In the midst of my busiest semester yet, I am faced with one of the most arduous topics in science: quantum mechanics. This branch of science is so difficult to grasp that even Erwin Schrödinger, the pioneer of quantum theory, was less than fond of it. This material is essentially the study of particle behavior down at the atomic level—where classical laws of physics begin to fall apart at the seams. As overwhelming as it is, this topic defines the fundamental parameters that govern our world. And continuing deeper, these quantum mechanics give rise to the idea that all things (atomic particles, subatomic particles, energies, so on) are connected in ways unimaginable. To ignore this dynamic interconnectedness of all things is foolish.

Nikola Tesla created the most beautiful description of this theory. As one of my most revered idols, Nikola Tesla was a mad scientist who understood electricity on levels that others couldn’t even fathom. He erected several laboratories and fastened together fantastic inventions, which were so far advanced that many deemed him to be insane. As a consequence of all of this, Nikola Tesla understood the physical qualities that bind us all together. His illuminating explanation states, “Though free to think and act, we are held together, like the stars in the firmament, with ties inseparable. These ties cannot be seen, but we can feel them.”

I became stunned every time I read that quote back to myself—both by the beauty and complexity of its words. This research is daunting material, and no one should spend too much time thinking about it in one sitting. So I went for a run in pursuit of clarity (plus I was also overdue for a little exercise).

After about two miles, I decided that was enough and fabricated a finish line for myself. I stopped. I removed my headphones and realized that I was gasping for air at an alarming rate. My skin was beyond hot, expelling all the sweat it could find. I had hoped that the rain would be there to neutralize this effect, but although the forecast predicted a one hundred percent chance of precipitation, there was none to be found. And for that matter, the sky wasn’t even that cloudy. The resulting scenario left me physically drained and overheated, like a fish out of water. After a brief period of stretching and catching my breath, I looked up. I discovered that my finish line was adorned with a remarkably massive magnolia tree. I think I had subconsciously noticed this landmark on my way in, but it felt like I was just seeing it for the first time.

Its branches whirled outward in jagged spirals that gave it this hauntingly artistic arrangement. The roots of the trunk melted into the ground like hot wax off a thick candle. The most distinctive feature about the tree however was the innumerable freshly bloomed magenta flowers that lined the tips of the branches. Large pink petals composed countless little explosions. This tree was absolutely magnificent, and perhaps I was just lightheaded and delusional… but it felt remarkably alive, a guardian of the forest. The life within it was so palpable, and I attributed this feeling to the xylem cells that I read about in David Haskell’s writing. These cells transport water throughout plants by masterfully exploiting the laws of physics, allowing the sun to exert the majority of the necessary energy. Thinking of these forces hauling “a thick rope of water up from the ground” made the tree feel increasingly more alive to me.

My heart was still racing, pumping blood quickly and efficiently throughout my veins. As my body pulsed with blood, so did the tree with enormous volumes of water. I’m a natural at ruining cool, evocative moments like these, so I thought, “We’re not so different, you and I.” I smirked and chuckled at the magnolias. But the fact of the matter was that this tree and I had so much in common. Arbitrarily speaking, the tree was a large part of who I was, and I it. This feeling of connection, this vibe, explains perfectly the theory that I was trying to wrap my head around earlier, and there I was experiencing it first hand.

This universal connection explains how deeply imbedded we are within our environments. For anyone to say he loves the environment is to say he loves himself. To say he loves food or music or his friends is to say he loves the environment. The list goes on. David Haskell speaks generally about these ties in relation to plant-derived medicines. He generalizes, “Through the ancient biochemical struggle between plants and animals, I am bound to the forest through the architecture of my molecules.” Haskell easily identifies himself as part of the forest through his physical structure. Denying this truth would be a major injustice, yet lo and behold, modern American societies are skilled in the art of denying this interconnected relationship.

Generally ignorant to this idea, many people begin to fragment the world into finite sectors. They believe they can exploit parts of the earth without affecting the whole. Instead, a ripple is created in the vast collective structure, responsible for a myriad of environmental problems. It must be understood that these ties, though tiring to understand, are very real—real enough for science to aid as our ally. Because of this, hurt is universal, and we experience just as much of it as we damn onto the environment. The same can be said about love. Only we are responsible for our destruction, and only we are responsible for our salvation.