We Don’t Know, But We Can Learn

I have repeatedly written about how differences between humans and the rest of the animal world are far less than we anthropocentric critters would like to think. Many of the distinctions that we humans previously believed set us apart from animals are relentlessly disappearing—and many more of them are now being understood as not unique at all, just a matter of degree.

But what does make us different from animals—even those closely related to us, such as the great apes? I won’t to try to answer that monster question here. I’ll simply note one key difference: our ability to reason, to think rationally, to look back and ponder what happened. It gives us a great advantage over the sharpest chimpanzee.

What does reason do for us? Well, countless things, but I’ll just look at one example here, for illustration: our ability to ponder our actions, after we’ve done something and to learn from the process. Most of what we do is programmed deeply within us. We’re usually not even conscious of what we’ve done or why. For example, we don’t know why we eat what we do—millions of years have taught us what foods have kept us alive and healthy, long before we thought about it. It’s the same for animals.

Our sex lives are governed by habits that we developed over eons—habits that kept our species going. We mostly don’t know why we do as we do in the sexual arena; again just like animals. We’re just driven. It’s very much an instinctual thing; behaviors that are deeply ingrained in us. Animals do the same.

These and countless other behaviors of ours are done without conscious thinking or planning—just like the animals. One might be inclined to disagree; to feel that we take these and other actions after carefully pondering them, but that’s not the case. Many clever experiments have shown that we take action first and think later. We’re more automatically programmed than we’d want to believe. For one thing, fast action (without taking time to think) is often necessary. And the majority of our actions cannot require thinking; otherwise, we’d be lost in the minutia of details and never do anything.

So how do we differ from our animal cohorts? Unlike them, after we take action, we are able to ponder what happened and gain insight into why we did it. We can ruminate over events and learn from them. That’s something that all other animals—not possessing our elevated cognitive abilities—(pretty much) cannot do. It’s how we learn.

So what are the benefits of this ability of ours to reason? Once we understand why we do something, we can see the necessity of modifying or controlling our urges, if need be. We can understand that certain inherent behaviors that drive us to consume unhealthy foods (foods that a million years ago made sense) are not what we should any longer be doing. Similarly, certain sexual behaviors that long ago were useful (such as procreating endlessly) are no longer useful.

This learning process is one way in which we forge morals. For example, if we can learn from our violent behavior towards one another—that violence is foolish—we can come to see that tolerance makes sense. If I get into trouble by following my instincts in a given situation, I can grow from the experience, adapt, and become smarter—even develop a moral sense about it. It’s given Homo sapiens a huge advantage—an advantage most animals don’t have. What puzzles me is why we seem to refuse to heed some of our obvious lessons.

Titmouse Thief Caught Stealing Dog Food

The Run Returns

What surveyors around here call a “wet weather stream” runs by the house. These streams are also called “runs.” Not much of a watershed feeds it—thankfully—or we’d have lost a lot more unsecured items over the years, when it becomes a raging torrent after heavy rains.

Our little run flows half the year—from late fall through late spring. During the summer thirsty trees along its banks eagerly drink up all its water (except just after a hard rain), so its flow dries up. When fall’s dormant period arrives those trees begin their slumber, which allows the stream to run along and eventually make its contribution to the Potomac River and then the Chesapeake Bay. That gives us a very nice change; half the year it babbles along and for the remainder of the year it can get very quiet.

So it’s now that time of year when the little stream begins its uninterrupted winter’s run. Its constant bubbly, burbly voice provides gentle background chatter. Reposing in the evenings in my outdoor tub, I listen to its light-hearted murmuring; noting that it sounds a little like indistinct cocktail-party chitchat. But every now and then a few burbles stand out from the quiet chatter—sounding eerily like random syllables of human speech.

In a few months there will be a short period, as late spring transforms into summer, when the run will dry up and fall completely silent. The awakened trees will once again suck up all its water, but the singing insects will have yet to begin their incessant summer chorus. The nights are ghostly silent then. The only sounds are the flapping of firefly wings—much too hushed for my old ears to perceive.

