December and January usher in the most brilliant constellation in the heavens: Orion the Great Hunter, AKA the Celestial Warrior. It is also low in the southeastern sky, so every person on Earth—northern or southern hemisphere—is able to gaze upon this most sparkling and recognizable constellation. Some people might argue that the Big Dipper is the most conspicuous constellation. Maybe so, but the Dipper doesn’t stop me in my tracks quite like Orion does when I step outside on a cold, clear winter's night and become dazzled every time I see it.
Most of the celestial constellations bring to mind quite different images in different cultures and different eras, but Orion has consistently been interpreted as a warrior boldly flashing his shield, if not some other similar mythical heroic figure. There is no constellation that has brighter stars than Orion. It contains two of the seven most luminous stars in the sky, and the heaven’s brightest star of all—Sirius—lies close by.
Orion was prominent in the minds of the ancients. The Egyptians considered it to be the incarnation of their great god of the afterworld, Osiris. In the Bible’s Book of Job, when God berates Job for his lack of humility, he says, “Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose Orion’s belt?” (The Pleiades is another spectacular winter sight right next to Orion: an open cluster of young stars that is also known as the Seven Sisters.)
When observing Orion with the naked eye, one notes some 15-20 stars that outline the Great Hunter’s form. A detailed examination with a good backyard telescope will reveal over 200 stars—most of which are double and multiple suns. (Most stars we can see are not single bodies like our sun, but are double systems, and even multiple stars.)
The two brightest stars in Orion are Betelgeuse (BET-el-jews) and Rigel (RYE-jel). Betelgeuse is the largest star we can see with the naked eye. It’s a red giant and is one of the few stars one can look at and tell that it’s not really white, but an orangish-red. It is more than 600 times the size of our sun and some 10,000 times brighter. It could go supernova at any moment. When it does (keep an eye out!), it will be as bright as the full moon and even visible in the daytime. But it might also might not happen for another 1,000 years. Nearby Rigel is no dim bulb—being 50 times the size of our sun. Betelgeuse can be found in Orion’s shoulder and Rigel (meaning “foot of Orion”) at one of his feet.
Orion’s belt is the real eye catcher for me. It is made up of three identical brilliant blue stars, perfectly aligned and equally spaced. Some 1500 years ago the Arabs were the world’s premier astronomers and many of the heaven’s most notable stars carry Arab names. Orion’s belt Arabic names are Mintaka (“the belt”), Alnilam (“the belt of pearls”), and Alnitak (“the girdle”).
The most special sight of all in the Orion constellation is the “fuzzy star” in the middle of the sword that hangs from his belt. It’s not a star at all, but a gorgeous nebula; AKA the Great Nebula in Orion. It’s a massive cloud of gas and dust that is 20 times the size of our solar system. Denser portions of the cloud are in the process of collapsing and forming new stars—some just babies, a mere few million years old!
To the naked eye under a dark sky, the Orion nebula can be seen not as a point of light (like all stars), but a wee bit of a blurry blob. With a pair of binoculars the nebula appears as a tiny white cloud, but in time exposures from large telescopes, it shows its real colors: a swirl of red, blue, and violet.
I find it fascinating to come to know some of the specifics details and origins of Orion the Great Hunter and his star-birthing nebulous sword, but it’s not at all requisite to be cognizant of these facts, in order to gaze upon this constellation on a winter’s night and become captivated by its beauty. One needn’t know anything about Orion to be thrilled by this stellar sight.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Soggy Spider—Part 2
In a few minutes my arachnid friend slowly began to move its pedipalpi. (Pedi-what? At the time I had no idea they were called this. I later consulted a bug book, to learn what they are and what their function is. Fact: pedipalpi are small, leg-like appendages to either side of the mouth of an arachnid, and are usually a fraction of the size of its eight legs. On a scorpion, however, the pedipalpi are longer than its legs, and a stinger is located the end of each pedipalpus. OK? On with the narrative.)
On the end of my spider's pedipalpi I saw tiny hands or pincer-like objects, and the spider began to use them to groom the adjacent leg. Was it wringing off the excess water? It first bent and then elevated a leg, as it continued to stroke downward on it.
Ever so slowly, it worked on the other legs and then began to move its whole body, as if gradually recovering the ability to do so again. I admired its body—a beautiful shade of gray. It was bulbously shaped and handsome. I watched its round bulk quiver and very subtly change shape and fill out, ever so slightly. Was it breathing? Was its stomach convulsing with all the water it had swallowed?
I sent my friend healing energy. I apologized for having the bucket of water there and for the near-drowning it had experienced. I reached out and touched its body, ever so gently, to soothe it. It recoiled a bit. OK, it didn't receive my touch as a caress, so I kept my hands to myself. I wanted to pick it up and bring it closer to my eyes, so I could see better what was going on, but resisted. I wondered why I held back. Was I respecting its space and deciding not to bring it up close to my nose and frighten it with my gigantic puss? Was I responding to archetypal fears that people have of arachnids? The possibility of getting bit did make me pause—even though I had no idea of how likely it was to strike out at me.
I sat there watching the spider from across a wide gulf of ignorance. I tried to open myself to its world and intuit what was going on and what was important to it. I once again apologized for the bucket of water—useful to me but a potential death trap for it. Not sure there was much more I could do—except to leave it alone, hopefully to recover—I left, still feeling regretful and a bit deficient in my abilities to understand and help. Awhile later I returned to the hot tub area and the spider was gone—hopefully carrying on its life in a much drier environment. Maybe I could place a screen over the bucket?
On the end of my spider's pedipalpi I saw tiny hands or pincer-like objects, and the spider began to use them to groom the adjacent leg. Was it wringing off the excess water? It first bent and then elevated a leg, as it continued to stroke downward on it.
Ever so slowly, it worked on the other legs and then began to move its whole body, as if gradually recovering the ability to do so again. I admired its body—a beautiful shade of gray. It was bulbously shaped and handsome. I watched its round bulk quiver and very subtly change shape and fill out, ever so slightly. Was it breathing? Was its stomach convulsing with all the water it had swallowed?
I sent my friend healing energy. I apologized for having the bucket of water there and for the near-drowning it had experienced. I reached out and touched its body, ever so gently, to soothe it. It recoiled a bit. OK, it didn't receive my touch as a caress, so I kept my hands to myself. I wanted to pick it up and bring it closer to my eyes, so I could see better what was going on, but resisted. I wondered why I held back. Was I respecting its space and deciding not to bring it up close to my nose and frighten it with my gigantic puss? Was I responding to archetypal fears that people have of arachnids? The possibility of getting bit did make me pause—even though I had no idea of how likely it was to strike out at me.
I sat there watching the spider from across a wide gulf of ignorance. I tried to open myself to its world and intuit what was going on and what was important to it. I once again apologized for the bucket of water—useful to me but a potential death trap for it. Not sure there was much more I could do—except to leave it alone, hopefully to recover—I left, still feeling regretful and a bit deficient in my abilities to understand and help. Awhile later I returned to the hot tub area and the spider was gone—hopefully carrying on its life in a much drier environment. Maybe I could place a screen over the bucket?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Soggy Spider—Part 1
No matter how careful I am about not harming innocent creatures around the homestead, it inevitably happens that I do. I can’t completely avoid it. For example, when I walk across the yard, I may inadvertently step on a harmless ant or two.
The space we occupy on this planet is often earned at the expense of another creature—either by pushing it out of our niche or by outright killing it, either for food or just because it happens to be in our way. Nature usually achieves an exquisite balance between species that occupy the same territory—a balance that often sees them cooperating, but often also requires that they compete and that some of them expire in the process.
I have written before about how we do intentionally kill some so-called non-innocent and aggressive critters—those who have it as their intention to take over and rid us of “their” domain. House-invading ants and termites are examples. But there are countless species of plants and animals that are doing no harm to us, other than maybe being underfoot. One aspect of my developing a degree of sensitivity to the rights of these inhabitants to be part of my immediate surroundings is to try to understand them and discover ways in which we can cohabit peacefully. Over the years we’ve learned to do this with several insects and “weeds,” that we once considered obnoxious, but later came to see were quite harmless and even—once we purged ourselves of a little ignorance—could come to see them as beneficial partners.
Despite how hard I work not to harm our animal neighbors unnecessarily, however, I still do. Some of the harm is done simply because I don’t understand them well enough, and some is due simply to lack of sensitivity and attention. Here’s an example of the latter.
