The first time I remember thinking batteries are magic was several years ago at Velocity Conf in San Jose. I don’t remember exactly what Alex Rasmussen and I were up to. We were walking down the street near the hotel. I think we’d just left a party for speakers. I’m not sure what we were talking about when I turned to Alex and said: I know how batteries work, and it doesn’t make them any less magical.
I often find myself thinking about batteries being magic. It’s become a touchstone. A phrase that carries a lot of meaning for me. We live surrounded by miracles. Things we’ve become so habituated to we don’t appreciate them anymore. The habituation permeates everything. If I think hard enough, I can remember what it was like without them.
I spent part of my childhood in rural Maine in the 70s. We often didn’t have an indoor toilet. We sometimes didn’t have running water. And that didn’t make us unusual. Now I can turn on a faucet and have potable water anytime I want.
I wish every time I looked at a battery I could have that moment of awe. But if I did, could I even get through the day? Even prophets need a break from being touched by the hand of God.
I’m not religious. I’m not an atheist either. I’m an empiricist. I don’t rule God out. I don’t assume God either. But I grew up with a grandmother who was a deeply devout Southern Baptist, and when she used words like miracle and awe and glory, they meant something. They weren’t casual.
When I say batteries are magic, I mean what she meant. At least, I hope I do.