Established relationships don’t manifest in neat, defined and equally segmented paths. Contriving or clinging — the fixation things happening a specific way — is insistence on control, where fewer possibilities represent low thermodynamic entropy, or disorder. Chaotic pathways are part of life, and the myriad of ways people form close relationships is connected to universal disorder
On a crisp November morning, a low-key hike near Kings Mountain seemed just the thing for time with a spiritual friend. Besides connection to nature, leisurely, but well-paced, adventures are special invitations to think about nothing more than one foot in front of the other. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig writes “mountains should be climbed with as little effort and without desire as possible.” In this frame, rigid goals take a back seat and “each footstep isn’t just a means to an end, but a unique event in itself.” (2009, HarperCollins) Each step is spectacular by definition, and yet repetitively ordinary. No “contriving to spoil”, and no “clinging to lose”, as Lao-tzu posits in Tao Te Ching #64 (T. Cleary, The Essential Tao, 1991 HarperCollins). Contriving or clinging tends to ruin the experiences of spontaneity and appreciation.
After a couple of hours, we snacked near the river with granola bars and fruit before turning back. During the return hike, I suddenly felt my right foot a little differently. Looking down, nothing was terribly evident until I rotated my foot to find the sole of the hiking boot missing, breaking off without incident. Walking back several feet, I picked up the sole, with its thin, white layer of shoe glue, and my friend put it in my string bag. Thankfully, I still had a right shoe, only now with a soft sole. I kept walking, feeling more of the ground beneath me, and aware that my right-side appendage was slightly shorter than my left.
With a mile to go, my mind shifted to future physical discomfort. Besides effects on knees, how would my hip feel tomorrow? At that moment, attachment to my healthy joints was clear. I wasn’t concerned about the boots themselves or their cost; I made good use of them over 15–20 years. Further, plantar fasciitis and weakening knees had slowly converted me into a shoe investor; for supportive shoes, I blindly swiped the credit card. The consequent hiking boot purchase would be much more fun than the skimp job from the turn of the century.
Dating had been heavily on my mind for several months: I knew it was time to try again. I needed to put on the seasoned, reliable shoes of faith and recovery strategy to take my chances with metaphoric rocks, branches and wet, slippery leaves: the things that open us up and break our hearts (and sometimes shoes). I felt ready to take more risks, bearing in mind to endeavor each step as “a unique event”.
Years ago, at Crowders Mountain, I passed a hiker with a tall walking stick. He was slightly hunched over, treading slowly and methodically on the terrain. We exchanged pleasantries, and during our conversation he remarked, “I’m not sure I should be out here at 75 years old!” My response was something like this:
Well…here you are! And you absolutely belong here, sir.
Another gorgeous spring day, and a bench was finally found, strangely placed behind the handrails of the path. The couple had to go a little forward, then back several steps to take a seat. She took his hand, his reciprocation tentative and reluctant. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings”, she said.
Besides the boot breakdown, I realized my hiking poles had long-lost their pole baskets. Somewhere in the eastern U.S, they became litter to blend in with the gum balls. With my hiking buddy, I was not only treading without one sole, but with poles unoptimized for soft ground. How did I get by all these years?
Dating feels like that, like the man in the forest. Do I belong here? With perpetually cracked heart, and limited guarantee of stability against the soft ground of intimacy, I’m clearly and cluelessly making mistakes , and not always sure I should be out here. In the world of dating, there seem to be ample opportunities to blow off missing stabilizers or suddenly find myself on shaky ground to ask myself, “what the hell am I doing?”.
As for the elder in the forest, the answer of spirit is just the same. Well, here you are! And you absolutely belong here, ma’am.
His overreaction may have been rooted in outdated ideas of manhood, where men are primarily rough and burly. But she was only thinking of touch, the more personal, intimate manhood. “I was responding to you — your texture, your touch — I don’t know what else to say.” Because she really didn’t.
I’m plodding along, slowly with a big stick. My trekking pole is the third leg of hope and faith…persistence in the face of multiple relationship beginnings. It seems quirky that the price of staying in spirit is saying no a lot more, sometimes according to simple inductive logic. Patterns established early tend to last; therefore, if they’re not acceptable now, why would they be later? People don’t fundamentally change all that much; therefore, accept them as they are right now, with clarity about the (few) true non-negotiables. Being alone, and sometimes lonely, is more life-affirming than wasting energy in an unsatisfying relationship.