Planning to take an evening hot tub last year, I prepared to get it ready for a refill one day. Sitting beside the tub is a bucket of cold water that I keep for pouring over my head during a soak—to try keep my brain temperature low enough that I don’t fry any more gray matter than necessary, as I steep my body for a couple of hours in the hot spa. Picking up the water bucket to empty it out, I saw a spider sitting on the bottom.
Periodically I find critters who have crawled or fallen into the hot tub or the water bucket beside it—either floating on the top or having sunk to the bottom. Too many times I find them drowned. I always feel regret and apologize for having such a watery death trap awaiting them, and ponder what I might do next time to lessen the drowning toll.
On this occasion, however, the spider was neither floating nor dead. It surprisingly sat on the bottom of the water bucket, weakly flailing its legs about—not seeming to be in a panic, but very slowly moving its eight appendages.
I carefully emptied the bucket out, trying to deposit the spider gently on dry ground and not swamp it with a tsunami of water. Might it revive? It laid there upside down, a wet lump of a soggy critter, looking pretty sad, and no longer moving. I carefully turned it over and was surprised and delighted to see it open up a bit and stretch its legs out, looking almost normal. I happened to have a pair of reading glasses in my pocket, so I put them on and crouched down to inspect the soggy fellow. It sat there motionless.
Conclusion of Soggy Spider next time…
The space we occupy on this planet is often earned at the expense of another creature—either by pushing it out of our niche or by outright killing it, either for food or just because it happens to be in our way. Nature usually achieves an exquisite balance between species that occupy the same territory—a balance that often sees them cooperating, but often also requires that they compete and that some of them expire in the process.
I have written before about how we do intentionally kill some so-called non-innocent and aggressive critters—those who have it as their intention to take over and rid us of “their” domain. House-invading ants and termites are examples. But there are countless species of plants and animals that are doing no harm to us, other than maybe being underfoot. One aspect of my developing a degree of sensitivity to the rights of these inhabitants to be part of my immediate surroundings is to try to understand them and discover ways in which we can cohabit peacefully. Over the years we’ve learned to do this with several insects and “weeds,” that we once considered obnoxious, but later came to see were quite harmless and even—once we purged ourselves of a little ignorance—could come to see them as beneficial partners.
Despite how hard I work not to harm our animal neighbors unnecessarily, however, I still do. Some of the harm is done simply because I don’t understand them well enough, and some is due simply to lack of sensitivity and attention. Here’s an example of the latter.
Planning to take an evening hot tub last year, I prepared to get it ready for a refill one day. Sitting beside the tub is a bucket of cold water that I keep for pouring over my head during a soak—to try keep my brain temperature low enough that I don’t fry any more gray matter than necessary, as I steep my body for a couple of hours in the hot spa. Picking up the water bucket to empty it out, I saw a spider sitting on the bottom.
Periodically I find critters who have crawled or fallen into the hot tub or the water bucket beside it—either floating on the top or having sunk to the bottom. Too many times I find them drowned. I always feel regret and apologize for having such a watery death trap awaiting them, and ponder what I might do next time to lessen the drowning toll.
On this occasion, however, the spider was neither floating nor dead. It surprisingly sat on the bottom of the water bucket, weakly flailing its legs about—not seeming to be in a panic, but very slowly moving its eight appendages.
I carefully emptied the bucket out, trying to deposit the spider gently on dry ground and not swamp it with a tsunami of water. Might it revive? It laid there upside down, a wet lump of a soggy critter, looking pretty sad, and no longer moving. I carefully turned it over and was surprised and delighted to see it open up a bit and stretch its legs out, looking almost normal. I happened to have a pair of reading glasses in my pocket, so I put them on and crouched down to inspect the soggy fellow. It sat there motionless.
Conclusion of Soggy Spider next time…
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Birdfeeder Brigands—Part 2
The squirrel seems to have given up trying to climb aboard the feeder—although I saw him a couple of days later, mulling around on the ground, picking up seeds the birds had dropped. That’s OK, as long as he doesn’t hog the feeder and push out the birds. Have I won the squirrel arms race? I’m not at all sanguine about my triumph enduring. I wonder if he’s crouching back in the trees, pondering his next assault. I’ll stay vigilant.
The second round of feeder attacks continued, in yet another new challenge. A couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out the door, I heard a few fussing birds off to my left. I turned too see what appeared to be a hawk coming from the direction of the birds. It flashed by less than ten feet from me, and sailed on down the drive. I had apparently startled him, as he was diving towards the songbirds, and he hastily vacated the scene of his hoped-for meal.
We’ve never seen a hawk within several hundred feet of the house. Uh-oh! A new and different kind of test has arrived: a second raider of birdfeeders—not just stealing food, but lives. A hawk can look upon a feeder as a wonderful magnet to attract their meals. And I’ve helped him by recently placing the feeder out in the open, where he can take aim and attack!
I headed for one of my bird books. I needed to know more. The bird had flown by so fast that I was unable to tell which species it might be—or even to be positive it was a hawk. The book showed me that it indeed was a sharp-shinned hawk (by its coloring and size). It is a small hawk: about half the size of our other raptors. The book tells me that sharp-shinned hawks like to “hunt around houses and birdfeeders.” They hunt from a concealed perch, capturing “small birds by surprise in lightning-quick strikes.” My fears were confirmed!
So is the hawk my and the birds’ next ordeal? Will he return and begin picking off our cute songbirds? As I kept a close eye on the feeder after he left, I noticed that the birds had abandoned it for a half hour or so, but then slowly began to return.
I don’t like interfering with Mother Nature’s predator-prey duals—especially by projecting my emotions onto the situation. All creatures have to eat, and some eat each other. That’s how it goes. It’s one thing to happen upon a predator attacking its prey in the woods, where they are playing out their natural roles, and not get caught up in inappropriate feelings of sympathy. It’s quite another to have introduced a feeding station into the environment—one that attracts both cute little critters and their hungry foes. I’ve altered the natural dynamics by introducing an artificial source of food. So what is my responsibility when my actions lead to the harm of innocent creatures? It’s very complicated.
I guess I’d best remain vigilant—as I plan to be with the squirrelly invader—and see if the hawk returns. If I’m lucky, it won’t, and I won’t have to decide what to do next. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s made a wonderful discovery, and will inevitably return. Or did I maybe scare it enough that it will seek meals in other places? How will I respond if it returns and kills one of those adorable chickadees? A hawk has to eat to survive, and cute little critters like songbirds are one of its crucial food items. Like a hawk, I will keep a sharp eye on the situation and see what comes and what it teaches me.
The second round of feeder attacks continued, in yet another new challenge. A couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out the door, I heard a few fussing birds off to my left. I turned too see what appeared to be a hawk coming from the direction of the birds. It flashed by less than ten feet from me, and sailed on down the drive. I had apparently startled him, as he was diving towards the songbirds, and he hastily vacated the scene of his hoped-for meal.
We’ve never seen a hawk within several hundred feet of the house. Uh-oh! A new and different kind of test has arrived: a second raider of birdfeeders—not just stealing food, but lives. A hawk can look upon a feeder as a wonderful magnet to attract their meals. And I’ve helped him by recently placing the feeder out in the open, where he can take aim and attack!
I headed for one of my bird books. I needed to know more. The bird had flown by so fast that I was unable to tell which species it might be—or even to be positive it was a hawk. The book showed me that it indeed was a sharp-shinned hawk (by its coloring and size). It is a small hawk: about half the size of our other raptors. The book tells me that sharp-shinned hawks like to “hunt around houses and birdfeeders.” They hunt from a concealed perch, capturing “small birds by surprise in lightning-quick strikes.” My fears were confirmed!
So is the hawk my and the birds’ next ordeal? Will he return and begin picking off our cute songbirds? As I kept a close eye on the feeder after he left, I noticed that the birds had abandoned it for a half hour or so, but then slowly began to return.
I don’t like interfering with Mother Nature’s predator-prey duals—especially by projecting my emotions onto the situation. All creatures have to eat, and some eat each other. That’s how it goes. It’s one thing to happen upon a predator attacking its prey in the woods, where they are playing out their natural roles, and not get caught up in inappropriate feelings of sympathy. It’s quite another to have introduced a feeding station into the environment—one that attracts both cute little critters and their hungry foes. I’ve altered the natural dynamics by introducing an artificial source of food. So what is my responsibility when my actions lead to the harm of innocent creatures? It’s very complicated.
