Category: consciousness

More on the human brain

One that I can republish and another that I can refer to.

First, the article presented in The Conversation that I can republish.

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Using light to control brain cells – neuroscientist Karl Deisseroth explains how he made his Nobel‑winning discovery

Illustration of brain scan with red threads reaching from the side towards it
Optogenetics involves the use of light to alter the activity of neurons. Westend61/Getty Images

Karl Deisseroth, Stanford University

The 2026 Nobel Prize in physiology or medicine honored Karl Deisseroth, Peter Hegemann and Georg Nagel for their work developing optogenetics – a technique that allows researchers to control the activity of neurons with light.

The Conversation Weekly podcast talked to Karl Deisseroth, a neuroscientist at Stanford University, about his journey developing optogenetics and its potential to treat a wide range of neuropsychiatric conditions. What follows is an edited transcript of the podcast.

Take us back to the early 1990s. You’re training to be a doctor and you start a rotation working with psychiatric patients. What questions about the brain did that raise for you?

Both basic neuroscience (people asking how the brain works) and clinical neuroscience (doctors trying to help people with brain disorders) have faced a very similar problem, which is the brain is quite mysterious and quite hard to study.

It’s billions of fragile, transparent, very fast-acting cells, buried within the skull and doing very complex things. We don’t have a good model for how the brain works, unlike the heart, which is very obviously a pump. We don’t actually know what the brain’s trying to do.

A lot of neuropsychiatric treatments are not as effective as they could be, and developing new ideas has been hard. The treatments we had were not grounded in a solid understanding of the cells involved. What are the cells actually doing? What are they trying to do? This was a problem that held back treatment.

When I was in psychiatry training in the early 2000s, and also as a medical student in the late 1990s, I was very much impressed with the magnitude of the challenge.

You went on to get a Ph.D. in neuroscience, and then you set up a lab at Stanford trying to understand how to control particular cells in the brain. What were the first experiments you did?

I have a background in molecular biology, and I knew how to work with genes. So I was motivated to see if we could use genetics to make a treatment or an intervention that targets one kind of cell.

Every cell has genes that tell it what to do. Different cells in the brain, just as other parts of the body, can be genetically targeted because different cells have different jobs. A cell that is a dopamine neuron has all the machinery needed to make the hormone dopamine. It uses different genes than a cell that makes the hormone serotonin, so they can be distinguished from each other.

And so the thought was maybe I could have a way of controlling just the dopamine cells or just the serotonin cells by inserting a specific gene into them. But I didn’t know what would work well, so I tried inserting different types of genes into neurons.

Close-up of hand holding an Erlenmeyer flask containing a sample of neon green liquid
Inside this flask is the unicellular algae that played a critical role in the development of optogenetics. Tobias SchwarzSCHWARZ/AFP via Getty Images

Some of the genes I tried were quite conventional; they were genes from mammals that I thought might affect the activity of neurons. But one was a gene from a single-celled algae – a microbe that converts light to energy. This gene coded for a light-activated protein called channelrhodopsin-2 that Peter Hegemann and Georg Nagel identified a few years earlier.

And I thought it was worth a try. It was the least likely to work, but why not try it?

And amazingly, that was the one that worked. The genes that were lower risk didn’t work, and this gene from a single-cell microbe actually did.

Walk us through what you did. You inserted the gene into rat cells, right?

I had a preparation of cultured rodent neurons in a dish – basically a 24-well plate that let me look at many different conditions at the same time in different wells of this plate. This let me test side by side the conventional mammalian genes and this gene from the algae.

So the first step was to get the genes into the cells. Then I exposed some plates of cells to light, while others I did not. I used a test to see which cells had activated.

When I looked across the cells in the screen, I found that the ones that had the algae gene and had gotten light were showing this marker of activation, whereas the others had a much lower signal. That was a really thrilling moment because it showed that this gene from a photosynthetic single-celled organism – almost as far as you can possibly be from mammals evolutionarily – was working beautifully in fragile mammalian neurons.