So for the next few winter months the stream’s subtle chatter will be my bathing companion—now and then irritatingly interrupted by a distant dog’s barking. I find the creek’s babble to be a soothing sound. I can lay back and let its lilting chorus lull me into reverie—well, except for those infrequent moments when the human-seeming syllables get tossed out. They almost cause me to sit up and peer into the darkness, fooled into thinking that I’m not alone after all.

December Deluge

The Deer Hunt

We are in the midst of deer hunting season—that time of year when the surging population of these large herbivores gets modestly diminished by their sole remaining predator: Homo sapiens. Long ago, wolves, cougars, and other large carnivorous animals checked the size of the deer herd. But now those wild predators are gone and deer are exceedingly abundant—for either their own good or ours.

The problems for us: they munch our gardens, carry Lyme disease, and joust with cars. The problems for them: they become crowded and disease prone. In recent years state officials are increasingly concerned about the spread of chronic wasting disease—a progressive, fatal disease that resides in the brain of deer. The apprehension is that it will decimate the wild herds and even may be unhealthy for humans to eat, although there currently exists no evidence that people can be infected.

When we first moved out here from the city 25 years ago deer hunting season was rather intimidating to us. The sound of a rifle being fired just over the ridge was startling, the sight of gun-toting guys roaming the woods (or cruising back roads, spotting deer from truck windows) was unsettling, the reports of human fatalities were tragic, and the remains of discarded beer cans and deer carcasses along these back roads were offensive.

Twenty-five years later we have adapted to the hunt. We are more aware of the manifold problems of a large deer population, we’ve grown accustomed to the sound of guns, trust local hunters, and we appreciate the occasional venison that our neighbors gift us with. It’s far healthier than feed lot-fed, antibiotic-stuffed beef.

State officials certainly have a deer dilemma on their hands. I don’t envy the hot spot they sit upon—tugged one way by suburbanites who are angry about their munched gardens and fender-bender repair bills, another way by health officials who warn of disease epidemics, another way by folks who feel that Bambi should never be targeted, and still another way by hunters who chafe at one more regulation they must comply with.

One response in our part of Virginia has been to extend the deer-hunting season, from a couple of weeks in November to two months that end in early January. Furthermore, hunters are allowed to shoot half a dozen deer during that time (although some old hands get far more than that, while the game warden tends to look the other way).

The “deer problem” is evolving rapidly, as are the “solutions,” as we learn more about the complexity of the situation. It’s another case of humans tampering with nature’s balance and then experiencing the consequences later. Hunting season will necessarily be with us for some time yet. I’m glad we don’t get as alarmed as we once did—but I still involuntarily flinch when a rifle shot blows away the quiet of the woods.

Chickweed Blossom (Only local plant to bloom in winter)

Winter Storms In

It’s more than a week into December and we’re finally getting our first taste of winter. It’s been an unusually warm fall—November set a 25-year record for the highest overnight temperatures. Although the days were typical for a November, it just did not get cold at night.

As a result, winter’s arrival was delayed this year. We found ourselves being bugged by insects that otherwise would have succumbed much earlier to the cold. Things being a little warmer, those bugs could hang on a little longer—crickets still singing and yellow jacket wasps still buzzing us on Thanksgiving, though they moved a lot slower than they did in July.

An “Indian fall” (sort of a hungover Indian summer) like this can also confuse plants. Early-spring blossoming shrubs and trees poke out a few tenuous buds—testing whether winter just might have already rushed by. I wince when I see these vulnerable shoots—knowing that they will soon be zapped by a cold snap.

And now it’s upon us. Winter blew in with chilling force, a few nights ago. Snow fell one evening and the thermometer followed suit a few hours later. We woke up to find that fall’s browns and grays had become masked with brilliant white. Honest winter is here. The remaining bugs and impulsive buds have expired. The long sleep begins, as eggs in the ground and more cautious buds hold their spring promise in abeyance.

Now is the time to get serious with the woodstove. No more small sticks of wood flashing briefly, and then going out. It’s time for serious logs and a perpetual fire. It’s one of my creature comforts to stand next to the woodstove and watch the birds’ antics out at the feeder. They fluff up to ward off the chill. No need to tell them that winter has stormed in.