I guess I’d best remain vigilant—as I plan to be with the squirrelly invader—and see if the hawk returns. If I’m lucky, it won’t, and I won’t have to decide what to do next. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s made a wonderful discovery, and will inevitably return. Or did I maybe scare it enough that it will seek meals in other places? How will I respond if it returns and kills one of those adorable chickadees? A hawk has to eat to survive, and cute little critters like songbirds are one of its crucial food items. Like a hawk, I will keep a sharp eye on the situation and see what comes and what it teaches me.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Birdfeeder Brigands—Part 1
For many years now we’ve kept a birdfeeder in the side yard, and stocked it with sunflower seeds. It’s attracted a wonderful collection of birds year round, and we’ve wiled away many hours watching the antics of chickadees, titmice, finches, cardinals, juncos, sparrows, woodpeckers, blue jays, nuthatches, wrens, and towhees. In the last year mourning doves have also begun to come. They are shy birds who usually stay out of sight, but once they discovered the abundant cache of free food, they’ve become regulars. (In fact, I’ve had to increase the sunflower seed offering, because the doves can stuff an amazing quantity of seed in their crop and then fly off, to digest the treasure later.)
The majority of people who feed birds are often bedeviled by pests—the principle one being that fat-tailed tree rodent, the squirrel. Urban squirrels are especially pernicious and persistent. Living amongst all those city cats and automobiles, squirrels have adapted to become extremely clever at dodging cars and robbing birdfeeders. I’ve read many a tale of the constant battles between urban bird-feeding humans and squirrels. My bird magazines are chock-full of ads for exotic and expensive “squirrel-proof” feeders. (I don’t believe there is such a thing.) It’s a type of arms race: a continuing battle of wits between the furry invaders and their human foes—one in which we’re confident we have the cognitive advantage, but repeatedly find that we’re facing a foe who is very determined and inventive.
For a couple of decades now, we’ve had no squirrels come near our feeder. It’s not clear to me why, but we have few of them in the woods and the cat does a pretty good job of keeping them confined to the forest (or overhead, bombing him with acorns). A few weeks ago, however, I glanced out and saw what appeared to be a very fat and fluffy dove on the feeder. Wait, it’s a squirrel! I flew out the door and chased him off—hoping that I’d scared him enough that he’d keep to the trees. Hah! Once a squirrel samples that easy a treat, he’ll return, and this guy did the next day.
I sensed we’d entered a new epoch at the feeder. Squirrels will remain contenders and he’d have to be dealt with. I thought briefly about letting him make his periodic visits and sharing the larder with him, but within a couple of days he was hogging the platform. I was envisioning him filling its fat cheeks—emptying the feeder again and again—and carrying the seeds off to his lair and stashing several winters’ supply there.
Counteraction was required. I considered a few alternative anti-squirrel schemes (one of them was not an expensive high-tech feeder that would see me join the arms race). The main vulnerability of the existing setup was having the feeder too close to a tree. Squirrels can leap amazing gaps, so I needed to move the feeder out in the open. Once again, the Internet came to the rescue. After considering numerous low-tech ideas described there, I strung a thin, strong wire between the tree and an outbuilding and suspended the feeder from the middle of the span. Later that day I saw the squirrel on the ground beneath the feeder, longingly looking up and realizing that it was beyond his leaping ability. Egad, foiled again!
More on the assaults of brigands next time…
The majority of people who feed birds are often bedeviled by pests—the principle one being that fat-tailed tree rodent, the squirrel. Urban squirrels are especially pernicious and persistent. Living amongst all those city cats and automobiles, squirrels have adapted to become extremely clever at dodging cars and robbing birdfeeders. I’ve read many a tale of the constant battles between urban bird-feeding humans and squirrels. My bird magazines are chock-full of ads for exotic and expensive “squirrel-proof” feeders. (I don’t believe there is such a thing.) It’s a type of arms race: a continuing battle of wits between the furry invaders and their human foes—one in which we’re confident we have the cognitive advantage, but repeatedly find that we’re facing a foe who is very determined and inventive.
For a couple of decades now, we’ve had no squirrels come near our feeder. It’s not clear to me why, but we have few of them in the woods and the cat does a pretty good job of keeping them confined to the forest (or overhead, bombing him with acorns). A few weeks ago, however, I glanced out and saw what appeared to be a very fat and fluffy dove on the feeder. Wait, it’s a squirrel! I flew out the door and chased him off—hoping that I’d scared him enough that he’d keep to the trees. Hah! Once a squirrel samples that easy a treat, he’ll return, and this guy did the next day.
I sensed we’d entered a new epoch at the feeder. Squirrels will remain contenders and he’d have to be dealt with. I thought briefly about letting him make his periodic visits and sharing the larder with him, but within a couple of days he was hogging the platform. I was envisioning him filling its fat cheeks—emptying the feeder again and again—and carrying the seeds off to his lair and stashing several winters’ supply there.
Counteraction was required. I considered a few alternative anti-squirrel schemes (one of them was not an expensive high-tech feeder that would see me join the arms race). The main vulnerability of the existing setup was having the feeder too close to a tree. Squirrels can leap amazing gaps, so I needed to move the feeder out in the open. Once again, the Internet came to the rescue. After considering numerous low-tech ideas described there, I strung a thin, strong wire between the tree and an outbuilding and suspended the feeder from the middle of the span. Later that day I saw the squirrel on the ground beneath the feeder, longingly looking up and realizing that it was beyond his leaping ability. Egad, foiled again!
More on the assaults of brigands next time…
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Bombardier Squirrel
We have experienced a weird phenomenon several times now in the fall—so I'm beginning to believe that it’s not just coincidental. We have a squirrel that bombs us—or rather the cat—with acorn particles, as we do tai chi in the evening. It was, at first, a little hard to believe; I thought that it might be an accident, but it's repeated itself nearly half a dozen times now. I think the squirrel has learned to be a joyful bombardier.
My mate and I do our tai chi routine each clement evening, on a little runway that I built just above a little stream behind the house. It's a wonderful place to do tai chi. It is back in the trees, so on hot summer days it's nicely shaded. The elevated runway gives one a great vantage point, from which to survey the domain, as we very slowly and meditatively twirl and spin through the movements.
Animal sounds provide a pleasant background to the meditative process—with birds singing, crickets chirping, woodpeckers rapping on hollow branches, hawks screeching, squirrels chattering, blue jays screaming, Canada geese honking, the wind breezing, and cicadas zinging—depending on the time of year. Unfortunately, we sometimes also get exposed to airplanes droning overhead, distant dogs incessantly barking, noisy trucks on distant roads, neighbors target practicing—but these distractions really give us the opportunity to develop a little more equanimity during the meditative practice.
The dog and cat accompany us—lying serenely nearby and lazily picking up on the good vibes, as we do our routine. The intelligent dog senses just when we are done, as she jumps up to greet us and congratulate us on yet another day of gathering the benefits of universal energy. The cat just lies among the leaves nearby, immobile, watching for errant birds that might be a wee bit inattentive and vulnerable to seizure.
A squirrel likes to gambol in one of those overhead oaks. It is very sassy. It looks down (literally) upon us, knowing that the cat could quickly dispatch it, but also knowing that high up in its tree, it is quite safe from this nasty feline. The squirrel shows its sass by berating the cat, loudly and lengthily. It scolds and taunts him, as if jeering and daring him to come up and try to catch him. Its racket can threaten our concentration and cause us to chuckle.
In the fall acorns begin to sprout on the oaks that shade us. The squirrel seems to have had the insight that acorns make very nice missiles to drop on a cat, so it bombs away. The cat’s eyes become glued to the squirrel, as it casually proceeds to pluck an acorn and chew off pieces that it deftly drops upon its attentive foe below. In the meantime, we valiantly carry on with our tai chi, trying to ignore the sound of acorn particles pelting the forest floor around us, or trying not to look at the cat and chuckle and loose our place, as we watch him ducking the tiny bombs.
Tai chi is supposed to be a mindful, meditative routine; during which we (try to) single-mindedly assume one of 108 sequential positions, in which we can easily screw up, if our attention gets diverted. (That's a good reason to do it with a partner. When one of us loses concentration and messes up, the other may get you back on track.) It can be very distracting (but hilarious) when a squirrel drops little acorn bombs from above, as it delights in pestering your cat. It’s just one more kind of challenge in learning the Chinese gentle martial arts outdoors.
My mate and I do our tai chi routine each clement evening, on a little runway that I built just above a little stream behind the house. It's a wonderful place to do tai chi. It is back in the trees, so on hot summer days it's nicely shaded. The elevated runway gives one a great vantage point, from which to survey the domain, as we very slowly and meditatively twirl and spin through the movements.