All personal relationships involve risk, and dating should be its own dedicated category of super-risk. Tossing in ideas from Buddhist and Taoist teachings seems to go against the ideals of interdependence. Ideally, we are detached (but not toodetached), independent (but just dependent enough), attentive to planning (but not controlling). We want to show interest (but not so much to overwhelm), sharing just enough personal detail to offer closeness ever-so-slowly. Whichever ideas we wish to juxtapose, we seek balance. Sounds wonderful!
But even perfect balance is suspiciously regular. We know better than to think it ever happens this way. Dating toes that line between…between what, really? Planning and spontaneity, or clinging and release — or perhaps ultimately, control and lack of it? Whichever concept pair, the venue of dating holds its own special, frustrating brand of “nothing is fixed”. Along with super-risk, we experience super-instability. The wonderfully wonderful moments are unavoidably accompanied by the woefully woeful.
Contriving or clinging — the fixation on a thing staying the same — is insistence on control, where fewer possibilities represent low thermodynamic disorder. We all know people (perhaps including ourselves) who try to control relationships: an exercise in frustration, futility, and limited fun. We also probably know people with long lists of non-negotiables for potential partners, another way of fighting the universal tendency towards disorder.
After all, we are human creatures of nature, inherently subject to thermodynamic entropy, where chaotic pathways are part of life. The relative stability of an established relationship doesn’t manifest in neat, defined and equally segmented paths. Relationships sometimes begin quickly, forcing a period of separation, followed by reunion. Others begin slowly, to blossom into something later, or not. The myriad of ways people form close relationships is connected to disorder encompassed within these thermodynamic concepts.
Sometimes, the shoe breaks clean, or the pole sinks deeply into the mud, the process falling significantly short of the wonderful. Once the dust settles, questions and situations clarify and we might wonder if this is where we belong. And the answer is always the same: absolutely, yes. Every experience takes us to a better version of ourselves. Walking on the shoes is the risk — we are tentatively confident they will support the unforgiving terrain of circumstances and mind scatter. Mind practices can help keep personal challenges clear, even if the situation itself feels like a mess. That “better” version of ourselves becomes more adept — more efficient — at handling the complexities without losing sight of our core selves and relationship intention.
Well, here we are! And we absolutely belong here.
Her face softened from its defensive stare. He looked down, squeezed her hand, then carefully released it as if precious and fragile. With this gentle gesture, both hearts began to close without incident.
If hope seems inaccessible, be assured that subconscious can’t become hopeless. Entropy ensures possibility: fear holds a glimmer of hope.
Over the past several months of unprecedented, sudden and sustained changes, the COVID-19 pandemic has uncovered a plethora of common emotions. In the spirit of conciseness, let’s zoom our focus on two behemoths: grief and insecurity.
The role of grief in the timeline of loss is unavoidable, and with over 3000 U.S. deaths per day, the volume of heartbreak is massive. In my recent world, one politely defiant non-masker remarked that “the Spanish flu was much, much worse...”, so I looked it up: estimated 650k U.S. deaths in a population of 100 million. In addition, affliction age demographic was a “W” curve, the flu most deadly with the very young, very old, and prime 20-40 age range. With our current population, equivalent deaths would be around 2 million; instead, about 700k maximum deaths are projected by April 2021 for the COVID-19 pandemic.
Yes, the Spanish flu was worse, but this fact has NO relevance in our present-day choices. Uh oh...here comes anger banging on the door, the third emotion insidiously, yet appropriately sneaking its way in. WHAT are people thinking? Whether death is 700k or 2M people, the order of magnitude is ABSOLUTELY in the ballpark of Spanish influenza: tenths of percents, or a few to several in a thousand. HOW FAR will human beings go to rationalize their own selfish behavior, inflexibility, insistence on being sanctimoniously difficult? Apparently, QUITE. We’ve heard all the excuses by now. Now that anger has had a chance to vent, it’s now hanging loose on the couch.
