While evolution suggests many things such as purpose, adaptation, fulfillment, survival, process towards perfection or diversity as the hot debate goes, evolution itself seems both creative and destructive. The wild drama going on outside and inside our bodies shows us that illnesses evolve, criminal minds evolve under the right circumstances and conditions, flowers evolve to attract the right insects, species evolve to swim or fly or burrow or walk. Evidence of the great "procession of life," as Emerson puts it, is everywhere.
As I write, my cat and I are watching sparrows picking up bits of red material and flying off to build their nests. The forsythia have burst into bloom calling forth a few groggy bees looking like they wished they'd waited for the lilacs. The hundred year old plum tree appears dead but will blossom and outshine all the youngsters in time. The eyes through which I watch have evolved to witness nature's drama. The mind pondering has evolved to interpret it as home, as mine: my yard nagging to be tended, my garden itching to be planted, and as other, as not mine: God's, Gaia's, nobody's microcosm of the biodiversity on the planet. Whatever the human spirit is, it seems to have evolved to be inspired, motivated, overwhelmed, awe-struck, empowered, or annoyed by the senses awakened by nature. The seasons seem to be circular because cyclical. But Emerson, in a prophetic Fibonacci mood, intuited a spiral, the ever expanding circles Thoreau witnessed when he tossed a pebble into Walden Pond.
The poet knows that seals are evolved gurus. The naturalist teaches the scientist the obvious: that apes evolved from humans, not the other way around. The ethicist understands that dogs are evolved in compassion. Everyone knows that comedians were once ducks. The artist wonders if the dragonfly's eye is the future of her own. The child sees yes. We are bones and genes, flesh and food for microorganisms, myth and neurons, romance, biochemistry and mystery, mortal and immortal as spring bulbs, beings made of comet stuff. We are made of everything it takes to imagine and understand that comets' lives would be meaningless if they revolved around chasing their own tails.