At an auto mechanic’s shop I find myself staring at a piece of equipment I have never seen before. It looks like a miniature crane, about five feet tall, made of blue steel with copper hinges and a shiny brass hook suspended from a chain at the end of a long metal arm. It seems graceful and delicate, the way the hook dips forward like the head of a sleeping bird, and I am struck by the beauty of the device...

"What is that?" I ask the mechanic.

"Oh, that’s a hoist. It’s used for lifting engines in and out of cars."

"It’s pretty," I remark, and the man looks at me wryly. Yet when he sees that I am serious, he flips some sort of mental switch in an effort to see the tool through my eyes, removed from his daily handling of it. He agrees, after a moment, that "Yeah, it is kind of neat looking," which is the most I can reasonably expect under the circumstances.

I study the hoist a while longer, and as I absorb its name and function like lotion, I feel the beauty of the thing begin to pale slightly. I know that the next time I see a hoist I will know what it is, but I will never again see it so well. I am already nostalgic for my first glimpse of it.

While naming a thing allows me to discuss it more precisely, at the same time some of the reality of the thing named is lost. To be told what something is simultaneously creates and erases meaning, for often the name obscures the object so completely that I no longer see it apart from its use and what it is called.

I imagine what it must have been like for me as a child, when the world was alive with marvels. Back then my attention wandered in a constant state of astonishment from a flower to a mirror to a coffee table and a million other objects so common to me now that I barely see them at all.

I vividly recall a time when the most fascinating device in my house was the hand-held can opener. I would study it endlessly, turning the butterfly-shaped crank and watching the twin sets of gears revolve. It was a cutting tool, capable of biting a hole in a metal can, yet it was not itself sharp and was safe enough even for a child to handle. By the time I learned that this same device could poke triangular holes in cans as well as pop the tops off soda bottles, I was completely enamored with the thing.

I think I retained my fascination with the can opener longer than most kitchen utensils because it was such a long time before I was able to work the thing myself. It took years before I had enough strength in one hand to make the initial hole in the can, and even then my efforts were not always reliable. So much depended on the amount of edge on the can and the angle of that initial bite. A dent on the edge of a can could completely befuddle even my mother’s efforts to open it.

Long after I was virtually a can opening expert, the can opener itself remained an enigma. How could something so seemingly dull cut a hole in metal with so little force and without electricity?

My interest in can openers was rekindled a few years ago upon reading about them in David Macaulay’s book The Way Things Work. In this book I learned for the first time that a can opener works under the principle of the wedge, and that it cuts by actually separating the center of the can from the edge of it.

However, this renewed interest was extremely short-lived, and most of the time I pick up a can opener with no other thought than opening a can or a bottle of imported beer. It has been years since I have taken the time to turn the handle and watch the fluid meshing of the twin sets of gears. Small wonder the blade of my can opener is always covered with gunk.

It seems that the more I know about something the harder it is for me to admit that I still do not entirely understand it. I remember in my elementary school science class a standard question was, "What is air?" The correct answer was, "Air is a mixture of gases."

I go to my encyclopedia and look up the word "air" and find the exact same words: "Air is a mixture of gases." Of course the definition goes on to explain, in great detail, exactly what these gases are. I learn that the most important gases to life on the planet are water vapor, carbon dioxide, ozone, sulfur dioxide, and nitrogen dioxide.

Probing further into the question of air leads me to uncover more data about its composition, how it was formed, its use and what holds it together. In spite of these answers, in my heart I feel an emptiness, a deeper sense of unknowing. The more I learn about the nature of air, the more I despair of ever knowing what air is. After all, how can I admit that I do not know what air is when, time after time, I give the correct answer to the question?

As an adult I envy little children, for whom ignorance is not the same as stupidity. That is, before they start school, when not knowing answers is punished by bad grades and the stigma of failure.

