi fan knows that. In human spatial terms, a light-year translates to about six trillion miles. Now multiply that single light-year by four and one-half billion years. Six trillion times four and one-half billion. That’s how far this particular galaxy cluster is from Earth. Trying to wrap your head around a number that large is confounding; trying to imagine that number as a distance is nearly unimaginable. And that’s only as far as the Webb telescope can see. Who knows how much further the abyss actually goes?
Numbers this size are next to useless when it comes to measuring the human experience. In terms of size, our tiny planet is not even a flyspeck on the mirror of the vast universe. In terms of time, our lifespans pass in half a blink; mankind’s entire history is barely a ripple in the river of galactic time. Yet, even in the face of these nearly incomprehensible numbers, humans insist on framing the universe—and the terrestrial experience—in human terms.
Hours and minutes are the constructs by which we measure our days, the ticking clocks of our lives. We have our memories and we keep careful tabs on our history—after all, we’re supposed to learn from the past, right? We’ve developed the scientific methodology to think about the future; we do have the ability to make forecasts, predictions, and prognoses. We calculate the distance of terrestrial space in miles, fathoms, yards, or feet. These are the constructs that make up the boundaries of our existence. The scientific constructs.
Memories and dreams are also the products—perhaps human constructs—of time. Our feelings and hopes and fears jade our perception of hour and minutes. Memories warp time just as dreams condense it. Yesterday can seem as clear as the present; tomorrow can be as dark as a black hole.
NASA has been proudly publishing the Webb space photos all over the internet. The images are remarkably beautiful, and—to the science-minded—invaluable for the information they contain, yet they occupy the same space (and many times garner the same reactions) as JPEGs of cute kittens, dachshunds, babies, or even photos of last night’s dinner. And, like so many of the images dotting Facebook and the internet, they only seem to rate a casual glance from the average viewer—maybe even a like or a thumbs-up emoji. This isn’t necessarily a reflection on people in general, but rather of the impossibility of the task—of fathoming the enormity of the abyss surrounding us. Personally, I would rather look at pictures of baby dachshunds.
This begs the question of what NASA hopes to accomplish by publicizing these pictures to the degree that they have. Probably not to boggle people’s minds with the insignificance of our miniscule existence, but perhaps to reignite an enthusiasm for the art of science and the adventure of exploration.
One positive effect of NASA’s marketing might be a renewed concern about the health of planet Earth. After all, if Earth is light years away from another habitable planetary system, people might start realizing it would behoove them to take better care of the planet. We know that it would take approximately seven months for a spacecraft to reach Mars—and seven more for the return trip. It would take about six years to get to Jupiter, and between nine and twelve to get to Pluto. If travel at the speed of light were possible, it would still take four years to get to Alpha Centauri, the star nearest to our own solar system.
Traveling anywhere inside the Solar System will be difficult, requiring huge commitments of time and energy, and interstellar travel is—anywhere beyond science-fiction—impossible. We are trapped in the space and time constructs of our infinitesimally tiny existence. We are destined to live in spaces marked by feet and inches and lifetimes marked by years and days. Light years—a combined time-space measurement—will always be an abstraction for us, as will the vast depths of the void surrounding our world.
The Webb images give us a glimpse into not only the vastness surrounding us but also the depths of imagination within us. In a sense, staring through the Webb not only offers a sharper view of the external space surrounding us, but also allows a sharper view of our interior selves. Can the Webb help us plumb the depths of our own minds, hearts, and souls?
We have the mechanical ability to calculate these vast distances, to determine how these vast cosmic bodies were formed, and to figure out how the universe works. We also have the vision and sensibility to understand the implications of these numbers. Science has given us the opportunity to wonder, to speculate, or to hypothesize. And to fictionalize.
Some minds will no doubt ascribe a spiritual significance to these cosmic discoveries; others will strive toward discovering ways to shorten these intergalactic distances, whether through communication or physical travel. Others will merely look up at the sky and wonder as they stare into the past through distances vaster than oblivion.
Or they might stare at pictures of baby dachshunds.