Chapter 1: Ǵenh’s Despair Under the Stars

Ǵenh's blistered feet kept her bound to the ground long after sunset. As the parched earth cooled to a more tolerable warmth, she limped into the darkness, seeking solace among the roots of a withered tree stump. Here, she yearned for her final moments, beneath the vast tapestry of stars.

Having lost her appetite for the bland preserves stored away, she had run out of water days prior. Her cherished plants had all succumbed to the relentless heat, and the prospect of rain had vanished months ago. In the beginning, she had contemplated escape, but she recognized there was nowhere to flee to — everywhere was the same. The ache in her heart overshadowed the gnawing in her stomach. She craved a home she had never truly departed from, yet knew she could never return to.

A shooting star streaked across the sky, but she couldn't afford the tears that threatened to spill from her tightening chest. Staring at the night sky was a bittersweet indulgence. She envied the creatures who remained oblivious to the stars, who were spared from the torment of their unanswerable call. A profound sorrow gripped her, refusing to fade. Her once-thriving planet was on the brink of extinguishment, destined to fade into obscurity, unrecognized and unremembered.

As a guardian of Life, she felt a deep responsibility. Not in the way the privileged sought to preserve their fleeting existences in fantastical dreams of spaceships and bunkers, but as a nurturing figure, heart full yet aching for the life surrounding her, hoping it would flourish and endure.

Yet, there was no Life left for her to safeguard here. Her hopes were pinned on the stars. All she had left was the belief that her Seeds would take root in one of those distant, twinkling homes scattered across the dark expanse of space. The thought that a far-off star might nurture a future, unimaginable protector of Life was her only solace now.

At that moment, the Seeds were nearly halfway beyond the solar system, but it would take countless millennia for them to reach their destinations. Years prior, when the collapse of their planet felt imminent, her team had launched the hardiest organisms into young solar systems, hoping to grant them as much time as possible.

Nestled in her arboreal refuge, she fretted over her microscopic voyagers. She pondered their chances for survival. With a flicker of hope, she considered what forms of life they might create, and whether they would repeat humanity's past errors. She wished she could have sent a message alongside her resilient travelers, but Life itself had to serve as her message: Cherish it. Protect it. Now, it's you against the night. As she felt her remaining strength drain into the starry void, she sent her spirit along with her Seeds. Let them remember us—a tale they could never fully grasp, yet could not afford to forget.

Millions of years later, after Ǵenh's passing, her Seeds found a new home on a nascent ocean planet in a recently formed solar system.

Five billion years ago, a massive cloud of hydrogen, helium, and the remnants of exploded stars coalesced into a vast nebula that would eventually birth our solar system. The core of this cloud collapsed under its own weight, forming our sun while gravity, that enigmatic force of desire, drew rocks and dust into a disc around the newly formed star. As these particles swirled around the sun, they gradually combined into numerous planets, with an early version of Earth being just one of them. As this proto-Earth roiled and bubbled from the intense heat of countless collisions, another planet, Theia, comparable in size to Mars, collided with Earth. This catastrophic fusion melted both planets into one and sent enormous chunks of Earth skyward, which, entrapped by Earth's gravity, ultimately formed our moon.

As Earth cooled, water vapor rose from its molten depths, falling back to the surface in a relentless biblical deluge. Alternatively, as another hypothesis proposes, icy meteors laden with water bombarded Earth over millions of years, gradually transforming it into an oceanic world dotted with scattered islands.

It was soon after this transformation that life emerged via a process known as abiogenesis: life (genesis) arising from non-life (a-bio)... or so the narrative goes.

The Miller-Urey experiment, conducted in 1952, is often cited in high schools as evidence for this genesis story. Researchers recreated the presumed conditions of early Earth within a sterile, boiling flask. They simulated lightning strikes on the primordial mixture, resulting in the formation of simple life-building blocks. Despite these experiments, no self-replicating entities have ever been created. Nevertheless, scientists generally support the theory that life on Earth gradually evolved from increasingly complex inorganic molecules.

Thus, the mythology we were taught portrays life as springing from non-life when a lightning bolt (the literal embodiment of chance) struck a bowl of heated soup. If our origins lie in this "lightning soup," so be it; yet the truth remains that the precise beginnings of life on Earth are still enigmatic. Some find it nothing short of miraculous that life had time to spontaneously emerge so soon after the formation of Earth's oceans.

The tale of Ǵenh provides a contrasting narrative regarding how life came to Earth. The concept of early microbes being sent here by an intelligent entity is a theory known as directed panspermia, a term coined by scientists like Carl Sagan and Watson Crick, which seems inadequate to capture the wonder it embodies. Perhaps we should call it "Space Sowing," evoking a nod to Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower. Regardless, I understand it may sound like science fiction, but absent further evidence, explanations for the origin of life on Earth blend science with mythology.

If origin stories help us navigate our existence, what lesson does a life born from a random lab experiment impart? To be human is to strive for understanding, but when chaos serves as your foundation, clarity is elusive. History has shown that origin stories significantly influence our quest for meaning and our conduct on Earth. In light of climate change, the significance of these narratives has never been clearer.

The Judeo-Christian tradition attributes our beginnings to the whims of a deity, who created humanity on the sixth day of a week-long cosmic creation.

