One of the challenges of ground based astronomy is that Earth’s atmosphere is between us and the stars. Our atmosphere not only leads to the twinkling effect we see with stars, but it also absorbs many of the wavelengths of light we’d like to observe. One solution is to put telescopes in space. Another is to locate them at extremely high altitudes. But for some wavelengths such as infrared a high plateau isn’t high enough, but launching a telescope into space is excessively expensive. A compromise is to put a telescope on an airplane.

SOFIA, or the Stratospheric Observatory for Infrared Astronomy, is a modified 747 with a 2.5 meter infrared telescope. It operates at an altitude of 12,500 meters (41,000 feet). At that altitude the atmosphere absorbs only about 15% of infrared light. So SOFIA is able to get infrared images that simply aren’t possible from the ground.

The main mission of SOFIA is to look at things like interstellar gas and the atmospheres of planets, but what’s interesting about the project is how it is strongly tied to educational and outreach efforts. Integrated into SOFIA’s 20-year mission is an Airborne Astronomy Ambassadors Program, which involves K-12 teachers in scientific research.

The post High Flying Astronomy appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

Scientists love precision. We love exploring the smallest details of a model that can enhance our understanding of the universe. That makes us terrible at communicating science. 

Take the following examples introducing black holes:

A black hole is a mathematically defined region of spacetime exhibiting such a strong gravitational pull that no particle or electromagnetic radiation can escape from it.

or

A journey into a black hole would be a one-way trip.

If you were writing a popular article on black holes, which do you think would be the better opening sentence? Both are reasonably accurate, but the former is filled with terms like “spacetime” and “electromagnetic radiation.” If you’re a regular reader of my blog you’re likely familiar with these terms, but many people aren’t. The jargon doesn’t really add much to the opening sentence, so why include it?

For an astrophysicist, the first sentence feels more precise. It’s impartial and uses the proper terminology rather than positing an imaginary journey. Jargon as scientific the comfort food. Unfortunately, jargon is bad for communicating ideas. The key to communicating a scientific idea clearly is to know what you want to convey (your target) and then stay on target. Jargon and needless details drive you away from your target, so if you don’t need a particular term, don’t use it.

Of course that’s easier said than done for scientists, because often we don’t recognize jargon for what it is. Take, for example, the phrase “solar activity.” What it defines is the amount of surface activity such as sunspots or solar flares. So when a research article predicts a 20% decrease in solar activity over the next 5 years, what it means is we’ll see less sunspots. Anyone familiar with solar physics knows this. But “solar activity” sounds like the amount of light and heat the Sun produces. A 20% decrease in solar activity sounds like lakes will be freezing in July.

Avoiding jargon is something I still struggle with, and as you read my articles you’ll notice I’ll do things like adding jargon terms as an aside, or hedge by words with phrases like “basically it’s…” when I don’t use jargon. Old habits die hard, but learning to be ever more clear in my writing is a worthy target.

The post Stay On Target appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

I’ve now written 1,000 science posts. More than half a million words on astronomy, astrophysics, and physics.

Over the past few years I’ve written on everything from the dawn of astronomy to the study of cosmic origins. I’ve written post series on the solar system, the foundations of physics, the quantum revolution, science in fiction, dark matter, Einstein’s research, the weak points of scientific models, and the fundamental forces of nature. I’ve done my best to explain some of the more subtle aspects of astrophysics, such as cosmic inflation, the big bang and black holes. I’ve tried to dispel some of the hype and push back against pseudoscience. I’ve made a few videos, and started a podcast.

While 1,000 is an arbitrary number, reaching that number of posts has me wondering where to go from here. When I started writing science posts, it was mostly about the textbook I was writing. It was a way to get out of the academic headspace after hours of writing. As I’ve continued to write over the years it’s become clear that there’s some interest in the work, and there’s clearly a need for as much clear science communication as we can get. That’s part of the reason why I’ve gradually put more emphasis on communicating science to the general public. If I’m going to keep doing this (and I plan to) then what efforts will have the greatest impact? Should I start making more videos? Give more public talks? Write longer blog posts?

My most popular posts so far have been ones that either debunk some crazy idea, or rant about always having to debunk ideas, and I certainly don’t want my blog to become an anti-fringe site. I’m not interested in increasing pageviews, but rather increasing understanding. That means I need to do more than satisfy long-term readers. It means broadening the appeal of science. It means making a serious effort to engage with folks about scientific habits of mind.