It was a moment of a lot of pressure and complexity, but also delight.

You went on to name your method optogenetics – the ability to control specific nerves using light in the brain – and you soon went on to using it to control living mice in various ways. What was it like in those first few years of working with live animals?

The first experiment was in 2004, but we didn’t show that it could control the behavior of freely moving mammals until 2007. So it took almost three years. But that first moment in 2007 was quite uplifting because that showed we had gone a big, big chunk of the way toward making it work.

This was an experiment that was very visible and easy to understand. The right side of the brain controls the left side of the body and attention to the left side of the world. We put in a fiber optic into the right part of a mouse motor cortex – the part that controls movement – and when we flipped the switch, the mouse immediately began going left in circles.

And then as soon as we turned off the laser light, it stopped and just looked up at us, as if nothing had happened.

That, coupled with the first experiment – those were transcendent moments.

What changed in your understanding of the brain in the moment you were able to switch particular neurons on and off?

We understood that the technique would probably work to help us understand the brain better at that moment. And then we immediately started applying it to all sorts of different cells where things were mysterious – where nobody knew or couldn’t prove exactly what one cell type or another was doing in perception and cognition and action.

We were able to find cells that were involved in hunger and thirst – basic survival drives. We were able to identify cells and pathways controlling aggression and defensiveness, parenting, how all the different parts of anxiety come on together and go away together, memory, motivation.

The general applicability became clear over the subsequent years.

Researchers are now using optogenetics in attempts to restore sight in people with visual impairment. How does that work?

In 2010, two of my colleagues in Europe were interested in delivering one of these light-activated proteins to human eye samples – specifically the retina of the eye – which worked very well.

So they did careful studies in monkeys and in people. And in 2021, just five years ago, they published a paper showing they could confer light sensitivity back to the retinas of a person who was completely blind from a neurodegenerative disease called retinitis pigmentosa.

That’s what we call direct optogenetics. It’s somewhat complicated because you have to deliver the gene and light to the person.

Karl Deisseroth sitting and smiling in a chair with laptop in his lap, Michelle Monje-Deisseroth sitting adjacent to him reaching a hand out to hold his shoulder
Karl Deisseroth, left, and his wife, Michelle Monje-Deisseroth, were at home when they were notified of his Nobel win. AP Photo/Noah Berger

And going back to your psychiatric patients, who you still see in the clinic today, how do you hope optogenetics will be able to help them?

There’s a much easier and more broadly impactful avenue that we call indirect optogenetics, which uses the knowledge that comes from studying which cells matter in a symptom and then designing medications that target those cells. This is something we’ve really lacked in neuropsychiatry for a long time.

Indirect optogenetics is making strong headway for autism and schizophrenia. There are trials that are moving to their final stages for those disorders.

My particular clinical specialty is autism, and I see the difficulties that come with irritability and anxiety in these patients. And I can see optogenetics leading to new medications that will help.

Karl Deisseroth, D. H. Chen Professor, Professor of Bioengineering and of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences, Stanford University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Next, the article in Nature what has the title: Memory stays strong in old age when this brain enzyme is active

An enzyme found in the brain could help to preserve cognitive resilience with advancing age, according to research in mice, humans and cells1.

Researchers found that high levels of the enzyme are linked to low levels of inflammation in the brains of aged mice. They also showed that the enzyme boosts the growth of neurons in ageing brains. The findings were reported on 15 October in Nature Neuroscience.

The enzyme seems to act “as a compensatory cognitive-resilience mechanism”, says study co-author Amar Sahay, a neuroscientist at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.

“This is a fantastic, very thoughtful approach to get at what could be protecting neurons,” says Timothy Hohman, a neuroscientist and geneticist at the Vanderbilt Memory & Alzheimer’s Center in Nashville, Tennessee, who was not involved in the study. “This is a great example of how you can use a model system to get at some of these resilience mechanisms that are super challenging to study in humans.”