When I spend time with children I allow myself to see the world again through their eyes. I experience the vicarious pleasure of rediscovering a weed or a cigarette butt or a piece of foam rubber (each equally edible, by the way, if you get it in your mouth fast enough). Yet I have to be careful not to do this too long; it is dangerous for an adult to walk around in a constant state of wonder.

For example, suppose I am on my way to work and just as I am heading out the door I stop to notice, to really notice, the vaguely symmetrical patterns in the grain of my wooden door. I might then make a connection between my door and the tree growing just outside. Suppose I begin to think of my door as a thing that was once alive, growing, forming ever larger concentric rings until someone killed it, for the sake of its wood, so I could have a door.

Clearly even a simple door could be a heartbreaking thing if examined closely enough. I could easily spend all day contemplating the metaphysical possibilities, lost in a state of anguish and awe. How would I explain to my boss that the reason I did not go to work that day was because I simply could not bring myself to open the door?

No, there are drugs for people like this, people overwhelmed by the wonder inherent in the simplest things. Instead I go to the Museum of Modern Art and look at a framed, black-and-white photograph of a door. I can study the photo to my heart’s content and be considered an art connoisseur, but to sit in silent amazement at my own door would tend to make other people uncomfortable.

As an adult I have learned that it is better not to be too intense, so I turn down the volume on my sense of wonder. I mainly see things in terms of what they are called and what they do. I see, but do not really look at the chair before I sit in it, the glass I drink from, the pen in my hand.

In the same way that I tend to diminish the reality of objects, I have developed an unfortunate tendency to objectify people. For example, when I meet a stranger I will see her a little differently depending on whether she is a doctor or a police office or a receptionist. What meanings am I writing on people based on what they do for a living? How does the sense of my own meaning change in connection with them?

With my friends it is not a question of seeing them differently so much as seeing them too much the same. For just as I no longer ask "What is this?" about a can opener, I no longer ask "Who are you?" of them. The can opener remains the same, no matter how many different ways I look at it. My friends, on the other hand, are changing imperceptibly, yet significantly, day by day. To remain unaware of these changes is to treat my friend, the butterfly, like the same old caterpillar she was when I met her and then wonder why we have drifted apart.

In an effort to strike a balance between the marvelous and the mundane I allow myself little mental vacations. I play with ascribing new names and meanings to everyday things. I experiment by testing the consistency of my theories, and I am more delighted by the ways in which things fail to meet my expectations then in the ways that they do.

I also play this game with my friends, asking them questions like "Who are you?" My friends are free to answer the questions as truthfully or as fancifully as they please. I, on the other hand, must try to see them and treat them as the people they represent themselves to be.

One provocative solution to the earth’s energy crisis is to challenge Edison's invention -- the light bulb. This was a unique idea when first discovered -- harnessing Nature by extending daylight hours into the night. However, during the course of time the light bulb has sown its seeds, little realizing its enormous environmental impact upon ALL SPECIES during the turn of this century.

For example: It has disrupted the natural bio-day-and-night cycle of humankind and even pets. The natural resources consumed to build dams, the daily energy consumed, the pollution by-products, and the mitigation of sensitive areas and ecosystem are awesome.

Thus, terminating the daily use of light bulbs (excluding hospital and health care facilities) and reverting to Nature’s bio-day-and-night cycle would address the above environmental concerns and indeed be a giant step forward in restructuring a Daylight Society.

Nature’s rhythm has been tested for thousands of years and it works! However, we have been born into this technology for many generations; we feel comfortable with it; it is convenient and has become a normal facet of our culture. Just think, by merely flicking on an electrical switch we can simulate daylight -- manipulating Nature’s nighttime rhythm. It’s incredible! We have accepted this unique invention on its par value and have never had the need nor the desire to question its credibility -- until NOW…1997.

With energy conservation on everyone’s thoughts, the big question keeps popping up in my mind: How are we to accomplish this overwhelming task? Recycling? Well, it has its place, but I perceive it as a stop-gap, using enormous amounts of energy -- even though it does slow down the process of virgin resources consumption. But, is this truly an answer?