So I’m looking for ideas. How do we move beyond the circle of those who read about science for fun? How do we reach out to the doubters and the fearful in order to sow the seeds of understanding? How do we grow scientific understanding on a truly meaningful level?

With the first 1,000 down, it’s time to use the next 1,000 to change the world. Who’s with me?

The post A Thousand Points of Light appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

Yesterday I got an email outlining why black hole can’t possibly exist. Those of you who are regular readers might be quick to point out that black hole most certainly exist, but the author is right. Black holes make no sense. I, and other scientists, have been lying to you all along.

As the author clearly points out:

 1. If time dilation increases the closer one approaches the event horizon of a black hole and from our perspective we see time essentially stop at the event horizon, how will a black hole ever form in our universe if nothing can ever cross the event horizon relative to us and the rest of the universe?

2. The explanation used for the creation of a black hole is that gravity increases due to an increase in the density of the material within the stellar object. Since gravity is many orders of magnitude less powerful than even the electrical forces being experienced between the nuclei of the matter in question how does the gravitational force overcome the repulsion between nuclei. I understand that the electrons will provide some neutralisation of the positive charges. However, even in standard forms of matter there are various electrical forces that occur, even though the atoms are technically neutral.

3. Thirdly, the event horizon is defined where the escape velocity is defined as being the speed of light. However, the escape velocity is defined by a specific criteria and circumstance, which is clearly understood in engineering circles does not apply to powered movement. That is the actual velocity by which you transition from from solar body to another can be as low as you like. Hence, you can cross any boundary, including an event horizon, under power at any speed (under the speed of light).

It seems very clear then that black holes defy logic, so why do we scientists keep claiming they exist? Because the arguments outlined above are based on a pack of lies.

When I say that I’ve been lying to you, this doesn’t mean I’ve intentionally tried to deceive you. It means that I’ve been intentionally feeding you information that isn’t entirely true in order to give you an understanding of what is really going on. For example, take these three points.

1. From our viewpoint, stuff takes forever to fall into a black hole, so a black hole can never form.

The position of an infalling object as seen from outside the black hole (black) and from the object itself (red).

One of the standard things said about black holes is that as material falls into a black hole it will be seen from the outside to never quite reach the event horizon. While this is true, it’s also true that from the viewpoint of the material it readily crosses the event horizon. What we often leave out in this discussion is that this is a rather simplistic description of the situation from only two vantage points. One of the central aspects of relativity is that all vantage points are valid, even when they seem contradictory. What this means is that to really describe the situation you have to look at all of spacetime as a whole. When you do this, it is clear that matter really does cross the event horizon, and black holes really do form. From the material’s vantage point you can see this, but from the exterior view you can’t. Of course to describe the whole of spacetime requires tensor calculus, so we typically omit that from the popular science tale.

2. Gravity is weaker than electromagnetism.

Again, at a basic level this is true. Certainly if we were to put two protons close to each other, the repulsive force of their electric charge would be much, much stronger than the attractive gravitational force due to their masses. That would seem to contradict the common claim that black holes form when a star’s gravity causes it to collapse under its own weight. But gravity doesn’t cause a star to collapse. It’s the electric force that does it. Imagine a table standing in the middle of a room. The atoms and molecules of the table interact with each other through electric forces, which is what gives the table its rigidity. The table is perfectly capable of supporting its own weight, because the electric forces are much stronger than gravity. But suppose I were to start stacking books on the table. Eventually the weight of the books would cause the table to collapse.

In that case, what caused the table to collapse? Gravity? No, it’s actually the force of the books right on the table’s surface. They push on the table so strongly (with the electric forces of the atoms and molecules) that the table can’t withstand it. Granted, the lowest books can push so hard because books on top of it are pushing on them, and all of this is due to gravity giving each layer of books a little tug. But technically gravity doesn’t cause the table to collapse, gravity just helps the electric force build so that it collapses the table. The same is true with a collapsing star. It is the electric and nuclear forces pushing against each other in the interior that cause the collapse. Gravity just helps those forces work together.

But all of that is complicated, so we usually just say “gravity causes the star to collapse.”

3. The event horizon is where the escape velocity is the speed of light, but that doesn’t keep us from escaping with a slower than light rocket.

This is one of the biggest lies we tell about black holes. On one level it is true. If you calculate the escape velocity at the event horizon (according to Newtonian gravity), then it is the speed of light. It makes for a simple way to describe black holes and event horizons. The problem with the idea is that escape velocity is defined as the speed it takes to escape forever. But if I tossed a ball at just under the escape velocity, it would rise very, very high before falling back down. Using escape velocity gives the impression that a rocket could escape, just as we use rockets to escape Earth’s gravity.