Animal sounds provide a pleasant background to the meditative process—with birds singing, crickets chirping, woodpeckers rapping on hollow branches, hawks screeching, squirrels chattering, blue jays screaming, Canada geese honking, the wind breezing, and cicadas zinging—depending on the time of year. Unfortunately, we sometimes also get exposed to airplanes droning overhead, distant dogs incessantly barking, noisy trucks on distant roads, neighbors target practicing—but these distractions really give us the opportunity to develop a little more equanimity during the meditative practice.
The dog and cat accompany us—lying serenely nearby and lazily picking up on the good vibes, as we do our routine. The intelligent dog senses just when we are done, as she jumps up to greet us and congratulate us on yet another day of gathering the benefits of universal energy. The cat just lies among the leaves nearby, immobile, watching for errant birds that might be a wee bit inattentive and vulnerable to seizure.
A squirrel likes to gambol in one of those overhead oaks. It is very sassy. It looks down (literally) upon us, knowing that the cat could quickly dispatch it, but also knowing that high up in its tree, it is quite safe from this nasty feline. The squirrel shows its sass by berating the cat, loudly and lengthily. It scolds and taunts him, as if jeering and daring him to come up and try to catch him. Its racket can threaten our concentration and cause us to chuckle.
In the fall acorns begin to sprout on the oaks that shade us. The squirrel seems to have had the insight that acorns make very nice missiles to drop on a cat, so it bombs away. The cat’s eyes become glued to the squirrel, as it casually proceeds to pluck an acorn and chew off pieces that it deftly drops upon its attentive foe below. In the meantime, we valiantly carry on with our tai chi, trying to ignore the sound of acorn particles pelting the forest floor around us, or trying not to look at the cat and chuckle and loose our place, as we watch him ducking the tiny bombs.
Tai chi is supposed to be a mindful, meditative routine; during which we (try to) single-mindedly assume one of 108 sequential positions, in which we can easily screw up, if our attention gets diverted. (That's a good reason to do it with a partner. When one of us loses concentration and messes up, the other may get you back on track.) It can be very distracting (but hilarious) when a squirrel drops little acorn bombs from above, as it delights in pestering your cat. It’s just one more kind of challenge in learning the Chinese gentle martial arts outdoors.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 2
As I became absorbed by the wonderful evening's performance of the orchestra, I became more attentive and increasingly discerning, as I began to be able to distinguish the subtle qualities of the individual sections of the orchestra. The violin-like section—in the sense that it most often carried the melody—was the higher-pitched "shirring" sound made by the wind gently blowing through tree branches. Often it blossomed into a complete string section of various complementary voices—like violins, violas, and cellos. The sound of the wind shirring through pine branches is akin to an airy-sounding whistle. It was the violins, I realized. The bare branches of deciduous trees (it was late November, with no leaves on the trees) shirred at a bit lower pitch, like violas. As the wave moved off through distant trees, the sound was deeper yet; cello-like. The shirring section played in an undulating manner—gently beginning, rising to a crescendo, and then falling back into silence—over and over.
A second wind section was similar to the woodwinds in a human orchestra—creating playful bursts of whirls, as gusts blew by. The sound might be high-pitched like a flute or more like the bold blast of the trumpet section. Their voice would come unexpectedly, and then quickly pass away. This section provided a sometimes-comic voice.
Immediately following the woodwind section, the voice of an almost percussion-like section would rattle nearby. The vortices spun off the gusts would swirl along the ground, kicking up leaves and causing them to rattle and settle back into place.
There was also a baritone and bass woodwind chorus. They sounded out with a sustained, soothing, deep sounding "whoosh"—that came from the collaboration of hundreds of voices, all at a distance. Their gentle undercurrent could be heard only when no louder wave was passing nearby.
From time to time, when all the close-at-hand voices had rested for a moment, I could make out a very distant subtle roaring sound—almost like an airplane flying many miles away. The muted roar of this section of the orchestra felt powerful, but was simultaneously very quiet, since it was so far away. It emitted a sound even steadier than the baritones and basses—as if thousands of gentle wind sounds for many miles around had combined in a continual background chorus.
Suddenly I heard another subdued percussive sound. It was not the wind, but an extremely light, icy form of precipitation that was falling around me: sleet. I could hear it only when all other voices of the orchestra paused for a few moments. The very soft pitter-pat of tiny sleet particles falling on dry leaves was like a distant snare drum, quietly tap-tapping—providing a hushed interlude between the voices of the various wind sections.
A sensational and bonus dimension to my Wind Symphony Orchestra—that no human orchestra offers—was tactile, olfactory, and even visual sensations that it offered. As wind eddies peeled off and whirled through the underbrush, some of them swirled around my head—cooling my cheek and wet head. The breezes kissed me. It was sometimes accompanied by a rich, strong smell of soil and composting leaves. Even though it was dark and cloudy, I could look up and see black tree trunks waving in a deep gray-colored sky—as though the trees were conducting the symphony that whirled around me.
Most of my neighbors would laugh at my suggestion of a local symphony orchestra. But they don't pause to sit outside in the dark on a cold winter’s night and get very quiet. The orchestra could be performing its beautiful symphony all around them, but would remain unheard, as they hurry inside. The only creatures listening are a few wild critters and me. We're all grateful for the splendid concert.
A second wind section was similar to the woodwinds in a human orchestra—creating playful bursts of whirls, as gusts blew by. The sound might be high-pitched like a flute or more like the bold blast of the trumpet section. Their voice would come unexpectedly, and then quickly pass away. This section provided a sometimes-comic voice.
Immediately following the woodwind section, the voice of an almost percussion-like section would rattle nearby. The vortices spun off the gusts would swirl along the ground, kicking up leaves and causing them to rattle and settle back into place.
There was also a baritone and bass woodwind chorus. They sounded out with a sustained, soothing, deep sounding "whoosh"—that came from the collaboration of hundreds of voices, all at a distance. Their gentle undercurrent could be heard only when no louder wave was passing nearby.
From time to time, when all the close-at-hand voices had rested for a moment, I could make out a very distant subtle roaring sound—almost like an airplane flying many miles away. The muted roar of this section of the orchestra felt powerful, but was simultaneously very quiet, since it was so far away. It emitted a sound even steadier than the baritones and basses—as if thousands of gentle wind sounds for many miles around had combined in a continual background chorus.
Suddenly I heard another subdued percussive sound. It was not the wind, but an extremely light, icy form of precipitation that was falling around me: sleet. I could hear it only when all other voices of the orchestra paused for a few moments. The very soft pitter-pat of tiny sleet particles falling on dry leaves was like a distant snare drum, quietly tap-tapping—providing a hushed interlude between the voices of the various wind sections.
A sensational and bonus dimension to my Wind Symphony Orchestra—that no human orchestra offers—was tactile, olfactory, and even visual sensations that it offered. As wind eddies peeled off and whirled through the underbrush, some of them swirled around my head—cooling my cheek and wet head. The breezes kissed me. It was sometimes accompanied by a rich, strong smell of soil and composting leaves. Even though it was dark and cloudy, I could look up and see black tree trunks waving in a deep gray-colored sky—as though the trees were conducting the symphony that whirled around me.
Most of my neighbors would laugh at my suggestion of a local symphony orchestra. But they don't pause to sit outside in the dark on a cold winter’s night and get very quiet. The orchestra could be performing its beautiful symphony all around them, but would remain unheard, as they hurry inside. The only creatures listening are a few wild critters and me. We're all grateful for the splendid concert.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 1
The “downtown” center of my little corner of an Appalachian backcountry county is an intersection containing a small grocery store and one house. We live half a mile away, by the crow’s route, but over three miles by car. It's a community that can be found only on a very local map. It has two unique attributes. The one that most local folks will tell you about is the artesian spring across from the store—where water endlessly flows from a steel pipe. As the story goes, someone tried drilling for oil, several generations back. They never struck black gold, but after going down many hundreds of feet, they tapped into a perpetual (so far, anyway) supply of pure water. Some folks still stop there to fill their jugs up with the clean, cold water.
The second attraction of my community is its Wind Symphony Orchestra. That's right—our tiny burg has its very own wind orchestra! Ask any local other than me, however, and they'd stare at you, puzzled. They might even hoot over such a silly thought.