Grief, instead, sits outside in the rocking chair and stares solemnly at the motion of the sun. We face significant levels of illness, long-term medical consequences, and loss of life. Today, we grieve for those we have lost, for those we will lose in the next year or so, the family of friends, friends of friends, and various other regulars: the friendly clerk at the tiny post office, the grocery store manager, or that special yoga teacher. We miss the multitudes of small businesses that have permanently closed, as well as the mistaken idea that such enterprises are robust if the community shows enough love. We grieve for our former lifestyles, forever changed and ready to take a back seat to our human flexibility. We’ll keep certain elements, and discard others, by choice or lawful requirement.
The pandemic has also amplified pre-existing economic inequality, and therefore the insecurity hiding in the closet, sometimes crouching in the corner but at other times re-folding the sweaters with nervous energy. Before the novel coronavirus up-ended the world, the U.S. had already been experiencing historically high fatalities for young adults into mid-life. Analyzing longitudinal data over several decades, a late-2019 review published in the Journal of the American Medical Association indicates that U.S. age-adjusted death rates were increasing, with a clear uptick since the Great Recession for the 25-44 age group. Additional studies with specific focus on socioeconomic factors indicate statistically significant connections between economic insecurity and mid-life fatalities. A 2019 multi-institutional study on the socioeconomics of despair examined the origins of the phrase “deaths of despair”, publishing a multidimensional concept map for quantifying the causal connections between economic turmoil and subsequent factors leading to early death. The same year, epidemiology and public health researchers used county-wide data to unfold statistically significant relationships between economic insecurity and “deaths of despair”.
It seems the minister of despair and the coronavirus pandemic are now doing a slow, conscientious tango, energized by fear and delighted at the personal obstinacy driving the rates of infection.
With anger, grief, and undercurrents of uncertainty, the emotions become one big heap of evidence that our identities are actively deconstructing. Bit by bit, pieces are falling away. Our hearts and minds are being broken, again, and again (and again). Each news cycle brings with it something new for the emotional response to further flex its muscles, having its moment while cradling a very strong margarita (and crying). The sense of despair is readily accessed right now, and a calling for hope seems almost ridiculous. What does hope contribute to our daily lives? The other feelings seem to serve more purpose: anger can spawn constructive activity, grief is an established healing step, insecurity can inspire a stronger sense of justice. What does hope actually do?
In a scene from Frozen, Elsa’s hiking up the impossibly snowy mountain in an evening gown (an impressive feat). As she comes to a flat spot, she sings “Let it go…let it go…can’t hold it back anymore”. Elsa’s definitely running away from her problems, but she’s also saying NO to the status quo of keeping her magic secret, and simultaneously surrendering to her identity. This moment is one of deconstruction, followed by conscious connection to her true nature. We can similarly deconvolve with our heartbreak, finding an identity closer to the fundamentals of human dignity…for everyone. Everyone. Before being fed all that nonsense about the Other, our intended nature carries the courage to acknowledge bias, regularly catching ourselves in the act of Othering, expressed regardless of how much we try to control our public faces. Because that Other is you. That Other is me. All of us are here, together in collective socioeconomic distress. If you can think of a single person as Other, you’ve drawn a line. The privileged must be vigilant in erasing those lines in the sand, again and again (and again). In this way, we deny our human instinct to categorize. Education, critical thought, and secular humanism take us to the egalitarian society of the future.
Within our understandable cynicism, hope may seem hard to come by. But our subconscious obeys the laws of nature, and it knows better than to succumb to hopelessness. You and your ego don’t have to do a thing. No matter how dark things become, the concept of entropy (or disorder) ensures there’s a bit tucked away in the psyche. If you’re fearful, you’re hopeful.
Entropy can be better understood with crystals: highly regular arrangements of atoms that are mostly perfect, the atomic positions fixed. Within this apparent perfection, however, there are flaws, such as missing or displaced atoms. For example, a sapphire crystal phone screen has a few atoms missing (Ok, ok...a LOT of atoms: about 1017, or 100 million billion). The amounts vary depending on crystal growth temperature, but before you imagine your phone screen whittling away to dust, relax. At the melting point of sapphire (2040 °C or ≈3600 °F), where a crystal can be grown, the fraction of missing or misplaced atoms is about one in a million. When the crystal cools, the defects are frozen in place, the amounts so tiny that the the capacitive and optical properties of the screen are unaffected. To give a larger picture of that fraction, this is like a single missing brick in a solid wall the size of a garden patio (say 30 x 30 sq. ft), about 3 stories high. One brick missing in a million is no big deal.