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Maybe, just maybe, the workings of the human brain is not such a mystery as it used to be.

Not having a father

Prompted to write this after reading an article in The Conversation.

I turned 12 in November, 1956. My father died on December, 20th, 1956.

My mother eventually remarried and my step-father quickly became a wonderful Dad to me. But the shock of my father’s death never left me, and the fact that I am writing this some 70 years later shows that the episode is still with me, albeit in a much reduced way.

Thus this article in The Conversation hits the mark.

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What we misunderstand about absent fathers

Dads aren’t always in the picture. Motortion/iStock via Getty Images

Matthew Alemu, University of Michigan; Northeastern University

“What do dads do on Tuesdays?”

This wasn’t a rhetorical question when I posed it to my wife as our daughter’s birth approached. Before my daughter was born, I had seen my father just once in the past 27 years. That’s over 1,400 Tuesdays. In fact, as a kid I hardly saw fathering any day of the week, save for on TV sitcoms; absent dads were prevalent within my family and among my peers.

My daughter was born on a Saturday. My first Tuesday as a father came and went in a blur of exhaustion. I’d always loved playing and working with kids. I felt generally competent in what to do with my newborn daughter. Yet as I held her, insecurity from my father’s absence kept me questioning: Will I be better than my absent father?

Absence assumes different forms

Years before my daughter’s birth, I was a first-year Ph.D. student intending to study Black men and how their memories of childhood affected them as adults.

My pivot toward focusing on fatherhood began while I was conducting interviews for a larger study on men of all races and unemployment. After completing these interviews, I was surprised to see that 85% of my respondents grew up with absent fathers. The nature of the absences – how they occurred and how they felt – struck me as a more compelling area of study.

Historically, scholars and policymakers looked at whether fathers lived with their kids as the sole criterion when designating them as “present” or “absent.” Yet, my respondents’ stories revealed distinctions that “nonresident” alone did not capture. Specifically, my analysis identified four unique patterns of absence: “consistent,” “inconsistent,” “extended” and “absolute.”

Consistent absence includes regular interactions, like every Tuesday after school or every weekend.

Inconsistent absence involves irregular and unpredictable interactions – a dad who promises to show up on Tuesday but doesn’t appear until Friday, or disappears for weeks at a time.

Extended absence occurs when years pass between interactions: meeting your father for the first time at 9 years old, and then having no interaction with him until he shows up at your high school graduation, for instance.

Finally, absolute absence means interactions never occurred or they can no longer occur, such as a father who died or disappeared, with his whereabouts unknown. Some people in this category didn’t even know their fathers’ names.

These categories complicate what can otherwise be oversimplified.

For example, the fathers of Presidents Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were both absent, but in distinctly different ways.

Clinton’s biological father died in a car accident before he was born – an absolute absence. Obama’s father left the family when Barack was 2 years old and reappeared only once, years later – a relationship characterized by extended absence.

In contrast, other famous people saw their absent fathers more regularly.

The parents of the rapper Ye, formerly known as Kanye West, divorced when he was 3 years old, but he grew up spending summers with his father, putting the absence in the “consistent” category. Similarly, Maroon 5 singer Adam Levine regularly saw his dad on weekends after his parents divorced, which I also classify as a consistent form of absence.

Better than my father, or better than his absence?

Ironically, I became a father as I began my dissertation research on absent fathers. Using the four categories of paternal absence I developed, my dissertation examined how men’s experiences with absence shaped their own aspirations for fatherhood and romantic relationships.

I wanted to showcase the complexity and range of experiences of growing up with an absent father, while also exposing the disparity in how people remembered their absent fathers. Specifically, some people knew their fathers, while others knew only that their father was absent. This memory gap makes it harder for some new dads to envision what it means to be better than their own fathers.

Like me, the men I interviewed for my research relayed anxieties about navigating fatherhood. Like me, they wanted to be better than their fathers.