"So God created mankind in his own image…And God blessed them. And God said to them, 'Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.'" — Genesis 1:28, ESV: Bible

In this account, humans first inhabited Eden; however, Eden does not symbolize our Earth. The planet we know represents the wilderness to which humans were banished for transgressing the laws of paradise. In Thomas Cole's "Expulsion from the Garden of Eden," the forsaken figures can be seen retreating from the light of paradise toward the bleak and hostile Earth we inhabit.

After their banishment, Adam and Eve found themselves in an unforgiving wilderness, and life became a struggle to regain entry into paradise. As 17th-century author Sir Thomas Browne observed, "for heaven made all life just a stopping point on the way to home." If assurance of happiness in the afterlife could be guaranteed, he suggested, some believers would disregard this world altogether, viewing it as "only a martyrdom to live."

Unlike the lightning-soup origin narrative, this mythology conveys a clear purpose. Your mission on Earth is to reach heaven (dictated by God and your pastor). The wilderness that surrounds us is something to be feared, conquered, and endured, with the ultimate aim of finding grace amid the depravity of Earth. It is not difficult to envision the consequences of such a worldview; just look around.

On the other hand, across the Atlantic, a different origin story flourished, carrying an entirely distinct moral. The indigenous Anishinaabe people grew up hearing about Skywoman, who fell toward Earth from Skyworld. As she descended, geese cushioned her fall, a great turtle offered its shell as firm ground, and Muskrat sacrificed itself to bring her mud from the ocean's depths. Grateful for the animals' generosity, Skywoman sang and danced in thanks. Through her movements and gratitude, her handful of mud expanded into the Earth as we know it, a land they call Turtle Island.

In this narrative, humanity’s first acts stem from gratitude. This story teaches Anishinaabe children to view Earth as a gift bestowed upon us through the kindness of our elder siblings, the animals and spirits of the land. Hence, our role on Earth is to reciprocate these gifts. In contrast to the Adam and Eve tale, both origin stories shape worldviews, but for the Anishinaabe, life is about gratitude, while for the Christian faith, it is about overcoming and subduing.

What of the origin story we learned in school? What moral can be derived from it? Science strives for moral neutrality, yet that doesn’t prevent humans from developing their own ethical conclusions. The prevailing takeaway seems to be that life is a bewildering experience. While not inherently negative, this bewilderment could perhaps be transformed into awe more often than it devolves into nihilism. Unfortunately, that seldom appears to be the case.

Imagine if we had grown up with Ǵenh's origin story. What kind of culture might we cultivate if we viewed Earth as an extraordinary celestial garden bed that seeds scattered to the cosmos miraculously found a home in?

We might begin to question the nature of the garden we have landed upon. We might appreciate how miraculous it is that a planet so ideally suited for life received a seed. From what science indicates, Earth stands out as remarkably unique in its capacity to support life. For instance, Earth is shielded from harmful radiation by its powerful magnetic field, generated by the rotation of its solid inner core within its metallic outer core. This same movement of Earth's core causes tectonic shifts, cycling materials into the mantle and periodically reintroducing them to the surface. Such long-term nutrient cycles may have been essential for sustaining life.

Our unusually large moon creates significant tides that aid in the transfer of heat from the equator to the poles. This dynamic interplay has played a critical role in the history of life on Earth. Additionally, the fateful collision with Theia has influenced the duration of our nights (sufficiently short for photosynthesis) and the tilt of our planet (mitigating the extremities of our seasons). Furthermore, only 10% of solar systems harbor planets the size of Jupiter and Saturn. Without their immense gravitational forces acting as shields against asteroid impacts, catastrophic extinction events may have occurred too frequently for conscious life to evolve. Each of these factors, among many others, highlights Earth's exceptional rarity and the extraordinary circumstances surrounding life on our planet. Life here is a testament to perseverance, attrition, miraculous luck, and through Ǵenh, a beacon of hope.

While the concept of Space Sowing stands as a plausible hypothesis for the origin of life on Earth, it does not need to be true to illuminate what life on this planet is like. It encapsulates the experience of being awestruck on a floating rock, with no signs of life elsewhere in an unfathomably vast universe. It suggests that our microbial ancestors may have been sent here in a capsule as a final gesture of hope. It is just us against the night. The narrative doesn't require absolute truth to shape our relationship with the world. Stories provide a means to comprehend our reality, offering a simplified portrayal of what it entails.

The significance of Ǵenh's tale lies not so much in redefining our origins but in illuminating the path we might choose to embark upon. If we are merely seeds sown in an improbable soil, pondering if we will blossom, we recognize that there are no guarantees, no cosmic gardener, "no hint that help will come from elsewhere." Our flourishing or demise in this soil will hinge on our willingness to embrace the responsibility of our roles as the latest Inheritors of Life.

This realization should instill a sense of purpose in our endeavors. If we cease to take this world for granted — if we can shed the naïve belief that Earth was created for us and instead recognize ourselves as the fortunate castaways on a mysterious, benevolent island — we may begin to understand the fragile and precious nature of our existence. It is not incorrect to regard life on Earth as miraculous, to see Life itself as a miracle. Ultimately, it is up to us to heed the final hope of Ǵenh, whispered on the cosmic winds.

Chapter 2: The Interplay of Science and Myth

The second video discusses the Maori's connections to the Book of Mormon, exploring themes of ancestry and cultural narratives.