Early December Snow

Empathic Animals

Empathy is most simply defined as the capacity to identify with another being. It’s often described as the ability to “get into the someone else’s shoes.” Until recently empathy was considered to be a uniquely human quality (maybe because we’re the only creature to wear shoes?), but that’s changing. One of the principle researchers who has been shifting minds on the issue is Frans de Waal, a primatologist who has observed chimpanzees for decades. He tells us that empathy is exhibited by many kinds of animals.

The most basic expression of empathy is mimicking. You laugh, I laugh. I yawn, you yawn. I use threatening body language and you reciprocate. Scientists like de Waal have observed our cousins the apes mimicking (aping?) each other in many ways.

In humans empathy crosses cultures and languages. That’s a prime reason why nonhuman primates can show it: we don’t need to know how to communicate by words with someone to feel empathy. Laughing and yawning are universal behaviors; they come naturally.

Since researchers are finding that our ape cousins commonly exhibit empathy (now that they no longer doubt apes have it), we now understand that evolution gave us this capacity; i.e., we’ve acquired it naturally. Long ago we lived in small groups that survived by exhibiting cooperation and empathy. It’s what gave us humans an advantage. Those primate species that lacked empathy were a little less fit and became extinct. We capitalized on our social connections and ability to bond—attributes that were strengthened by our propensity to identify with each other.

In small groups we struggled to survive and we thrived—aided by our empathic qualities. But it goes only so far. Our feelings of empathy tend to be limited to those closest to us; those whom we know and to whom we feel connected. In the last 10thousand years or so we’ve settled down into dense enclaves and find ourselves increasingly competing for resources. Our empathy for the “other” under these circumstances tends to dwindle. Aggression quickly follows.

War has been so constant throughout recorded history that some of us find ourselves concluding that Homo sapiens is by nature an aggressive species that can’t seem to control its violent habits. But for 99.9% of our existence as a species cooperation and empathy were crucial and prevalent. Which really is us: the deeper empathic animal or the warlike creature? Is our aggression just a veneer that we’ve acquired in the last several thousand years—a veneer we might peel away to reveal our empathic core? Of course, both emotions are us; we are both warlike and cooperative. It’s our choice… to decide which one we want to prevail.

November Spirea

Enticing Sky

When November rolls around I find my pulse quickening, as I gaze at the night sky. I’m anticipating the return of those glorious dark-sky winter nights, when the stars stand out ever so prominently. While the summer sky is beautiful to behold—I can stare deeply into it, the Milky Way dazzling in its brilliance, with the warm air caressing my skin and inviting me to tarry a while—it’s the winter sky that really excites me.

I think there are several reasons why. To begin with, the trees have shed their leaves, opening up a much more expansive overhead dome. While in the summertime I watch just a part of the sky peek between trees, now the whole celestial dome is open for viewing. The bare tree branches etch and frame the display with fascinating foreground patterns.

Secondly, the fall/winter sky is cold and clear. Too often in summer the sky is hazy or the day’s heat is being radiated back into space, causing the stars to twinkle and dance, so that nothing holds firm. But in winter the sky is crystal clean. The stars stand boldly and steadily out—almost audibly announcing their presence.

Thirdly, the winter night steals in much sooner in the evening and it dawdles much longer the next morning. In the summer I must wait until 10 PM to see a really dark sky. That’s too late for country living, when I want to be up and out by 6 AM in order to beat the day’s heat. A dark November and December sky abruptly descends upon you by 7 PM—early enough to invite you to linger under the glow of the stars before bedtime, if you bundle up a bit.

Lastly, winter brings those spectacular constellations and star clusters: the Pleiades, Hyades, and Orion. There are no stellar sights during the year that can match their winter displays. OK, I admit to being biased: the winter sky brings back my familiar friends who welcome me into their domain. Summer may have its Ophiuchus, Draco, Cygnus, and Bootes. (They’re not exactly household names.) I think they are pretty neat, but nothing beats Orion. Nothing beats Orion.