But we all differed in how prepared we felt for the task. Some had vivid memories to guide them: One respondent, who experienced inconsistent absence, hated that his father never showed curiosity in getting to know him. So when he became a parent, he made sure to ask his daughter questions so she would know he cared about her life.

Yet those with little to no memories of their father may aspire to be, as another respondent put it, “a father like my mother.”

Doing this work, I’ve been able to reimagine my own experience with absence.

I used to assume that the pattern of absence I experienced with my own dad reflected a standard. My parents divorced when I was 3 years old. I saw my father regularly until moving away at 6 – a form of consistent absence. But the rest of my childhood passed without seeing my father, shifting me to extended absence. I used to wrongly dismiss less extreme patterns of absence, such as seeing one’s father weekly or monthly, as “not absence.”

My unique experience of absence has also distinctly shaped how I remember my father. My memories mainly come from 6 years old and earlier. Many are unfavorable, like his smoking in the car, knowing I had asthma. Some fond ones exist, like the two of us walking on the beach or feeding ducks at a local pond.

Still, what I recall most is my fear of my father. The origins of this fear escape me. I’ve been told he abused my mother, but I don’t remember witnessing it.

These scant memories presented a paradox as I entered fatherhood: I didn’t want to be feared like my father, but I didn’t know exactly what made me afraid of my father. This uncertainty loomed throughout my early years of parenting: When my daughter cried in my arms or preferred my wife over me, was it simply a sign of normal fussiness? Or had I unknowingly become a scary figure, like my father?

From abandoned son to present father

I last met my father 20 years ago. I was full of hate when that meeting began, but this hatred soon dissipated. First, I realized I wasn’t angry at my father, because I barely knew my father. I was angry at his absence. Second, I learned that his father was absent, too.

They say “hurt people hurt people.” Before my dad was an absent father, he was missing his dad, too. This doesn’t excuse his absence or his treatment of my mother. But it did make it harder to hate someone who was probably hurting like me.

As I continue to explore the impact of absent fathers as an academic, I continue to reconcile my transition from abandoned son to a present father. Lacking inspiration or guidance from my own father, I’m practicing fatherhood on my terms.

For me, that’s meant building traditions. From the outset, we’ve created routines around music, dancing, bath time, reading and talking about “big emotions.” Our most meaningful tradition has been our weekly daddy-daughter breakfast, which I started when she was 18 months old. She’s now 8.

Sometimes we go on Tuesdays. But any day of the week is fair game.

Matthew Alemu, Special Advisor, Poverty Solutions, University of Michigan; Northeastern University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Now Matthew Alema was much more furtunate than me. At least he saw his father from time to time.

I often reflect how my life would have been different had my father lived for much longer, say until he was in his 70’s or 80’s. There’s no question it would have been significant. I would have had a profession, possibly in the designing of buildings. I would have gone to university, And so on …

I have a son and a daughter, both in their 50’s, and a grandson by my daughter and her husband. I am so grateful to be able to speak to them on a regular basis. They all live in England.

Picture Parade Five Hundred and Twenty-Seven

I have been thinkg of Pharaoh, my late German Shepherd, recently. So here are some photos of him.

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Beloved Pharaoh. Born: June 3rd., 2003 – Died: June 19th., 2017.

A very special dog that will never be forgotten.

The Emperor’s New Mind

I have finished this fabulous book.

The Emperor’s New Mind: Concerning Computers, Minds and The Laws of Physics

Book by Roger Penrose

Here is a summary of the book that is first, a very deep read, and, second, full of detailed mathematics that were beyond me. I just skipped those parts. However, it is an incredible book and one that has extended my knowledge in so many ways. I think that it isn’t going too far to say that it has amended my knowledge tremendously and I am so glad to have read it, even at the age of 81.

If you wish, you may refer to my thoughts when I first obtained the book, written down on April 14th.