However, our Wind Symphony Orchestra is for real. I've listened to its fine performances many times. My peak music treat came on a winter’s night last year, as I was soaking contentedly in the hot tub. It was a dark, breezy evening—with gentle waves of wind wafting through the surrounding woods. As I lay back in the tub, I fell into my usual deep relaxation. My mind dropped all trivial thoughts, as my attention turned to the complexly-blended sounds of the wind moving through the forest.
The breeze was slightly unsteady, but soft. Waves would periodically move through the trees. I could hear them coming from a half mile or more distant. They would approach, whoosh quietly by me, and flow off down the hollow. Small, abrupt gusts would intermittently speed by, whistling through the trees and kicking up dry leaves. Whirls of eddies would spin off these gusts and twirl around me, causing leaves to leap up and dance in circles. One gentle wind after another would crest, spill, spread, and then quietly dissipate. For long moments between them silence would rule—an utter stillness in the air. Then I'd hear the far-off hush of the next wave headed towards me. My mind's eye would go out to it and ride along, as it sailed my way, through the woods.
The night's soothing breeze wrote the score for my Wind Symphony Orchestra. It was a concerto of many movements—each one related to the others in a coherent, creative masterpiece. The passing waves were played out by the various musical movements—all adagio. They were then punctuated by brief, gusty allegros that enthusiastically offset the slower, wavelike parts of the score.
My Wind Symphony Orchestra contains several sections—most all of them made up, of course, of wind instruments. There are hardly any drums, cymbals or other impulsive percussion; I guess we can’t afford them in such a small community. The ebb and flow of the symphony they were playing featured, in a beautifully rotating manner, the orchestra's various wind sections. I could hear the melody shift from section to section, as the surrounding instruments played a gentle backdrop to the main theme. Now there might be a single wind section playing its solo. Now a duet between two sections. Now the whole orchestra building into a grand crescendo, in a magnificent blending of voices.
More on the symphony next time…
The second attraction of my community is its Wind Symphony Orchestra. That's right—our tiny burg has its very own wind orchestra! Ask any local other than me, however, and they'd stare at you, puzzled. They might even hoot over such a silly thought.
However, our Wind Symphony Orchestra is for real. I've listened to its fine performances many times. My peak music treat came on a winter’s night last year, as I was soaking contentedly in the hot tub. It was a dark, breezy evening—with gentle waves of wind wafting through the surrounding woods. As I lay back in the tub, I fell into my usual deep relaxation. My mind dropped all trivial thoughts, as my attention turned to the complexly-blended sounds of the wind moving through the forest.
The breeze was slightly unsteady, but soft. Waves would periodically move through the trees. I could hear them coming from a half mile or more distant. They would approach, whoosh quietly by me, and flow off down the hollow. Small, abrupt gusts would intermittently speed by, whistling through the trees and kicking up dry leaves. Whirls of eddies would spin off these gusts and twirl around me, causing leaves to leap up and dance in circles. One gentle wind after another would crest, spill, spread, and then quietly dissipate. For long moments between them silence would rule—an utter stillness in the air. Then I'd hear the far-off hush of the next wave headed towards me. My mind's eye would go out to it and ride along, as it sailed my way, through the woods.
The night's soothing breeze wrote the score for my Wind Symphony Orchestra. It was a concerto of many movements—each one related to the others in a coherent, creative masterpiece. The passing waves were played out by the various musical movements—all adagio. They were then punctuated by brief, gusty allegros that enthusiastically offset the slower, wavelike parts of the score.
My Wind Symphony Orchestra contains several sections—most all of them made up, of course, of wind instruments. There are hardly any drums, cymbals or other impulsive percussion; I guess we can’t afford them in such a small community. The ebb and flow of the symphony they were playing featured, in a beautifully rotating manner, the orchestra's various wind sections. I could hear the melody shift from section to section, as the surrounding instruments played a gentle backdrop to the main theme. Now there might be a single wind section playing its solo. Now a duet between two sections. Now the whole orchestra building into a grand crescendo, in a magnificent blending of voices.
More on the symphony next time…
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 3 (and final)
I did finally get some helpful guidance on academic Websites. Fred is apparently a field cricket, rather than a house cricket. (Pardon me while I lay down some dry scientific cricket trivia here—but I can’t resist.) House crickets are brown and smaller than their black field cousins. Fred was very black. Field crickets come in at least two flavors: Gryllus veletis and Gryllus pennsylvanicus. Which one was Fred? Again I was able to hone in on Fred’s family tree, since G. veletis overwinters as a mid-sized juvenile nymph and matures in the spring. (G. pennsylvanicus overwinters as an egg, and Fred ain’t no egg.) Fred’s type like to overwinter in “moist, firm soil.” I guess that’s what he was seeking when he emerged from under the stereo. He was looking up at me and inquiring if I’d seen any moldy dirt lately—he’d found only dry dust balls under the stereo.
Here’s the neat exoskeleton part: Nymphs, according to the Ohio State University website, “… resemble adults, except are smaller and wingless, molt eight to nine times [!] and reach adulthood in about 90 days.” Ohio State gave me another sign to check out: at each molt, a cricket’s poop gets larger. I could measure the size of Fred’s poop and compare it to pre-molt! This was getting fun.
I learned even more about Fred’s habits at related sites. Crickets, one Website explained, “… eat plants, dead insects, seeds, leather, paper, and old cloth (especially if the cloth is stained by food or perspiration). They are particularly fond of wool and silk.” Hey, I could begin to vary Fred’s diet! I immediately tore off the corner of a soiled paper napkin I’d been using and dropped it in as a treat. Several days later Fred had not touched it. I guess the grass was greener.
Another Website said that crickets’ powerful legs allow them to leap as high as three feet. Hmmm… maybe Fred had grasped the properties of his glass-walled home but concluded it also had a glass roof. If he tried such a great leap, he might just hurt himself, banging up against his very own glass ceiling.
Another site said that cricket legs are so strong that cricket fighting was an ancient and popular form of entertainment in China. A prospective champion cricket owner would starve his tiny gladiator for several days before tossing him into the ring, to face another equally hungry and mean fighter. I assured Fred that I was horrified at such barbarity.
Yet another Website described how spiders have real respect for those fierce cricket legs. If a cricket happens to get caught in a spider web, “… the spider takes great care to wrap webbing around it before moving in for the paralyzing bite. If the spider gets impatient, a swift kick from those powerful jumping legs could gravely wound the spider.” Aha! That’s why the spider left the fish bowl after a few days! It understood that Fred could kick its butt. I like to think that I helped Fred resist the potential spider assaults by providing him a cozy home that had allowed him to store up enough sleep that he could stay awake nights—one eye cocked in the spider’s direction, just waiting for a threatening move. He did seem to sleep more, after the spider left.
Only male crickets chirp, and they do so by rubbing one serrated-edged wing against the other—ever faster as the temperature rises. So how do I know that Fred is a male, when he had exercised his right to remain silent? Because one of the Websites showed that the female had a long ovipositor (the tube that deposits her eggs) protruding from her hind end. Fred had just a cute, round little butt… no ovipositor. Before determining my cricket friend’s gender, I had not named it. When “it” became “Fred”, the bond deepened.
Finally, one fascinating piece of information I gathered from one Website is that crickets spend their days out of sight—under a stone or in a shallow burrow. That information told me that maybe Fred was a little uncomfortable being exposed all day long in a fish bowl (sort of a “fish bowl exposure,” one could say), so I built him a three-walled house with tiny roof from an old matchbox; a wee cricket-port. Five minutes after I placed it in the corner of his bowl, Fred had retreated inside.
When spring’s warmth returned I carried Fred’s fishbowl outside and tipped it over. I stood back as he finally discovered that his glass ceiling was, in fact, nonexistent. (Maybe he knew that, and simply preferred to be fed regularly?) Slowly he edged towards the opening, jumped daintily onto the greening grass, and scurried under cover. He didn’t pause to wave an antenna or even to bow in my direction, but I waved him on, hoping that he would now be strong enough to mate and carry on his family tradition.
Here’s the neat exoskeleton part: Nymphs, according to the Ohio State University website, “… resemble adults, except are smaller and wingless, molt eight to nine times [!] and reach adulthood in about 90 days.” Ohio State gave me another sign to check out: at each molt, a cricket’s poop gets larger. I could measure the size of Fred’s poop and compare it to pre-molt! This was getting fun.
I learned even more about Fred’s habits at related sites. Crickets, one Website explained, “… eat plants, dead insects, seeds, leather, paper, and old cloth (especially if the cloth is stained by food or perspiration). They are particularly fond of wool and silk.” Hey, I could begin to vary Fred’s diet! I immediately tore off the corner of a soiled paper napkin I’d been using and dropped it in as a treat. Several days later Fred had not touched it. I guess the grass was greener.