This is like saving a sinking ship by scooping out the water with a cup from its bilge, instead of plugging it up at it source.

GE is currently hounding us on TV and radio that they are pursuing conservation measures but it is not enough, and are forewarning the public that they are looking for additional sites to build more nuclear plants to prepare for future growth; however, they are perplexed regarding "location."

Can you imagine how much energy would be conserved by creating a Daylight Society? Can you imagine how many dams would be dissolved? How many fish and wetland vegetations would be sustained as Nature meant them to be? Can you imagine how many nuclear plants would be forced to close? How much cleaner our rivers, streams, and aquifers would be? Can you imagine a world free of plutonium to transport? A world free of toxic wastes from uranium by-products?

Can you imagine how much money we would save, because of not having to clean up the mess that we created? Indeed, this would be the first innovative step to help put our Global Village back on a safe and healthy track.

Daylight conversion would entail rising at the crack of dawn and working hours to begin at 6 AM to 10 AM (a total of 4 hours per day, about 4 days a week). Of course, there will be seasonal time changes, reflecting shorter days and longer days.

Most nighttime activities, services, and businesses will ultimately convert to daytime rescheduling. Indeed, a detailed strategy from nighttime to daytime conversion will become mandatory. This will not be easy and will require careful thought and pre-planning to make the Daylight Society become a reality.

This will also facilitate a positive social impact. The growing senior population will have greater mobility and feel more secure when participating in outdoor functions. Parents will feel more comfortable when their teen-aged children are involved in activities during the daylight hours. In addition, there will be less violent crimes which allegedly appear to occur during the night, because nighttime conceals.

The Gross National Product (GNP) Index has been the guiding light of industrial nations (especially the United States), and our consuming frenzy has become insatiable. If our buying mania is reduced by means of challenging conventional values regarding "the profit motive and competition," then perhaps the need to consume products and natural resources will also decline -- then production will also plummet. Product manufacturing has already dropped dramatically as evidenced in the growing percentage rate of unemployment across the nation. If production drops then people will not have the need to work the traditional eight hours per day -- five days per week. Working to purchase things and/or trivia will no longer be the primary motive for working longer hours. Thus, there will be considerably more time to pursue recreational activities that you love (not merely like), resulting in more time to recreate long overdue friendships, and networking with extended family relationships. Nighttime will ultimately be reserved for sleep and rest as Nature intended it to be.

The value of leisure will equal that of work! Leisure arts will become the dominant force, with activities designed to be compatible with Nature as well as containing substance (not trivial).

For instance, the manufacture of snowmobiles, jet skis, motor boats, etc., will be outlawed -- not only because of the painful noise they generate, frightening animals and fish, but their ongoing pollution is also unacceptable.

The Leisure Arts Services and Industry will surface as the forerunner within the restructuring of the innovative Daylight Society. Additional skilled instructors will be needed to teach rowing, sailing, ballroom dancing (a new Olympic sport), folk dancing (to enhance biodiversity), roller skating, gymnastics, aerobic walking, multi-pet training, horticulture, writing, art, piano, violin, flute, etc. Incorporated services and products would be compatible with the environment as well as with personal enjoyment and society enrichment.

Early morning hours have their own inherent beauty: delightful scents, breathtaking hues (colors) when the dawn breaks; birds chirping and fluttering wings; wildlife activity; dew on the leaves and petals; and ground fog in some areas, creating an air of mystery. The air is so invigorating because light is energy. Interconnecting with Nature will become an integral part of life again.

The change in lifestyle would boost our level of health, resulting in a much higher quality of life. When people feel good, there is more compassion, and people feel more at ease with one another, especially when THINGS (as status symbols and power) are no longer the driving force within our culture. Confrontation and aggressive behavior may become obsolete.