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The Emperor’s New Mind (1989) by Roger Penrose argues that human consciousness involves non-computable processes, meaning a computer can never fully replicate the human mind, even if it can simulate its functions. Penrose uses Gödel’s incompleteness theorems and quantum mechanics to support his view, suggesting that consciousness arises from physical processes in the brain that are not algorithmic, and that a deeper understanding of physics, possibly involving quantum gravity, is needed to explain the mind. The book explores the “mind-body problem” and challenges the idea that all thinking is computation, proposing that human understanding can grasp truths that formal systems cannot. 

Key arguments and concepts

  • Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorems: Penrose argues that human mathematicians can see the truth of certain mathematical statements that a formal system (like a computer program) cannot prove, demonstrating a non-computable aspect of human thought. 
  • Non-computability: He posits that certain mental activities, like mathematical insight, are inherently non-algorithmic and cannot be simulated by a computer, even a powerful one. 
  • Quantum mechanics and consciousness: Penrose suggests that consciousness is linked to quantum mechanical processes in the brain, specifically involving microtubules, a theory he later developed further in Shadows of the Mind. 
  • Critique of Strong AI: The book challenges the “strong AI” hypothesis that a sufficiently complex computer can achieve genuine consciousness, arguing that it misunderstands the nature of human understanding. 

Reception and legacy

  • The book won the 1990 Science Book Prize. 
  • It sparked debate and collaboration, notably with Stuart Hameroff, leading to the “orchestrated objective reduction” (Orch OR) theory of consciousness. 
  • It remains a significant work in the philosophy of mind, artificial intelligence, and the physics of consciousness, influencing discussions on the limits of computation and the nature of the mind. 

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Penrose won the Science Book Prize in 1990 for The Emperor’s New Mind.

I am not surprised.

Artemis images

A unique record taken by the crew.

Human-created photos of this historic mission cannot be replace by articificial intelligence (AI).

This is the reason I am republishing an article from The Conversation.

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Artemis II crew brought a human eye and storytelling vision to the photos they took on their mission

Astronaut Jeremy Hansen takes a picture through the camera shroud covering a window on the Orion spacecraft. NASA

Christye Sisson, Rochester Institute of Technology

In early April 2026, the Artemis II mission captivated me and millions of people watching from across the world. The crew’s courage, skill and infectious wonder served as tangible proof of human persistence and technological achievement, all against the mysterious backdrop of space.

People back on Earth got to witness the mission through remarkable photos of space captured by astronauts. Images created and shared by astronauts underscore how photography builds a powerful, authentic connection that goes beyond what technology alone can capture.

As a photographer and the director of the Rochester Institute of Technology’s School of Photographic Arts and Sciences, I am especially drawn to how these photographs have been at the center of the public’s collective experience of this mission.

In an era when image authenticity is often questioned and with the capabilities of autonomous, AI-driven imaging, NASA’s choice to train astronauts in photography has placed meaning over convenience and prioritized their human perspectives and creativity.

Capturing space from the crew’s perspective

Photography was not originally placed as a high priority in NASA’s Apollo era. The astronauts only took photographs if they had the chance and all their other tasks were complete.

An image of the entire Earth from space.
‘The Blue Marble’ view of the Earth as seen by the Apollo 17 crew in 1972. NASA

Thanks largely in part to public response to those images from Apollo, including “Earthrise” and the “Blue Marble” being widely credited for helping catalyze the modern environmental movement, NASA shifted its approach to utilize photography to help capture the public’s imagination by training their astronauts in photographic practices.

The Artemis II mission’s photographs have helped cut through the increasing volume of artificially generated images circulating on social media. NASA’s social media releases of the crew’s photographs have garnered thousands of shares and comments.

This excitement could be explained by the novelty of photos from space, but these images also distinguish themselves as products of astronauts experiencing these sights and interpreting them through their photographs. These differences require an important distinction around where technology ends and humanity begins.

