Not where things end, but where change begins.
On the role of surfaces in shaping interaction, signal, and intention.
What makes a surface?
It seems so basic—a surface is simply where something ends. But that’s not quite right. A surface is where something begins to act. It’s the place where matter meets the world. Where energy exchanges. Where interaction becomes possible.
Of course, at the smallest scales, the idea of a surface becomes slippery. Atoms are mostly empty space. Their “edges” are defined by the probabilistic blur of electron clouds. There's no clear outline, no definite shell. In quantum mechanics, particles don’t even behave like objects until they interact. A photon travels as a wave of potential until it meets something that can absorb it—and only then does it collapse into form. In that sense, surfaces might not exist until something tries to reach them.
But zoom out, and surfaces become real in consequence, if not in definition. A table has a surface. So does your skin. So does a mountain range. And these surfaces do more than mark boundaries. They shape outcomes. A table hosts the motion of a meal, the stretch of a hand across wood, the place where families meet and friendships reassemble. It isn't just flat—it gathers presence.
Mountains go further. Their jagged boundaries redirect wind, shift clouds, alter rainfall. The monsoon itself curves around the Himalayas. The Andes hold the deserts of the west in place. A surface this large doesn’t just exist—it changes the atmosphere for millions. That isn’t passive. That’s planetary scale influence.
Somewhere between these scales, biology emerges. And here, surfaces begin to act with intention.
Proteins, the folded tools of the cell, present surfaces that are exquisitely tuned. Binding sites form clefts and pockets. These aren’t decorative—they are how things happen. A molecule finds its partner and, if the geometry is right and the energy low enough, they bind. Sometimes the fit is precise. Other times, the protein adjusts—loops shift, charges realign. Molecular dynamics simulations show this in motion: a surface breathing, flexing, searching for resonance.
Rhodopsin is one of the simplest and most stunning examples. Found in the membranes of our photoreceptor cells, it holds a single retinal molecule. When struck by a photon, retinal changes shape—it flips a bond from bent to straight. That tiny rearrangement is enough to change the entire protein’s conformation, activating a chain of events that sends an electrical signal to the brain. Light becomes vision. From a single surface event.
Signal doesn’t just transmit. It moves.
Ciliates like Tetrahymena and Paramecium are built on this principle. Their surfaces are alive with cilia—tiny, coordinated appendages that ripple in waves to propel the organism forward. They don’t just respond to their environment; they traverse it. Surface-bound sensors detect gradients of heat, light, or chemical cues. If the signal fits, they turn. They act. The entire organism is a pulsing surface—designed to sense, decide, and move.
Humans scale this even further. Our vocal cords form modulated surfaces that sculpt air into sound. That sound, carried as a pressure wave, travels outward until it strikes another person’s tympanic membrane—the eardrum—initiating mechanical movement, then neural firing, then meaning. A vibration of tissue becomes a story, a warning, a song. Our bodies are covered in surfaces that do this kind of work: eyes that receive photons, skin that feels temperature, hands that learn by touch. But even our expressions, our gestures, our posture—these are surfaces that communicate without sound.
We don’t just emit signals. We receive them. And over time, we learn which ones to let in.
So what do we do, knowing this?
We shape the surfaces we offer the world. We decide what we allow to pass through us, and what we reflect. Not all energy deserves resonance. Let love in. Let cruelty glance off. Be permeable to joy, to curiosity, to wonder. Not to the blunt edge of greed or the rust of cynicism. Not to those who seek to fracture with fear or divide with force. Evolution teaches specificity: a good surface binds only what makes it better.
And use yours with intention. Every word you type is a force traveling through keys, through circuits, into the mind of another. Every song you sing, every touch you offer, every look you hold—these are not abstractions. These are actions of a surface in motion. You are not just here to occupy space. You are here to fold energy into meaning, to reflect what matters.
Because in the end, everything begins with contact. Not grand ideologies, not abstract systems, but the press of one thing against another—light against pigment, breath against air, hand against table.
So be a surface that changes reality for the better.
Breathe, flex, resonate.
Be shaped by wonder, and shape the world in return.