Like the missing atoms in the crystal structure, the missing brick creates entropy. Within the laws of thermodynamics, there are few important rules governing entropy:
How might entropy relate to hope? Because entropy can never be zero, even the depths of sadness contain some “disorder towards better”. In the tortured soul, hope is the very thing that saves us: “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.” (Emily Dickinson) Hope is Dickinson’s fluttering bird, that little bit of entropy in an otherwise fixed, dark space. Even in the lowest of our lows, we wake up to another day, and something – an elusive internal pilot light – is carrying us forward, ready to be lit with the fire of better days. Challenges merely test us, and all bets are on entropy, the forever winner in life’s thermodynamic hand. As in our consciousness, the future awaits with a variety of outcomes. That something enabling us to begrudgingly move forward, even with minimal aspiration, is hope: vast possibility.
With despair, in contrast, what do we have? A single possibility, loaded with mistaken ideas that things will never change, everything is permanent, and there is no space for creation of entropy. With only one possibility, entropy is zero. In this dark space, there are a lot of musts and shoulds, always and nevers. However, zero entropy is an unphysical concept, and ideas of zero options are illusions. Hope nestles closely to our own life force with the promise that everything in this life is transient. What doesn’t change is our inner light, our identity outside of all the impermanence.
As the situation grows darker, colder, and more frozen in muddling through COVID, the “true freeze” of zero entropy and zero options is fundamentally and thankfully out of reach. Let’s allow ourselves to be with our heartache, uncertainty (and, yes, anger) to help crack our identities open a little bit more. We’re not going to break, because hope and faith—possibility and entropy—hold us through the mess.
For the apparent freedom to not follow COVID-19 pandemic public health guidelines, there is a steep price: more illness and fatalities, extended lockdowns, and worse economic damage.
Maneuvering through pandemic existence, with a heightened sense of risk, we immerse ourselves in an elaborate calculation: minimizing exposure and spread of COVID-19. Those with the luxury of staying home have a low chance of contracting the novel coronavirus, in stark contrast to front-line health workers and many other essential people that enable large swaths of the population to shelter in place.
In the U.S., phased re-openings have brought correspondingly higher rates of infection, apparent in real-time data and elaborately forecasted for the next several months. Global organizations, such as the Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation (IHME) and Our World in Data (OWID), track and predict collective data, while state, county and city health departments handle raw data with expanded testing, contact tracing, and reporting. The zoomed-out lens of statistical data, and modeling for the future, isn’t nearly as valuable without accurate individual data over time, where local expertise holds the critical microscope over action on the ground.
Health guidelines have not been universally followed, and this is distressingly apparent in total per capita infection rates reported by OWID. For comparison to the U.S., I chose four other countries where case counts began to climb within a week or two of each other: France, Germany, Sweden and Iran. For this group of countries, the first half of April showed similar rates of infection: 300-800/million on April 1, increasing to 900-1800/m by April 15. As of June 19, the U.S. is over 6600/m, and all except Sweden (5500/m) are in the 2000s.
If we look at total per capita death rates for the same countries, Germany and Iran are the lowest (≈100/million), Sweden and France are highest (450-500/m), and the U.S. is currently at 350/m. France shows a high number of deaths for a relatively low number of cases, attributed to delayed government response. Further, U.S. infection and death rate is only somewhat lower than Sweden, which kept most businesses open and implemented little lockdown, relying instead on high levels of testing, tracing, voluntary distancing and isolation for vulnerable populations. Sweden also experienced a recent spike in nursing home deaths. The U.S. was delayed in its measures, with a weak federal response, and state-specific stay-home orders combined with the other elements were destined to be patchy and inconsistent: a hack job.
And, while the per capita infections and deaths help put the U.S. data into context, it is no less distressing that IHME forecasting predicts the staggering U.S. death count of ≈100k to double by October. Out of the entire population, the U.S. has had 0.6% confirmed infections. The number of actual infections is higher due to the untested and asymptomatic. Based on antibody testing, Sweden estimates 7.3%, and New York City 12.3% total infections, and we are far from herd immunity. With emerging upticks in Africa, South America, and South Asia, globally, we’re in for a long haul.