An astronaut looking out the window of the Orion spacecraft, where the full moon is visible in space.
NASA astronaut Reid Wiseman watches the Moon from one of the Orion spacecraft’s windows. NASA

Human perspective versus AI tools

Photography has long integrated AI-powered software and data-driven tools in a variety of ways: to process raw images, fill in missing color information, drive precise focus and guide image editing, among others. These modern technological assists help human photographers realize their vision.

Artificial intelligence is also increasingly capable of operating machinery competently and autonomously, from cars to drones and cameras.

And AI can generate convincing, realistic images and videos from nothing more than a text prompt, using readily available tools.

Researchers train AI to mimic patterns informed by millions of sample images, and the algorithm can then either take or create a photograph based on what it predicts would be the most likely version of a successful, believable image.

Human-created photos are rooted in direct observation, intent and lived experience, while AI images – or choices made by AI-driven tools – are not. While both can produce compelling and believable visuals, the human photographs carry emotional power because the photographer is drawing from their experiences and perspective in that moment to tell an authentic story.

Artemis II photographs resonate, not only because they are historic, but because they reflect the deliberate choices and intent of a human being in that specific moment and context. The exposure, camera setting, lens choice and composition are all dictated by the astronaut’s vision, skill, perspective and experience. Each image is unique in comparison with the others. These choices give the images narrative power, anchoring them in human perspective.

The Earth shown partially shadowed beyond the Moon in space
NASA’s ‘Earthset’ photo captured by the Artemis II crew. NASA

Images to tell a story

Photographers choose what to include in the final version of their image to tell a story. In the Artemis II images, this human perspective comes out. In the “Earthset” photo, you see a striking juxtaposition of the Moon’s monochromatic, textured surface in the foreground against a slivered, bright Earth.

The choice to include both in the frame contrasts these objects literally and figuratively, inviting comparison. It creates a narrative where Earth is contrasted against the Moon – life is contrasted against the absence of it.

Another photo shows the nightside of the whole Earth, featuring the Sun’s halo, auroras and city lights. The choice to include the subtle framing of the window of the capsule in the lower left corner reminds the viewer where and how this image was captured: by a human, inside a capsule, hurtling through space. That detail grounds the photograph in the human perspective.

Both photos are reminiscent of Earthrise and the Blue Marble. These past images hold a place in the global collective consciousness, shaped by a shared historical moment.

The Artemis II photographs are anchored in this collective moment of lived human experience, yet also shaped by each astronaut’s viewpoint. The crew’s unique perspectives exemplify photography’s transformative power by inviting viewers to engage emotionally and intellectually with their journey. These photographs share the astronauts’ awe and wonder and affirm the value of human creativity and its ability to connect us in a captured moment.

Christye Sisson, Professor of Photographic Sciences, Rochester Institute of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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I am going to repeat a sentence towards the end of the article: “These past images hold a place in the global collective consciousness, shaped by a shared historical moment.”

That global collective consciousness!

Consciousness, and the Human Brain

An astounding video by David Eagleman.

Amazingly, Jean and I were being run recently in to somewhere local and Trevor, our driver, was listening to a talk by David Eagleman. I was captivated.

In that talk David Eagleman spoke about Roger Penrose and his research into consciousness. Here’s an AI summary:

Roger Penrose proposes that human consciousness is non-computational and originates from quantum processes within brain neurons, rather than just neural connections. Together with anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff, he developed the “Orchestrated Objective Reduction” (Orch OR) theory, which suggests consciousness arises from quantum computations in microtubules. 

Roger Penrose is the author of The Emperers New Mind.

Thus, beyond the eighty-six billion neurons that make up the brain, there are also the microtubals. These are very small and the diameter of several thousand of them are less than the diameter of the human hair. See WikiPedia.

“The brain has deep purpose” was one of the sayings Eagleman spoke of. “Why do we have experience” was another.

There was much more that I did not really understand. But it was still fascinating.

Then we discovered that what Trevor was listening to was also a video. The video is Inner Cosmos. It runs for 75 wonderful minutes.

Here is that video.

To say that this has absolutely updated my mind to a newer level is an understatement; big time!