Behavior of light cones near an event horizon. Credit: John D. Norton.

But in relativity, the energy of the rocket would actually work against you. To really look at the structure of a black hole, you need to look at how light behaves globally. This is often visualized using light cones to show the effects of gravity. When you look at the details you find that while the event horizon does have a light-speed escape velocity, what really makes it different is that it folds space to the point where there is no possible trajectory where you can leave. All roads lead to Rome, as the saying goes, or in this case to the singularity. So if you were really at the event horizon of a black hole, any direction you tossed a ball would be “downward,” and it would be physically impossible for you to toss the ball “up.”

So the author is right about black holes not being logical, if what we typically say about black holes were actually true. But they aren’t. And therein lies one of the dangers of popularizing science. To make things clear, we often simplify things to the point where they aren’t fully true. We lie a bit to convey the central ideas rather than getting bogged down in the details. That’s fine if you just want to get a basic understanding of things. But it’s important to keep in mind that the analogies we use shouldn’t be taken literally.

When you find contradictions in the pop-science description of an established scientific idea, it doesn’t mean the science is wrong, it means the truth is more complicated than we’ve been letting on.

The post Lies My Teacher Told Me appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

Growing up I was a bit of a risk taker. Along with a few of my friends, I occasionally did things that (while very cool) were in retrospect notoriously dangerous. Occasionally my Mom found out about these activities, which worried her to no end. As she put it, “You could have died!” This is absolutely true. Some of the stunts we pulled could have ended in serious injury or death. It is also true that my friends and I survived childhood largely unscathed. The reason I bring this up is because recently there has been a flurry of stories about solar activity in 2012, and the headlines are much the same “You could have died!”

There is some truth to this. In 2012 there was a very large coronal mass ejection emitted by the Sun. A coronal mass ejection (CME) occurs when a burst of solar material (mostly ionized hydrogen) is blasted off the Sun.  These happen fairly regularly when the Sun is in an active period.  If it occurs in the direction of Earth, the ionized material interacts with the Earth’s magnetic field, and are driven toward the polar regions where they and produce northern (and southern) lights.

This type of solar activity can have large effects on us, such as causing power outages.  In 1989 a large solar flare triggered a regional blackout in Quebec.  There was also a very large  CME that led to the “Carrington Event” of 1859, which was so intense it produced northern lights as far south as the Caribbean.  It also induced currents in telegraph lines.  The storm induced enough current in the lines that messages could be sent across them even while the lines were disconnected from their power supplies. If such an event occurred today, it would likely cause massive blackouts worldwide.  It could cause trillions of dollars in damage, and would take several years to fully recover.  Such a large disruption of infrastructure would almost certainly lead to some deaths.

If the 2012 CME had occurred a week earlier, then it would have produced a Carrington-scale event. People would have died, and among those could have been you or me. It is also true that in 2004 the 4 km wide asteroid 4179 Toutatis came within 4 lunar distances of colliding with Earth.  If it had a slightly different orbit, we could have died.

But we didn’t.

Therein lies the challenge of reporting events like this. On the one hand, our modern technological infrastructure does face a very real risk from solar activity. Studies of ice cores indicate that solar storms such as the Carrington Event only occur about once every 500 years, so it isn’t very common, but the risk isn’t zero either. It is also very clear that our infrastructure is not prepared for a Carrington event, and should be. On the other hand, we don’t want to overplay the risk either.  Having this CME miss us by a week is about the same as having a 4 km rock miss us by a few lunar distances.  In the past, without detailed astronomical studies, we wouldn’t have known about them at all.

If we can use this information to be better prepared in the future, then that is to our advantage. But if we simply use stories to scare people with doomsday scenarios, then we’re better off not knowing about them.

The post You Could Have Died! appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

When I was in graduate school, a friend of mine asked about my research. I was studying aspects of black holes in the early universe, so I explained a bit about black holes, the big bang and such in broad terms. Afterwards she shook her head and responded: “Bull poopy.” Our conversation went for a bit longer, with her arguing that I couldn’t possibly know what I was claiming to be true, and me trying to explain how I knew these things, but it was clear that opinions wouldn’t change. The simple fact was that she didn’t trust me. I was either confused or lying, so nothing I said could possibly change her mind.

