When the Lights Come On

A personal reflection on perception, illusion, and the search for what’s real

Since losing part of my vision, I’ve become strangely more aware of what I can’t see, what’s missing, distorted, or invented by my brain to fill in the gaps. Visual hallucinations are now part of my life. I’ve seen a city skyline, tall buildings stretching across a photograph of the backcountry, where there wasn’t a piece of rebar for miles. A dog lying on the floor, where there was only a rug with an odd geometric pattern. My own dog, Skye, curled beside me on the couch.

Most of the time, it’s entertaining. Sometimes, it’s frustrating, especially when I’m trying to get something done. But every time it happens, it’s enlightening. I find myself asking: What else is my mind lying to me about?

I guess lying is perhaps too strong a word. It suggests intent. My brain isn’t trying to deceive me; it’s just doing its best with the limited visual data that makes it past my ravaged maculas, through my visual cortex, and into awareness. That’s where the inaccuracy takes shape.

I picture a scene from Inside Out, with a new character—Illusion—who keeps hijacking the projector, making me “see” things that aren’t really there, while Joy, Fear, and Disgust shout from the control panel, “Stop! That’s all wrong!”

Recently, I listened to Annaka Harris’ audiobook Lights On. It’s a deep dive into consciousness. I wouldn’t call it a casual listen, at least not for me. It’s probably easier if you have a background in neuroscience or philosophy. Both would help. That said, she does a remarkable job of summarizing difficult ideas in a very accessible way.

The central question she explores is whether consciousness is fundamental to the universe or simply an emergent property of complex biological systems.

It took me a minute to make sense of that question the first time I heard it, so let me add a bit more context.

Most of science treats consciousness as emergent: something that arises when a system becomes complex enough, like a human brain.

For me, it helps to think about it like this. If consciousness is emergent, it only materializes when an organism reaches a certain level of development, then the lights come on. Think of a human versus a rock. Both are made from the same limited set of atoms: just 118 known elements on the periodic table. But something about the way those atoms are arranged in a human brain gives rise to awareness, while a rock remains unaware.

If consciousness is emergent, it’s the arrangement that matters. But if it’s fundamental, then there’s a measure of consciousness in all matter. Think, for example, of the difference between a human and a worm. The worm may only be aware of pressure as it slides across the ground. It doesn’t worry about money or whether its kids can go to college. Take that down several more steps to a rock, and maybe there’s a tiny spark of consciousness there too. Maybe not something we can relate to, but something nonetheless.

It’s a bold idea, for sure. But it does beg the question: If consciousness is emergent, where do the lights come on? Just with humans? It’s clear to me that my dog Skye feels joy, sadness, and pain. What about a hamster? A butterfly? An ant? A rock?

Where, exactly, is the line where the lights come on and we say there is a level of consciousness?

That’s the question Lights On is exploring. Harris leans toward the idea that consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe. In my mind, I think of it like the electrical charge of an electron, something basic and built-in, not constructed.

If that’s true, then consciousness isn’t something the brain produces, it’s something the brain taps into. It’s a striking idea, but no stranger than the notion that time itself bends and stretches, as Einstein’s theory of relativity explained, and science has since confirmed.

Okay, so that’s a lot to absorb. I hope you’ve stuck with me this far, because here’s where it gets interesting.

Harris’ final words in her audiobook made me do a double take. I played them back two or three times to make sure I understood what she was saying. I even took a moment to capture them in my journal.

Not because I was certain she was right, or because it wasn’t a logical conclusion to the argument she made, but because of the implications and the questions it opened in my mind.

“Imagine,” she said, “we live in a world where there is no matter. All there is, is consciousness. The world that is constructed in that consciousness, the physical world we all see and feel every day, is just an awareness within that consciousness. It’s not real.”

Imagine the ocean. Each of us is like a single wave: distinct in shape, direction, and energy, yet still part of the same vast body of water. We rise, we crest, we fall. And while we appear separate for a moment, we are never anything but ocean. Each wave is shaped by the others. A wave cannot exist outside the water, and it is always changing, always evolving. Eventually, the wave disappears into stillness, but the water that made the wave remains.

What if Harris is right?

What if there is no physical world at all, only a boundless awareness, like an ocean, and we are nothing more than waves rising and falling within it? What if everything we see, touch, and believe to be real is simply experience, unfolding inside that vast and silent field of consciousness?

Could it be that the presence we’ve called God for thousands of years is not separate from us at all, but this very awareness, ever-present, formless, and indivisible?

Could consciousness itself be the fundamental nature of everything, the hidden thread science has been chasing, the essence beneath all matter and mind?

Or is it something more mysterious still?

Two truths converging.

God and science, not rivals but reflections.

A single explanation, hiding in plain sight.

Now, I know what you're thinking: No, I’m not under the influence of any mind-altering drug. At least not as I write this.

And no, I’m not claiming this as some ultimate truth.

To be clear, I’m not so arrogant as to say I know the truth of the universe.

But I am someone who believes deeply in asking questions, even the ones that might not have answers.

Let me return to where I started. I know my brain plays tricks on me. Not only is that well supported by neuroscience, I see it in my life every day.

So if that’s true, what’s wrong with asking questions that strike directly at the heart of everything I’ve always believed?

What if the most honest way to live isn’t to be certain, but to stay curious?

That doesn’t mean abandoning science or faith. It means refusing to settle for either as a complete explanation. A universal consciousness might sound like heresy to a scientist and like vagueness to a theologian. But to someone like me, living between vision and imagination, reason and mystery, it feels like a door that begs to be opened.

I’ve come to believe that to live fully is to ask questions, especially the unanswerable ones.

Because if we don’t, how do we know we’re not living a lie?