Cellular Galaxy

A Walking Universe

We are walking skyscrapers With a trillion tenants

The heart knows how to be and does, on its own, the liver does its thing — unerringly, the kidneys know what to do with poisons, T-cells recognize an invading virus and know what to do to defend the locals.

And all the other cells, from tip to toe, they know what to do. Our body is a galaxy of little selves, just doing their jobs — mostly very well (sometimes a little too enthusiastically, and we sometimes call them cancers). The lungs, the oxygen-carrying blood, and flashing synapses — all well-drilled experts, all just doing their jobs.

Seems to me that we don’t muse on these facts too often, or as often as we should; of course, it is hard to remain perpetually impressed. But we should be: perpetually impressed. There is not a single thing or fact, body-wise, that is not bordering on the miraculous.

And we walk this thing around, sit or lay this thing down, put it to sleep and brush its teeth. Walking skyscrapers, they are we.

I don’t know the first thing about the emotional lives of our tenants, but sometimes I wonder if the emotions we (as landlords) feel — that percolate all the way up into what we think of as our consciousness — are not the conglomerated feelings of a certain floor or apartment of cells. Pain surely behaves that well. Perhaps fear too, then. And happiness. And, perhaps love, even.

If you have ever meditated into the still peace called Samadhi, you’ve most likely experienced this: suddenly, apropos of absolutely nothing tangible or point-to-able, a though bubble rises: I had one the other day that said, “Yes, but how much does it cost?” In Swedish, no less.

Sitting in zazen we are not supposed to feed (which we do by chasing) these thoughts, we’re just to let them rise and then fade away into the still nowhere where thoughts go to retire and die, but this was a little beyond the pale in my books and I was really curious: what on earth sparked this one? Whence did it develop and take flight?

I have done this on occasion, just as an experiment, collar one of these thoughts and demand that it reveals its genitor. And more often than not I can chase down the whole tree of bifurcations and associations to the father thoughts of them all and see, yes, that makes sense, I did nurse that notion for a second or two, no wonder it spawned this chain.

But with this altogether odd Swedish question, there was no progenitor. It, as I said apropos absolutely nothing else, just took to the sky. Out the window of one of the skyscraper apartments. I, me writing this, did not think that thought. That thought thought that thought. That hundred and twelfth floor apartment for some undiscernible reason pieced that thought together and opened the window. Cellular wonder?

I don’t know.

But if the T-cell, who really is a miracle all of its own, knows how to do and does its job so splendidly, couldn’t an apartment of cells simply dream something up to ask in Swedish?

T-cells (and their fellow B-cells), by the way, warrant a brief sidebar — as follows:

When the body is invaded by bacteria, a virus or parasites (yes, let’s call them invaders), our immune system rings the alarm bells, setting off a chain reaction of defensive cellular activity. White blood cells and other innate immune cells are alerted and deployed to attack the invading pathogen. Most of the time, this first line of defense does the job, and the invader is destroyed. But sometimes, when the body needs a more sophisticated attack, it turns to its T-cells and fellow B-cells. These cells are what we might call the special ops of the immune system — a line of defense that has learned (and remembers) and uses past invader behaviors and interactions to recognize specific foreign threats and attack them specifically when they reappear (knowing from the last time what worked the best — how best to deal with the bastards).

The immune system as a whole consists of two separate armies: innate cells and acquired cells.

Innate immune cells are the body’s first line of defense. They are always on standby and ready to go; therefore, they quickly mobilize and respond to foreign cells to fight infection, battle a virus or defend the body against bacteria.

Our acquired army, on the other hand, consists of T-cells and B-cells that spring to action when invading organisms slip through that first line. These cells take longer to deploy, however, because their skillsets evolve from learned experiences, but once formed (and properly armed) they live longer than innate cells and can sustain a drawn-out battle to victory.

As I mentioned above, adaptive immune cells remember foreign invaders from their previous encounter(s) and know how best to fight them off the next time they enter the body. This, of course, is the how vaccines work — using a small, harmless amount of protein from a disease to allow the immune system to recognize that protein and how best to fight it were the pathogen to invade the body at a later date.

T-cells actually come in two flavors: Helpers and Killers. Helper T-cells — having encountered and identified the invader — stimulate and then brief B-cells on the invader specifics. Armed with the relevant intelligence the B-cells now produce Y-shaped proteins called antibodies, which are specific to each pathogen and which can lock onto the surface of an invading cell and so mark it for destruction by, you guessed it, the Killer T-cells.

While the Killer T-cell goes on the offensive to wipe out all marked targets, it also deploys messenger molecules to send chemical instructions to the rest of the immune system to ramp up its response — you know, just in case.

Messenger molecules. This is cellular communication on a molecular level. And if that isn’t miraculous.

End of sidebar.

If something this complex and incredible goes on without our having a single clue, or being even vaguely involved (will-wise) you cannot tell me that a bunch of cells cannot put their cell-heads together and ask questions in Swedish — if for no other reason than to unnerve (or amaze) me.

Land lording it over such an incredible collection of tenants, to what extent am I, the ego, the me, the body-owner, responsible for my tenantry’s welfare?

Say foodwise: shall I assume that they know best and let the body have whatever it clamors for, or shall I assume that as a collective, they are as clueless about overall well-being as I am regarding the molecular specifics.

Of course, when we talk about food and related desires, personal sensual preferences enter the picture as well. As in: The craving for butter pecan ice cream is mine, and mine alone, not the T-cell’s, or the liver’s, or the kidneys’, I am pretty sure about that. So, were I to indulge, I might catch millions of unsuspecting cells unaware through my indulgence and that now have to rapidly adapt to this gigantic influx of sugar and dairy just to, in essence, stay alive (ride out the storm); and they might have to put up quite a fight, depending on how much, and for how long this sugary excess lasts.

They’ll get even with you by staging amazing headaches.

I must assume that I, collectively as it were, know better, and knowing better, and as a landlord, I believe my responsibility is to provide as safe and nourishing environment as possible for all my tenants. I think they will pay me back in kind.

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© Wolfstuff