Unfocus, unzoom

In his first six months, our puppy was hyper-observant as he explored his new world, decoding the details relevant to his new life. He's a retriever, a bird dog, and on his first walks he lifted his head to the flocks of geese on their Arctic migration, evaluating nuances in their honking and flapping wings far beyond my perception. He often snapped at flowers dangling in front of his baby blue eyes and quivering nostrils. The world was fresh and exciting.

Because we were a bit older and less energetic, and because he was a more hyperactive creature in general, we succumbed early to the fetching game as a system of energy management for this puppy number two. It did not take him long to teach me how to throw the ball, and to demonstrate the correct procedure of placing it directly between my feet, where the balance of the universe would be improved if the ball were thrown again. The meaning of life is very simple. Together, we strived for perfection.

Eventually the animal world of creatures and plants faded for him. He paid no attention to birds. One day, a chipmunk ran directly across his paws without being acknowledged. The squirrels learned that he was no threat but also that he could not be harassed. They stopped chirping and throwing pine cones at him out of the trees. Their worlds had diverged. Only flying spheres or disks of plastic or nylon were relevant.

This contracting awareness of the broader world resembles what happens as scientists transform from undergrads with broad interests into grad students increasingly obsessed with a specific discipline then into professionals and experts. Laser-tight focus tunes out distractions and helps us zoom in on the unknown. But on many days, my preoccupation with my own corner of the microbial world feels delusional. I only care (or insist I don't care) about the opinions of other scientists with identical compulsions, and disdain or ignore others who have strayed from that true path, or those so misguided that they never found the true path at all.

As we get older, our senses dull and we can't always maintain the intensity of youth. Special skills and knowledge remain, but more and more it feels like we are retrieving the same ball and the dropping it between the same feet, over and over again. The creativity that once burned so brightly fades, we feel more like technicians than scientists, more like craftsmen than artists.

I often point at the birds or the moon or the stars for the dog as I try to zoom out and refocus and re-perceive the broader world. He's respectful and happy that I talk to him, but his attitude is clear: he has no use for the sky. He feels sorry for me. None of of my concerns are important. There are objects to be thrown and objects to be retrieved. Nothing else matters, at least to him and me.  Some of my colleagues react the same way when I express scientific ennui. And they feel the same pity for me that the dog does.