As a scientist striving to convey an understanding of science, trust is essential. I can try to write about astrophysics in a way that is clear and honest, but if you don’t trust me it’s all rather moot. So in all of my writings, while I try to be clear and sometimes entertaining, I also to build a level of trust with my readers. Hopefully over time you’ll come to trust that I’m being honest and earnest about our understanding of the universe.

If you’ve been following my posts for a while, you’ve probably noticed an overall pattern. I don’t sensationalize topics. When I talk about current research I link the original source, not just a press release. When there are legitimate opposing views I explain the evidence behind why one view is accepted over another. When there is unfounded opposition to a concept I explain why it is unfounded. When there are misconceptions I work to dismantle them. I say “we don’t know” when we really don’t know. There’s a reason why I follow this method. I’m a scientist.

This doesn’t mean that scientists are more honest than others. What it means is that the way I present ideas in my posts parallels the modern scientific method. Document sources of data, be open to criticism, be prepared to defend your ideas, be willing to admit when you’re wrong or don’t know. If you don’t follow this approach, the peer review process will eat you alive. Peer review is not about taking things on trust, it’s about requiring you to prove what you claim. Being open and honest about your work lets the peer review process go a bit more smoothly.

Keeping posts honest and informative isn’t easy. It would be easier to simply post jokes, or gorgeous photographs with emotional phrases on them. But while that can make us feel good about the science we love, it doesn’t raise our understanding of science and scientific thinking. It doesn’t raise the level of scientific understanding.

Science matters. It’s worth doing, and it’s worth sharing. That’s why I write about astrophysics. It’s why I’m willing to dress in a science costume to teach science to kids (as you can see above). It’s why I try to engage with readers about science every day.

I trust I’m doing okay so far.

The post Trust Me, I’m a Scientist appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

[av_video src=’http://youtu.be/iBY4HaAngaA’ format=’16-9′ width=’16’ height=’9′]

This video is on RIT’s Escharian Stairwell. The Escharian Stairwell is a stairwell that loops back upon itself. So if you walk up a flight of stairs you find yourself back where you started. It’s inspired by M. C. Escher’s Ascending and Descending. At this point you probably recognize that the stairwell is nonsense. The video was created as the project of an RIT graduate student. It is well done, but clearly not real. Surprisingly (or perhaps not surprisingly) many people think it is.

I’ve watched this project unfold because Kevin in the video is my friend +Kevin Schoonover. He’s an actor, photographer, puppeteer, and graphic designer, as well as the creative director for the +Prove Your World project I’m a part of. As a result I’ve watched the video go from obscure post to viral hit. I’ve had students ask about the stairwell. I’ve been asked about how it works. While most people recognize it as nonsense, there are enough people taking it to be real that it now has its own Snopes page.

The video is an excellent demonstration of the power of visual storytelling. That power is part of the reason I’m a part of Prove Your World. But it also shows the challenge of communicating science to the general public. There are compelling videos that show evolution is wrong and global warming is false, for example, and it is much harder for the non-specialist to separate science from non-science in these videos. They can be countered by equally compelling videos on the science behind evolution and global warming, but are they enough?

In a world driven by social networks and visual presentations, how do we ensure that scientific literacy is enhanced rather than diminished? Is it enough to present honest science in a clear and understandable way?

I don’t really have an answer, but the success of this video makes me wonder if we should work harder to communicate science as an engaging story with powerful visuals.

The post Science and Non-Science appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

Last month there was an annular eclipse, but unless you happen to live in Antarctica, you probably didn’t get a chance to see it. You can, however make your own solar observation to measure the size of the Sun. This experiment uses the principle of parallax, and all you need is a sunny window, some cardboard, a pencil, and a tape measure.

Image from Mr. Wizard’s experiments for young scientists, by Don Herbert.

Start with a sunny window, and block off as much of the light as you can, except for an area you will over with a piece of cardboard (or poster board). You don’t have to block all the light, but the more you block off, the easier it will be do to the experiment. Then poke a small hole in the cardboard and put in into position. As a result, you should have a single beam of light which shines through the hole. If you move your hand closer or farther away in the beam, you should see an image of the Sun on your hand which gets larger the farther away your hand is from the hole. Next take a piece of paper or cardboard and draw two parallel lines on it, an inch apart. Then place this in the beam of light, and move it closer or farther along the beam until the disk of light just fills the space between your lines. Try to ensure that your disk looks circular, and not oblong. When you are lined up in the beam, measure the distance from the image. Once you have your measurement, all you need is a little math.

