Most of us are familiar with Einstein’s famous equation, E = mc 2 (Energy equals Mass times the Speed of Light squared) and most of us, myself included, really don’t understand it. I know very little about physics, and based on only my own anecdotal evidence, I would like to offer an additional equation: M = EY2.
This is an equation that describes the relationship, as I often experience it, between the energy of events in life, and the actual events themselves. Nothing scientific or mathematical here, just some nerdy, New-Agey philosophizing. But call it what you will, I believe it speaks to something many people experience, even if it’s not something we generally talk about.
M = EY2.
In this equation, Matter (not Mass) equals Energy times the square of an unknown variable, Y, a variable that will always remain a mystery. Y is squared because mystery seems to have that exponential power; it kaleidoscopes away from itself, and just leaves you wondering.
The way I know about this equation goes something like this: certain events, certain relationships, and certain creative projects arrive with, or are preceded by, a large amount of Energy. For example, sometimes I feel an up-swell of energy that I know will be a project—in my case, usually a book—before I know what that project will be. Then, with whatever time frame it requires, the book takes shape and becomes real. It becomes Matter.
The Fire of Creativity and Relationship
The separate arrival of energy and matter in relationships has been more rare. In the case of meeting my husband Chris, now twenty years ago, and without going into the details, the energy preceded the event, and then that big energy became the “matter” of relationship, marriage, and family life with our child Asa. I felt something similar upon meeting one friend in particular, an up-swell of energy completely out of proportion to the relationship. The energy was big, and the relationship was brand new, so one did not logically fit the other, and when big energy happens it seems like fate is talking to you. “You’ve met a soulmate!” it seems to say, or, in the realm of projects, “You’ve created a best-seller!” But in this case that energy did not become matter, at least not in a continuing sense. This friend and I had lives that were completely divergent in focus and geography, and that energy, which we both seemed to feel, did not manifest in a continuing friendship. That’s the thing about the energy, it does not always manifest as matter, or it manifests in a very different way than I expect, and that seems to be part of the mystery.
We have all heard people talk sometimes about being struck by something, as if by lightning, or having a fire lit under them. I would characterize the experience of perceiving energy like that, or as the up-swell, or like a river running in a certain direction, or like a force or a presence, or like plugging into a socket, and in other ways too. It depends on the situation.
At the end of my second year at university, at the age of twenty, I heard a classmate read aloud a story he’d written, about meeting someone in Mexico, and walking up a hill to overlook the sea, and there was a line about “glistening palm fronds.” I hardly remember it now, but there was something about that story that lit that fire in me. Up until then, writing, for me, was one of many interests, and nothing serious. I had intended to focus the following year on film and video-making, but that day I scratched those plans, and spent the next two years studying creative writing.
I had very few decent ideas, very little sense of how to handle words, very little to say, and very little imagination. Somehow that mediocrity didn’t stop me. The fire that got lit didn’t manifest in anything presentable for a very long time—far beyond university—though occasionally, and usually in the form of a comic or something visual, I made something nice.
Since very young, many of my projects were attempts at making books: picture books, comic books, or other art and text combinations. My first graphic novel, Spot 12, Five Months in the Neonatal ICU, that I made in my mid-thirties, was my first serious book, and the first one that I felt became an entity of its own. I had the distinct feeling, in the middle of making it, that it would have its own journey, something separate from me, as if I were raising a wolf cub that would one day return to the wild.
Ten years later, House of Rougeaux, my first regular novel, became an entity too. I was writing a series of short stories, when that happened. The book was maybe half-written (in its first draft) when it sat up and began issuing orders. I was not writing stories, it told me, but chapters, and I was to call them that. The book declared itself to be a novel, and told me what its title should be.
They say creating something is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. I don’t disagree. Making books is arduous, tedious, and the thrilling moments are brief. It takes work to turn energy into matter, though sometimes no amount of work will do it. Once in a while, at least, we ourselves are part of that Y variable. The human being, both energy and matter, is a remarkable instrument, and very mysterious. Exponentially so.
M = EY2. Matter, Energy, and Mystery. The three cosmic playmates, playing tag through time and space, and our own little universes. I don’t understand it any more than I understand Einstein’s work, but it does seem to be real.
Jenny Jaeckel’s first novel House of Rougeaux publishes next week. It’s a literary and historical novel that spans from the Caribbean in the 1700s to Philadelphia in the 1960s. Learn more about this magical novel, or pre-order here. Available in print, ebook and audio (narrated by Bahni Turpin).