Too small to see

Lately, I've been thinking about invisibility, the ghost world of things that are all around us, yet unseen.

So much of the world is invisible. Invisible, and yet real—like scents, which can make us dizzy with lust or other, simpler, appetites. Scents, which make us wistful or thrilled at the spice of fresh pencil-shavings, the earthy smell of first rain. Or sounds, which can have the power of a stroke or a slap. We are more confident with objects—a leaf, a crayon, a glass of milk— for they can be held, examined, inspected. We trust these objects, or ourselves, overmuch. We only know a part of the story. Invisible before our very eyes is the composition of matter, the atomic structures of things. We see fully, and yet not at all.

The invention of the microscope changed the way people saw the world. For the first time, it was clear that there was a world beyond our capacity: there were things too small for the eye to see. We were limited by our own vision, until we built new tools, new ways of seeing. Now we know that the world is made of atoms, by tiny things too small to see. They are even too small to view through a microscope, so scientists draw diagrams of them instead, until the time comes when new tools are made for seeing. For the same reasons that scientists draw diagrams, I write. Beyond sight there are elements that I need to understand. I am drawing pictures of my own tiny world, and the things that are beyond view. I am drawing pictures of the microscopic structures of the heart.