The ratio of the diameter of your image (1 inch) and the distance of your image from the hole (which you’ve measured) is the same as the ratio of the diameter of the Sun (which you want to know) and the distance from the hole to the Sun (93,000,000 miles). If we call your distance measurement x in inches, and the diameter of the Sun D, then D divided by 150,000,000 (the distance to the Sun in kilometers) is the same as 1 divided by x. That is, : D/150,000,000 = 1/x.

If you solve this equation, you’ll find that the diameter of the Sun in miles is simply 93,000,000 divided by the distance you measured in inches. If you give this experiment a try, see how your result compares to the actual diameter of the sun, which is 1,400,000 km. Since total eclipses occur, we also know the Moon has about the same apparent diameter as the Sun, so you can use the same equation, but with the Moon’s distance (380,000 km) to determine the size of the Moon.

The post Measuring the Sun appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

You may have heard about NASA’s budget woes and how that impacts most of their outreach programs.  It means we not only lose programs such as the annual +NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory open house and +CosmoQuest, but also programs such as the one I worked with this past weekend.  It is a project called NASA Science and Technology on the Family Calendar.It is a collaboration between +NASA, +Rochester Institute of Technology, and the Rochester Museum and Science Center where kids get to develop demonstrations and displays for their science center.  It’s a great example of bottom up (rather than top down) science outreach.  Science driven by the questions and interests of kids themselves, rather than being dictated by teachers and scientists.The overall topic for this weekend’s project was “Earth From Space”.  So teams looked at environmental changes, natural disasters, remote imaging and other topics related to space-based observations of Earth.  One team wanted to release a weather balloon to take pictures from space.  We didn’t have the budget for a released balloon, but we could do a tethered one.  As you can see, they got some pretty cool pictures of downtown Rochester.This particular project wasn’t a huge grant, but there are hundreds like it across the country, and they are all at risk with the budget cuts.  Most kids don’t live near JPL, and losing the annual open house won’t mean much to them.  But children all over the country will lose opportunities such as this one due to current cut backs.Hopefully we can change that trend.

The post NASA Outreach appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

If you are fortunate, you have come across a book or two that has deeply impacted your life. One such book for me is by Roy A. Gallant: The National Geographic Picture Atlas of Our Universe.

I was interested in astronomy and things science at a young age, and in the Fall of 1980 a new series on astronomy called Cosmos began to air. Every Sunday evening that Fall I watched Carl Sagan explain the universe to me. The last episode of Cosmos aired on the 21st of December. Then on the 25th, my Grandmother gave me the book you see below.

It’s hard to describe the impact this book had on my childhood. It is a book that changed my view of the universe. Every page is rich with color images and diagrams. The writing is clear enough for a child, but not written in a condescending or belittling tone. It contains facts and figures on everything from the size of our galaxy to history of life on Earth. Coming off the Sagan high, it was exactly the book I needed to learn more, and I devoured it. I read it cover to cover, over and over. I memorized the facts and figures it contained. The book also came with a “Space Kit” that included a flimsy record called SpaceSounds with recordings of things like pulsars and whalesong, and a star wheel to help you navigate the night sky in your backyard.

My Grandmother didn’t give me the book intending for me to be an astrophysicist, or even imagining I might become a scientist. She simply saw an interest I had and wanted to encourage it. As she once put it, “That boy needs an education. A real job would kill him.” But sometimes small gestures can have large impacts.

It’s all a part of living in our universe.

The post Our Universe appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

This week I was on a radio program to talk about the new results from BICEP2, which found the first evidence of cosmic inflation.  One of the questions I was asked was about the practical applications of this research.  I gave some mealy-mouthed answer about how cutting-edge research  can lead to new technologies we can’t even imagine, and gave an example of pure research leading to practical applications.  But afterwards, the more I thought about it, the more it became clear that it was the wrong answer.

The question about the practical applications of pure scientific research is a common one.  After all, if society is going to spend money on this kind of work, it has a right to demand some bang for its buck.  Right?

There is some truth to that.  There are times when particular areas of research are funded with a certain goal, such as targeted cancer research, or the development of higher density batteries.  But some research don’t have a goal other than the discovery of new things, and they are a success even if they don’t discover what we expect.  In the case of BICEP2, the project discovered real evidence of inflation.  Even if the project produces no “practical” applications it has been a success, because we now know (assuming the results hold up) that inflation occurred in the early universe.  Not just suspect because it would answer many questions about the big bang, but truly know.  We have more knowledge about the universe than we had before, and that matters.