Please watch the video.

Another Bela poem

I am so impressed by Bela’s poems!

Here it is:

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Ungovernable

We need not allow age to define us
unless we hunger to be named
by something outside ourselves.

Mother Nature is as old as time,
yet remains a woman of mystery—
unmapped,
unmastered,
not to be taken lightly.

While many elders
have been pressed into a mold, 
muffled by expectation,
cinched into compliance—

she rises.

She takes back her ancient names:
crone, hag, witch—
titles once meant to diminish,
now worn like iron and bone.

She will not shrink.
She will not bow.

Lately, she has been speaking.

Heavy tropical rains—
record-breaking—
islands flooding,
the ground unable to drink
what the sky insists on unleashing.

And today—
thunder.

Lightning.

Rare here.
Almost unheard of.

Rain fell in sheets,
fire-hosing off corrugated roofs
into earth already swollen,
already saturated.

And then—

CRACK.
FLASH.
BOOM.

The sky split.

The dog and I
jettisoned from our bodies—
he barking, pacing,
drawn to the door
but unwilling to cross the threshold.

This was not weather.

This was visitation.

The center—
ripped out of the moment,
out of the body,
out of the small illusion of control.

This is what elder women become
when the blinders fall away:

not gentle,
not contained,
not agreeable.

We become weather.

We become voice.

We become the force
that cannot be managed
by the structures that once confined us.

Ungovernable.

Unapologetic.

Unsilenced.

We rise—
not in defiance alone,
but in remembrance.

And we will not be silenced again.

before the storm ~ bj 2026

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To my mind that is the power and beauty of nature – it is ungovernable.

Our human need to matter

Our survival isn’t enough.

I make no apologies for providing little of my own words and just going straight to this video and the accompanying text.

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What if the deepest human drive isn’t happiness, survival, or even love, but the need to matter?

Philosopher and MacArthur Fellow Rebecca Newberger Goldstein joins Michael Shermer to discuss The Mattering Instinct, her argument that the desire to feel significant lies at the core of human behavior. That drive helps explain our greatest achievements, from creativity and moral courage to scientific and artistic excellence. It also helps explain some of our darkest outcomes, including extremism, violence, and ideological fanaticism.

Goldstein examines why people will give up comfort, status, and sometimes even their own lives to feel that they matter. She questions why meaning cannot be captured by happiness metrics or self-help formulas, and why the same psychological force can produce saints, scientists, athletes, cult leaders, and terrorists. The conversation moves through free will, entropy, morality without God, fame, narcissism, and the crucial difference between ways of mattering that create order and those that leave damage behind.

Rebecca Newberger Goldstein is an award-winning philosopher, writer, and public intellectual. She holds a Ph.D. in philosophy of science from Princeton University and has taught at Yale, Columbia, NYU, Dartmouth, and Harvard. A fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, her work has been supported by the MacArthur “Genius” grant and fellowships from the Guggenheim, Whiting Institute, Radcliffe Institute, and the National Science Foundation. She is the author of ten books of acclaimed fiction and non-fiction. Her latest book is The Mattering Instinct: How Our Deepest Longing Drives Us and Divides Us.

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So, please watch this video!

Communities and the Fire Circle

A very ancient event that is still important today.

BBC Radio 4 is broadcasting this week a series of programmes under the title of ‘An Almanac for Anxiety: In Search of a Calmer Mind’. The first episode was Fire.

The history of fire circles spans ancient human gathering traditions, modern pagan rituals, and even fire performance art, evolving from basic survival and community building around fire to intentional spiritual circles for healing, transformation, or entertainment, with practices rooted in ancient fire veneration and a recent resurgence of shamanic/Pagan practices in Western culture, notes 4qf.org and Patheos.

The above was copied, in part, from a Google ‘AI’ article.

Photo by Peter Schulz on Unsplash

Here is a YouTube video on how to participate in a Fire Circle:

A Very Happy New Year!