Another Website said that crickets’ powerful legs allow them to leap as high as three feet. Hmmm… maybe Fred had grasped the properties of his glass-walled home but concluded it also had a glass roof. If he tried such a great leap, he might just hurt himself, banging up against his very own glass ceiling.
Another site said that cricket legs are so strong that cricket fighting was an ancient and popular form of entertainment in China. A prospective champion cricket owner would starve his tiny gladiator for several days before tossing him into the ring, to face another equally hungry and mean fighter. I assured Fred that I was horrified at such barbarity.
Yet another Website described how spiders have real respect for those fierce cricket legs. If a cricket happens to get caught in a spider web, “… the spider takes great care to wrap webbing around it before moving in for the paralyzing bite. If the spider gets impatient, a swift kick from those powerful jumping legs could gravely wound the spider.” Aha! That’s why the spider left the fish bowl after a few days! It understood that Fred could kick its butt. I like to think that I helped Fred resist the potential spider assaults by providing him a cozy home that had allowed him to store up enough sleep that he could stay awake nights—one eye cocked in the spider’s direction, just waiting for a threatening move. He did seem to sleep more, after the spider left.
Only male crickets chirp, and they do so by rubbing one serrated-edged wing against the other—ever faster as the temperature rises. So how do I know that Fred is a male, when he had exercised his right to remain silent? Because one of the Websites showed that the female had a long ovipositor (the tube that deposits her eggs) protruding from her hind end. Fred had just a cute, round little butt… no ovipositor. Before determining my cricket friend’s gender, I had not named it. When “it” became “Fred”, the bond deepened.
Finally, one fascinating piece of information I gathered from one Website is that crickets spend their days out of sight—under a stone or in a shallow burrow. That information told me that maybe Fred was a little uncomfortable being exposed all day long in a fish bowl (sort of a “fish bowl exposure,” one could say), so I built him a three-walled house with tiny roof from an old matchbox; a wee cricket-port. Five minutes after I placed it in the corner of his bowl, Fred had retreated inside.
When spring’s warmth returned I carried Fred’s fishbowl outside and tipped it over. I stood back as he finally discovered that his glass ceiling was, in fact, nonexistent. (Maybe he knew that, and simply preferred to be fed regularly?) Slowly he edged towards the opening, jumped daintily onto the greening grass, and scurried under cover. He didn’t pause to wave an antenna or even to bow in my direction, but I waved him on, hoping that he would now be strong enough to mate and carry on his family tradition.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 2
One morning when I checked in on Fred, I noticed a spider inside the fish bowl. It had weaved a web, just off the bottom, and was waiting, immobile, off to one side. Was this Charlotte’s cousin—come to translate Fred’s message to me? Or was it looking to Fred as a very large meal—just waiting for an opportunity to pounce and wrap Fred up for storage? I watched the spider—about half the size of its bowl companion—over the next several days. The only time I saw it move was when I trickled a few drops of water into the bowl for Fred. When the drops hit the spider’s web, it charged out to the center, hoping it’d snared some prey.
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
Friday, November 12, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 1
A few years ago I read a book that strongly impacted me—The Voice of the Infinite in the Small: Re-Visioning the Insect-Human Connection, by Joanne Elizabeth Lauck. Its message: we humans have long considered all animals as “other,” as well as being below us. This has been especially true for insects. We dislike them, regard them as pests, see them as useless, and have committed great harm to them. Lauck’s book is a celebration of the insect world, wherein she shows us the beauty, the wonder, and the wisdom of insects. It was a life-changing book for me.
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Diverse Divers
Fall is a very active time of year—certainly not as active as spring, but there’s still a lot going on. Insects are closing down their season—many of them preparing to die, once eggs or pupae are set to carry on next spring’s generations. A few insects will go into a deep sleep, to awaken again when the weather warms. Some animals are fattening up for hibernation. A few species of birds are also loading up on food, in preparation for migrating to warmer climes.
One of the most obvious fall transformations that we humans are inclined to notice is the changing color of leaves of deciduous trees—from summer’s green to the many shades of red, yellow, and brown. A deciduous tree’s method of coping with winter is to become dormant—its leaves are too vulnerable to go through a harsh winter, so the tree drops them and hunkers down for a few months.
During summer the leaves have been manufacturing sugars and other nutrients—fueled by the sun and transformed by green chlorophyll. As the tree prepares for winter it first withdraws chlorophyll from the leaves, to be stored and used again when it reawakens in the spring. Some deciduous trees—such as maples—send out anthocyanin during the summer, to discourage insects from eating its leaves. Anthocyanin causes the blazing red color, when the chlorophyll is withdrawn. Other trees use other chemicals to ward off insects (oaks use tannin), and their leaves turn yellow or brown in the fall.
The leaves, robbed of their life-giving chlorophyll, soon die, dry, get cut off from their mother tree, and then fall (that’s the season!) to the ground. I love to sit and watch leaves fly, float, flap, and dive downward—especially when the wind has not dislodged them. The wind causes hundreds to fill the air at once and I can’t follow any single leaf. When the air is still, however, individual leaves break loose and begin their final swan dive. I become almost mesmerized by them. Each one is absolutely unique. Their shape is the main cause of their diverse flight paths—whether they are flat or curled, whether they fall straight down or soar like a paper airplane.
A leaf may begin with a straight dive, then suddenly slip sideways and start to twirl and tumble. Its path can take on intricate patterns, as it descends. Some leaves seem to want to get their dive quickly over, to nestle with their pals on the forest floor. Some seem to try to delay their landing as long as possible, by fluttering slowly this way, then slipping leisurely that way—executing a slow-motion dive. Some flip over and over, while others spin and still others float placidly downward, never once rotating.
Sometimes, as I watch a leaf break from its twig and begin its final voyage, I try to guess what its flight path might be. I’m rarely right. Every leaf seems to pick its own path and then maybe change its mind on the way down. The leaves have spent half a year stuck to the same spot and this is their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fly, and many of them merrily soar, while others just dejectedly drop. In fact, many leaves of an oak tree refuse to let go at all in the fall. They stoically hang on all winter and are forced off by next spring’s new growth.
Sometimes I chuckle at how simple my pleasures have become, when I realize that I’ve just passed a quarter-hour absorbed in the infinitely diverse ways in which leaves tumble earthward. It beats the hell out of a television commercial!
One of the most obvious fall transformations that we humans are inclined to notice is the changing color of leaves of deciduous trees—from summer’s green to the many shades of red, yellow, and brown. A deciduous tree’s method of coping with winter is to become dormant—its leaves are too vulnerable to go through a harsh winter, so the tree drops them and hunkers down for a few months.
During summer the leaves have been manufacturing sugars and other nutrients—fueled by the sun and transformed by green chlorophyll. As the tree prepares for winter it first withdraws chlorophyll from the leaves, to be stored and used again when it reawakens in the spring. Some deciduous trees—such as maples—send out anthocyanin during the summer, to discourage insects from eating its leaves. Anthocyanin causes the blazing red color, when the chlorophyll is withdrawn. Other trees use other chemicals to ward off insects (oaks use tannin), and their leaves turn yellow or brown in the fall.
The leaves, robbed of their life-giving chlorophyll, soon die, dry, get cut off from their mother tree, and then fall (that’s the season!) to the ground. I love to sit and watch leaves fly, float, flap, and dive downward—especially when the wind has not dislodged them. The wind causes hundreds to fill the air at once and I can’t follow any single leaf. When the air is still, however, individual leaves break loose and begin their final swan dive. I become almost mesmerized by them. Each one is absolutely unique. Their shape is the main cause of their diverse flight paths—whether they are flat or curled, whether they fall straight down or soar like a paper airplane.
A leaf may begin with a straight dive, then suddenly slip sideways and start to twirl and tumble. Its path can take on intricate patterns, as it descends. Some leaves seem to want to get their dive quickly over, to nestle with their pals on the forest floor. Some seem to try to delay their landing as long as possible, by fluttering slowly this way, then slipping leisurely that way—executing a slow-motion dive. Some flip over and over, while others spin and still others float placidly downward, never once rotating.
Sometimes, as I watch a leaf break from its twig and begin its final voyage, I try to guess what its flight path might be. I’m rarely right. Every leaf seems to pick its own path and then maybe change its mind on the way down. The leaves have spent half a year stuck to the same spot and this is their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fly, and many of them merrily soar, while others just dejectedly drop. In fact, many leaves of an oak tree refuse to let go at all in the fall. They stoically hang on all winter and are forced off by next spring’s new growth.