Zooming back to the individual microcosm: leaving home increases potential exposure, and staying home reduces it. Every single activity involving other people is a qualitative calculation, posing level of risk against benefit. Outdoor reduces risk, but more people in close distance increases it. Anytime a new person enters the home, there is increased risk to all residents, since a small number of breath aerosols circulate in HVAC ducts. Indoor events carry increased risk in line with the number of people and proximity.
But even before the pandemic, all activity carried risk. Life is a series of decisions based on risk, of which there are many categories, including the health risk now front and center. For example, driving a car to work carries with the corresponding probability of a car accident. We choose to drive because of the value (or necessity) of work. The benefit outweighs the risk, therefore we drive.
With coronavirus, certain activities might not be worth the health risk. For example, a quick stop at the convenience store to satisfy my candy bar craving is not likely to happen. This is now a low-priority activity, given the main variables related to COVID: the number of people we come into contact with, indoors vs. outdoors, time of exposure, and the major unknown quantity of other people adhering (or not) to health guidelines. We’re armed with information before venturing out, but only to a certain degree – cultivating feelings of groundlessness, restlessness, perhaps even helplessness, and oh, so many lessness-es. The heightened uncertainty is both short and long-term. However, while we can’t predict a car accident, the way we drive can absolutely lower those chances. With relatively few mandated guidelines in much of the U.S., individuals bear more responsibility and are called to carry the batons for the community.
Perhaps the science of uncertainty can help reassure our perceived lessness. Quantum physics helps us understand phenomena that can’t be explained with classical physics. As matter approaches sizes on the atomic scale, we lose measurement capabilities with respect to two variables: location and speed. This loss of information is the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, stating that if we want to know the location or speed with a high degree of accuracy, we lose information about the other quantity.
In describing this further, I’ll use a ping pong ball to symbolize a tiny particle. In classical physics, we can measure, simultaneously, the exact location and speed of the ping pong ball. The key word is simultaneously: with the right equipment, both can be measured, accurately. In the quantum world, for our tiny particle, we can’t measure one without losing information about the other. The attempt to measure these quantities at the same time is riddled with uncertainty. If ping pong balls acted like atoms, exact measurement of the ball’s location would prevent us from knowing its exact speed. If we, instead, reign in on the speed, we’re no longer sure of its location. This Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle has spawned bizarre thought experiments such as Schrödinger’s Cat, which considers a cat trapped inside a box that is both dead and alive. Until we open the box, we don’t know. In quantum physics, we grapple with the idea that small particles, like electrons, embody multiple states until all of those realities collapse into a measurement. Creative extension of these ideas into our choices and life meaning are explored in weird, fun films like What The Bleep Do We Know?
The Heisenberg Principle is one of the reasons quantum physics works with probabilities over set quantities. Because we are limited in how much we can know at one time, we compromise by knowing location and speed to a large degree: we mostly know, but don’t exactly know.
Coronavirus aerosols are many times larger than atoms, so they are not subject to the Uncertainty Principle. Classical physics has us covered with the ability to know something about their size and ability to travel. We’re all familiar with sneeze/cough droplets; the larger ones are maybe a millimeter, mixed with a bunch of smaller droplets as small as 1/100 of a millimeter, or 10 microns. The small droplets become aerosols at around half that size down to about 1 micron. Now take that 1-micron aerosol and pretend it’s a giant boulder: an atom would be like a tiny grain of sand, and an electron is 1/10,000 smaller than that. Coronaviruses aerosolized in water casings might seem mysterious, but from the standpoint of an atom, they are giant ping pong balls. The bigger droplets succumb to gravity quickly, but are viable on surfaces, and the smaller droplets and aerosols can float around longer.
In this land of probability, a main feature of the quantum world, we can better equip ourselves to manage the global pandemic with enhanced awareness of what’s in the air. Droplets and aerosols are as innocuous as the oxygen we breathe. Without realizing it, we’re applying probabilities—risk statistics— to ordinary life with one key piece of knowledge: the virus is close to its host. With widespread community transmission, augmented by presymptomatic and apparent asymptomatic spread, invisible aerosols as small as one micron (1/1000 of a millimeter) are understood to be prevalent in spread. Of further concern is evidence of travel through ventilation systems and distances more than a few feet, coupled with viability on certain surfaces for a few days.