When someone asks about the practical implications, they take a small view of science.  It ignores the fact that scientific knowledge is itself valuable. Science arises from the innate curiosity that is part of what makes us human.  To do science well requires some of the best aspects of humanity: thoughtfulness, honesty, skepticism, creativity and equality.  It requires us to work together, and it drives us to communicate ideas clearly.  It is a human endeavor that inspires us to do better, and to be better.

It also requires us to look to the future, not just the past.  We invest in scientific research now so that we can make scientific discoveries in the future. The knowledge we gain is not just valuable for us, but for future generations.  By investing in science we are able to bequeath to our children a greater understanding of the universe than we were given. It’s true that pure scientific research will inevitably lead to new practical applications.  It will give rise to new industries we can’t currently imagine. But that shouldn’t be the reason why we invest in science.

Science is a profound act of hope.  It is what a hopeful and forward looking society does. And that’s why we should do it.

The post Hope appeared first on One Universe at a Time.

Yesterday’s post about the big bang and cosmic origins struck a few nerves.  Responses ranged from vulgar insults to dismissals of the post as “just a theory.”  But more subtle were the criticisms that declared the post lacked humility.  Scientific knowledge is never perfect, and to claim the validity of the big bang is to go too far.  When communicating to the general public scientists should never say “we know”, only that “we might know.” Scientists should show more humility. Such criticism fails to recognize that the power of science is its humility.  In fact, the scientific process is based on the assumption that individual scientists won’t easily show humility on their own, so it is imposed upon them. There are three basic tenets of scientific research: it must be based upon verifiable data, it must be done publicly, and it must be open to criticism.

Excerpt from da Vinci’s research notebooks.

Most people view scientific evidence as repeatable experiments that can be done in the lab.  For this reason the findings of evolution or cosmology are often countered with “you weren’t there.”  But verifiable data is much broader than simply lab experiments.  It is a process of gathering data that clearly documents when, where and how the data was gathered.  If you gather observational data, the burden is on you to document its origin.  If you use data gathered by others, you must clearly cite your sources.

Once you have your observational results or theoretical work, the next step is to present it publicly.  This could be a conference, a preprint archive, a book, or submission to a research journal.  A scientific discovery is meaningless if it isn’t disseminated.  Publication provides a record of the work, so it can’t be tossed down the memory hole.  Make a significant discovery, and the record is there.  Make a foolish claim, and that’s there too.  It’s the latter possibility that strikes fear into scientists everywhere, because  publishing your work isn’t sufficient.  When you make your research public your colleagues now have a chance to pull the work apart and see if it really says what you think it says.  It gets subjected to peer review. Peer review can be the most frustrating and most humiliating aspect of scientific research.  That’s why it’s considered the gold standard of science.  Having research published in a peer-reviewed journal means that the work has been examined by other experts in your field, and has been found clear and without obvious error.  It doesn’t mean its perfect, but it does mean the work has been held to a high standard and survived.  This is why when I write about new scientific work I focus on peer reviewed articles.  When I write about work that hasn’t been peer reviewed, I clearly say so.

Of course even after conducting your research, organizing your results, checking it with friendly colleagues, presenting it publicly and submitting it to peer review, you still aren’t done.  You’re never done, because at any time someone can critically review your work again.  If you have a great theory and your predictions don’t support new findings, we look for something better.  No matter how famous, or how many awards you may have, anyone can be toppled by new scientific discovery.

That’s the deal.  Keep pushing back against ideas.  Keep working to develop better theories.  Always, always keep in mind that your theories might just be wrong.

What survives is an understanding of the universe that it robust.  It is a confluence of evidence that supports a deep theoretical framework.  It is knowledge humbly gathered, and put forward with humility.  Through a process that recognizes human fallibility.  It is humanity’s best understanding of what is real and true about the cosmos.

This is why I present ideas like the big bang with the claim that we know.  We Know.  We know because thousands of individuals have devoted their lives to understanding the universe.  Devoted their lives to getting it right.  Relying on a process that forces us to be humble, and forces us to defend our ideas over and over.

In my posts I always strive to present our best understanding of the universe in a way that is clear and meaningful.  That’s why I try to limit moderation of the comments.  It is a kind of peer review.  I write about science to the best of my ability, and everyone is free to criticize it.  I’ve made mistakes in my posts and been called on them.  I’ve been praised and thanked for making things clear.  I’ve also been called a liar. A fool. Prideful. Deceitful. Ignorant. Arrogant.

Fair enough.  That’s the deal.

The post Humility appeared first on One Universe at a Time.