Sometimes I chuckle at how simple my pleasures have become, when I realize that I’ve just passed a quarter-hour absorbed in the infinitely diverse ways in which leaves tumble earthward. It beats the hell out of a television commercial!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Stay-at-home Cardinals
In an earlier posting I described how our local pair of cardinals succeeded in fostering three broods this summer—an uncommon occurrence. To succeed in raising three broods is a good sign that mom and pop are healthy. I watched the fledglings from the first two broods disperse shortly after they left the nest. Their parents were about to start a follow-up brood and didn’t have time to coddle the previous batch, who by then knew how to fly and maybe even fend for themselves. It’s a tough world in the avian kingdom—babies don’t get pampered at all and thus the mortality rate for them is quite high, in those first few critical weeks after fledging. They fly off to locate new territory, but are very vulnerable to predators or starvation, until they learn some critical skills.
This third and final batch of offspring from our resident cardinal parents has hung around much longer than their older siblings. It’s a month or more since they fledged and they’re still loitering at the feeder. They are also beginning to molt and change into their winter colors. All cardinal young are drab colored—much like mom. As the fall ensues, they begin to replace some feathers through the molting process, and begin to acquire their adult plumage, which will not be completed until the next spring, following a couple more molts.
Two of the last three juveniles appear to be males, as their plumage is gradually getting a brighter red. I’m guessing that the third sibling is female, as she’s staying pretty drab colored, like mom. I’ve never seen the youngsters hang around this long, so I’m closely watching them, to see what will happen next.
Dispersal of the young is something that must occur for all species. Why? First, the parents may have claimed the only productive territory in the immediate vicinity, so the kids must leave in order to find their own habitat. Second, all animal species have adapted behaviors that discourage inbreeding, to keep the species healthy and robust. The way that happens is either the parents abandon the kids (if the parents do not have a home territory to defend) or the juveniles disperse. That way, family members are far less likely to breed with each other. In fact, for most songbirds, the young females tend to fly off farther than their brothers, which helps to reduce possible sister-brother inbreeding. The techniques Mother Nature has evolved are amazing!
It’s been very difficult for ornithologists to follow the dispersal habits of songbirds, because they leave the immediate area for parts unknown. How far must one try to track them? Recent technology has developed an ultra-light radio transmitter that is beginning to reveal how young songbirds disperse, so some of the mysteries will soon be solved.
So I will keep watching my cardinal family. A key question: Why has the last batch of kids stayed home thus far? I think I see dad trying to shoo them off at times, but I’m not sure that’s what’s really happening; maybe he’s just in a bad mood. Will the kids hang around all winter? The feeder sure seems to be a magnet for them. Are they still here because they’ve tried to find their own territory, but have been rebuffed by their older siblings or other unrelated cardinals?
If they stay, they might decide to help mom and dad raise more broods next summer. By doing so, youngsters can either help family genes move into the future (the main objective of any species) and/or learn nesting skills that will help them to be more successful parents the following year. I guess I’ll have to keep a close eye on this cardinal family—they’ve obviously got more to teach me.
This third and final batch of offspring from our resident cardinal parents has hung around much longer than their older siblings. It’s a month or more since they fledged and they’re still loitering at the feeder. They are also beginning to molt and change into their winter colors. All cardinal young are drab colored—much like mom. As the fall ensues, they begin to replace some feathers through the molting process, and begin to acquire their adult plumage, which will not be completed until the next spring, following a couple more molts.
Two of the last three juveniles appear to be males, as their plumage is gradually getting a brighter red. I’m guessing that the third sibling is female, as she’s staying pretty drab colored, like mom. I’ve never seen the youngsters hang around this long, so I’m closely watching them, to see what will happen next.
Dispersal of the young is something that must occur for all species. Why? First, the parents may have claimed the only productive territory in the immediate vicinity, so the kids must leave in order to find their own habitat. Second, all animal species have adapted behaviors that discourage inbreeding, to keep the species healthy and robust. The way that happens is either the parents abandon the kids (if the parents do not have a home territory to defend) or the juveniles disperse. That way, family members are far less likely to breed with each other. In fact, for most songbirds, the young females tend to fly off farther than their brothers, which helps to reduce possible sister-brother inbreeding. The techniques Mother Nature has evolved are amazing!
It’s been very difficult for ornithologists to follow the dispersal habits of songbirds, because they leave the immediate area for parts unknown. How far must one try to track them? Recent technology has developed an ultra-light radio transmitter that is beginning to reveal how young songbirds disperse, so some of the mysteries will soon be solved.
So I will keep watching my cardinal family. A key question: Why has the last batch of kids stayed home thus far? I think I see dad trying to shoo them off at times, but I’m not sure that’s what’s really happening; maybe he’s just in a bad mood. Will the kids hang around all winter? The feeder sure seems to be a magnet for them. Are they still here because they’ve tried to find their own territory, but have been rebuffed by their older siblings or other unrelated cardinals?
If they stay, they might decide to help mom and dad raise more broods next summer. By doing so, youngsters can either help family genes move into the future (the main objective of any species) and/or learn nesting skills that will help them to be more successful parents the following year. I guess I’ll have to keep a close eye on this cardinal family—they’ve obviously got more to teach me.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Let It Go to Have It
The older I get, the more I seem to encounter paradoxes—those statements that at first glance seem to be absurd, but upon further reflection reveal a deeper truth. When I was younger and more rushed, I rarely paused long enough to explore a possible paradoxical statement for its truth. In addition, I bought into the tendency in the western world to think along dualistic lines: when two apparently opposing ideas are expressed in the same context, one must be true and the other false. It’s either black or white; no shades of gray are allowed, let alone consider both polarities.
Life is replete, however, with nuances, subtleties, and contradictions—if we take the time to appreciate them. And the epitome of an apparently incongruous situation is a paradox. I have come to enjoy paradoxes, because they invite me to open up my thinking and find hidden layers of meaning in things—layers I would have missed had I quickly seized on a shallower meaning, grabbed one alternative, and then rushed on to the next encounter.
One such paradoxical statement came to me recently, as I was soaking in the outdoor tub: “Let it go to have it; give it up to get it.” At first glance that does sound absurd. If I give something up I no longer have it, do I? If I let it go, it’s gone, isn’t it? If we are referring to material things, such a statement is indeed illogical.
But how about when we’re talking of nonmaterial things like truth and love? These are things that we can never own or hold onto. If I try to capture or own truth or love, they will inevitably slip away from me, or I’ll perpetually find them just beyond my grasp.
Things of real value are also (another paradox here) free. What’s more, they are everywhere. We are surrounded by them. All we need do is recognize their availability and invite them in for a visit. If I let truth go—in the sense of abandoning any attempt to corral it for myself—I’ll discover that it’ll become a part of me. If I give up love—in the sense of showing care and compassion for others—I’ll become bathed in it.
The Tao Te Ching (the spiritual teachings of Taoism) is a paradoxical book. Written some 2500 years ago in China, it’s a small, straightforward text—yet a little puzzling and even somewhat inaccessible to 21st century Americans. Stephen Mitchell has a version, however, that is beautifully understandable. A few excerpts from Mitchell’s Tao Te Ching that express the paradox of “let it go to have it” are:
* “Therefore the Master… lets things arise and she lets them come;/ Things disappear and she lets them go./ She has but doesn’t possess,/ Acts but doesn’t expect.”
* “…the ancient masters said,/ ‘If you want to be given everything, give up everything’…”
* “The mark of a moderate man/ Is freedom from his own ideas…/Nothing is impossible for him,/ Because he has let go…”
* “Rushing into action, you fail./ Trying to grasp things, you lose them./ Therefore the Master… has nothing,/ Thus has nothing to lose.”
Life is replete, however, with nuances, subtleties, and contradictions—if we take the time to appreciate them. And the epitome of an apparently incongruous situation is a paradox. I have come to enjoy paradoxes, because they invite me to open up my thinking and find hidden layers of meaning in things—layers I would have missed had I quickly seized on a shallower meaning, grabbed one alternative, and then rushed on to the next encounter.
One such paradoxical statement came to me recently, as I was soaking in the outdoor tub: “Let it go to have it; give it up to get it.” At first glance that does sound absurd. If I give something up I no longer have it, do I? If I let it go, it’s gone, isn’t it? If we are referring to material things, such a statement is indeed illogical.