In the absence of complete isolation, we all have a nonzero chance of exposure to this virus. Our actions dictate the level of risk, with many more than just two variables: number of people, distance, location, and personal hygiene. Ultimately, all these variables can be collapsed into two: what we do (known), and what others do (unknown). This is both empowering and frightening, inducing more lessness.
Let’s revisit the U.S. per capita death rate, currently at 350/million: this is two orders of magnitude higher than South Korea, New Zealand, and Taiwan, where per capita deaths are in the single digits/million. What do the low-death-rate countries have in common? New Zealand, with tight lockdown measures and clear leadership, gained control early and masterfully – and a low population density couldn’t hurt (50/square mile compared to Taiwan/South Korea 1700 and 1300, respectively). Taiwan stepped up production of face masks by early March, eventually donating millions to other countries. South Korea, while currently facing a second wave, uses a system of extensive testing and contact tracing. Further, previous experience with SARS and MERS make Taiwan and South Korea seasoned experts, with general populations already accustomed to face masks. With respect to the U.S., two features weakened its handling of this pandemic: inadequate, inconsistent federal leadership and a population that hasn’t been affected by a pandemic in about 100 years.
A third weakness lies in American attitudes towards freedom. The U.S. doesn’t have a critical mass of people who are willing to simply follow health guidelines. Enough people are skeptical of urgent guidelines or mandates in the name of public health, citing government overreach, the most vocal carrying an almost sanctimonious privilege of not being required to wear a mask in public. The less vocal noncompliant are no less privileged, but for the apparent freedom to not follow guidelines, there is a steep price: more illness and fatalities, extended lockdowns, and worse economic damage.
Face masks offer protection in conjunction with thorough handwashing, regular disinfection of high-use surfaces, and keeping physical distance. Contrary to popular graphics circulating through social media, there are no specific probabilities for rates of transmission with and without masks. However, a recent study by UK researchers (summarized here) discusses widespread mask usage as extraordinarily effective at lowering the rate of transmission (reproduction number) to below 1, corresponding to one person infecting less than one other person. For countries with few resources, mask usage will be heavily relied upon as a cheap and effective method of slowing spread. Another article, more focused on airborne transmission, showed that mandatory mask usage had the largest effect on decrease of cases.
Let’s consider two kinds of freedom. There is the freedom guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution, and then there’s Freedom: personal ego entrenched within Constitution-defined freedom. The former freedom is a noun, inherent to our residency; the latter is a learned attitude, inherent to science contrarianism, that takes many forms: anti-vaxxers, climate change deniers, and now anti-maskers. Subtly, but powerfully, the latter includes people who quietly decide not to wear masks, but wouldn’t dream of taking it as far as the Statehouse.
These warped attitudes towards public health really screws around with probabilities. As an individual, you can be as careful as possible, but then walk into a box store where only 1/3 of the customers are wearing masks. People who more carefully consider their responsibly are shrouded by enough of the careless Free. Ego-centered Freedom literally endangers frontline health, grocery, restaurant, delivery and other workers that regularly interact with people as a workplace requirement. This population tends to be low-income, uninsured, underprotected, underpaid, immigrant and of color: systematically lacking full access to the benefits of guaranteed freedom. The Freedom also increases risk for those who are older or have underlying cardiovascular, pulmonary or diabetic conditions. These populations…they are us. While wisdom tells us we never have control over others: America, we can do better. We can do better by the physically vulnerable. We can do better by the socioeconomically disadvantaged. We can do better by the systematically oppressed. We can do better as examples for others. Better by us.
In the end, each of us might or might not contract COVID-19; we won’t know for sure until we become ill, discover antibodies, or the virus is eradicated. Like the measurement of an atom’s location in quantum physics, having one of many possibilities until measurement, the time we’re uninfected is mired in uncertainty. When we interact with others, there’s a probability of picking up viral particles – but even then, we don’t become infected below a certain threshold of viral nuclei. The potential risk decreases with low numbers of people, outdoors, long distances and short times. Minimizing our exposure probability while loosening our tight hold on certainty is the best we can do: these are the critical variables to manage within this new pandemic reality.
Maria Gelabert, Ph.D.
Science and Mindfulness