But how about when we’re talking of nonmaterial things like truth and love? These are things that we can never own or hold onto. If I try to capture or own truth or love, they will inevitably slip away from me, or I’ll perpetually find them just beyond my grasp.
Things of real value are also (another paradox here) free. What’s more, they are everywhere. We are surrounded by them. All we need do is recognize their availability and invite them in for a visit. If I let truth go—in the sense of abandoning any attempt to corral it for myself—I’ll discover that it’ll become a part of me. If I give up love—in the sense of showing care and compassion for others—I’ll become bathed in it.
The Tao Te Ching (the spiritual teachings of Taoism) is a paradoxical book. Written some 2500 years ago in China, it’s a small, straightforward text—yet a little puzzling and even somewhat inaccessible to 21st century Americans. Stephen Mitchell has a version, however, that is beautifully understandable. A few excerpts from Mitchell’s Tao Te Ching that express the paradox of “let it go to have it” are:
* “Therefore the Master… lets things arise and she lets them come;/ Things disappear and she lets them go./ She has but doesn’t possess,/ Acts but doesn’t expect.”
* “…the ancient masters said,/ ‘If you want to be given everything, give up everything’…”
* “The mark of a moderate man/ Is freedom from his own ideas…/Nothing is impossible for him,/ Because he has let go…”
* “Rushing into action, you fail./ Trying to grasp things, you lose them./ Therefore the Master… has nothing,/ Thus has nothing to lose.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Gossiping Finches
Goldfinches are fun to watch and to listen to. Over the summer the males flaunt such a bright yellow hue that your eye cannot help but follow one when it flies by. They are very cute, and their antics—when a group of them forms—are comical. But they also are fun to listen to, as they gossip softly among themselves.
Most of our birds call out in a solitary voice—shouting their song to the four winds in an elaborate display of bravado and testosterone. They are either warning potential rivals to stay away or cockily showing off their vocal talents. Goldfinches, however, are more likely to gather in a group and gently gossip. Both males and females participate in this arboreal klatch. You hear a calm, melodic chattering back and forth—what my bird book calls “soft contact notes.”
It’s easy to overlook their discussions, as they are quiet and sweet. A crow’s raucous call is far more likely to grab your attention. I paused the other day, as I became aware of a gathering of gossiping finches in the woods. They are a small bird, and against the fall yellow leaves I was unable to spot them, so I tuned into their chattering.
At first their jabbering sounded random and arbitrary, but as I listened I could discern an ebb and flow to the chatter—almost a kind of message, or a call-and-response process. It seemed as if they were not mindlessly yakking, but even listening to each other and responding. It was as if I were transported to Greece and overheard a group of folks carrying on a conversation on a street corner, where I could follow the tone but not the meaning. I even began to imagine what their finchy conversations might be about, but stopped myself from going there. One can go a little overboard in the anthropocentric projection game.
After a few minutes it seemed as if three voices came to dominate the conversation. I think I was able to distinguish three distinctive styles of “soft contact notes.” Then, still unable to spot the finches, I heard one of the three voices move off deeper into the woods and fade away. The other two voices soon did the same, slowly decaying into the forest. Did I really hear what I think I did? Was I really able to discern individual birds and were these finches continuing to call as they flew off?
I consulted one of my bird books and read that finches are one of the few species of birds that emit flight calls, and that these calls are “distinctive enough that one can identify individuals.” They have a “wide repertoire of songs that are learned, rather than innate.” So I was hearing three individual birds who then flew off, continuing to sing! There’s a thrill I get when I am able to distinguish individual animals, rather than have them all look and sound the same. It brings them closer to me.
Most of our birds call out in a solitary voice—shouting their song to the four winds in an elaborate display of bravado and testosterone. They are either warning potential rivals to stay away or cockily showing off their vocal talents. Goldfinches, however, are more likely to gather in a group and gently gossip. Both males and females participate in this arboreal klatch. You hear a calm, melodic chattering back and forth—what my bird book calls “soft contact notes.”
It’s easy to overlook their discussions, as they are quiet and sweet. A crow’s raucous call is far more likely to grab your attention. I paused the other day, as I became aware of a gathering of gossiping finches in the woods. They are a small bird, and against the fall yellow leaves I was unable to spot them, so I tuned into their chattering.
At first their jabbering sounded random and arbitrary, but as I listened I could discern an ebb and flow to the chatter—almost a kind of message, or a call-and-response process. It seemed as if they were not mindlessly yakking, but even listening to each other and responding. It was as if I were transported to Greece and overheard a group of folks carrying on a conversation on a street corner, where I could follow the tone but not the meaning. I even began to imagine what their finchy conversations might be about, but stopped myself from going there. One can go a little overboard in the anthropocentric projection game.
After a few minutes it seemed as if three voices came to dominate the conversation. I think I was able to distinguish three distinctive styles of “soft contact notes.” Then, still unable to spot the finches, I heard one of the three voices move off deeper into the woods and fade away. The other two voices soon did the same, slowly decaying into the forest. Did I really hear what I think I did? Was I really able to discern individual birds and were these finches continuing to call as they flew off?
I consulted one of my bird books and read that finches are one of the few species of birds that emit flight calls, and that these calls are “distinctive enough that one can identify individuals.” They have a “wide repertoire of songs that are learned, rather than innate.” So I was hearing three individual birds who then flew off, continuing to sing! There’s a thrill I get when I am able to distinguish individual animals, rather than have them all look and sound the same. It brings them closer to me.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Dumb Dogs
I posted a blog (1/4/10, “Dumb Cats”) that poked some fun at my sister and her blind fondness of cats. I cited the results of an impeccable English research team that concluded that dogs are smarter than cats. I got surprisingly little flack from my sister for that posting (I guess she either agreed with me or forgivingly tolerated my assault), although another family member vehemently objected. Oh well, you can fool some of the family all of the time, all of the family some of the time, but there’s always a clinker in the closet.
Intelligence—being a very subjective and even somewhat arbitrary measure—is a topic few of us can agree upon (which is why I referred to the scholarly study of the Brits). Your cat may be dumb but mine is the epitome of perspicacity. My cat even leaves your dog in the ditch.
Granting that intelligence is a relative thing, I will acknowledge—in an even-handed, broad-minded manner—that dogs can be pretty dumb too. (Although mine is very smart.) I recently had a lesson in the difference in cognitive power between dogs and coyotes. It is a fact that domesticated critters are dumber than their wild counterparts. Long ago humans selectively bred a few animals—dogs, cats, cattle, sheep—to become docile, malleable, submissive, and calm… i.e., dumb.
Coyotes have been smart enough to avoid being controlled by humans—they hang around, just out of sight, and do pretty much what they want to do. Now, some people might argue that dogs (formerly wolves) are more intelligent, since so many of them have humans fawning upon them and pretty much doing their bidding. That, however, is mere selfish manipulation. Not intelligence. That’s pretty much what cats do… it’s sort of a devil’s bargain. The dog may get pampered, but the manipulation goes both ways. Leave a dog in the wilderness and it’d be helpless.
What is my acid test that coyotes outshine dogs? I’ve heard a few coyotes barking on a quiet night. They have a call that at first sounds rather eerie, but as I listen, I find it quite melodic and beautiful. Their yip is uttered only occasionally, it is variable in quality, and it’s almost as if they are singing. I get the feeling that some kind of communication is going on.
A dog’s bark? Well, so many of them are boringly repetitive. It’s just “ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, …” They can’t seem to stop. They sound very stupid and dull, with no imagination or attempt to communicate, other than, “Here I am… dumb old me. Ruff!” These canines are more like a machine than a sentient being.
Intelligence—being a very subjective and even somewhat arbitrary measure—is a topic few of us can agree upon (which is why I referred to the scholarly study of the Brits). Your cat may be dumb but mine is the epitome of perspicacity. My cat even leaves your dog in the ditch.
Granting that intelligence is a relative thing, I will acknowledge—in an even-handed, broad-minded manner—that dogs can be pretty dumb too. (Although mine is very smart.) I recently had a lesson in the difference in cognitive power between dogs and coyotes. It is a fact that domesticated critters are dumber than their wild counterparts. Long ago humans selectively bred a few animals—dogs, cats, cattle, sheep—to become docile, malleable, submissive, and calm… i.e., dumb.
Coyotes have been smart enough to avoid being controlled by humans—they hang around, just out of sight, and do pretty much what they want to do. Now, some people might argue that dogs (formerly wolves) are more intelligent, since so many of them have humans fawning upon them and pretty much doing their bidding. That, however, is mere selfish manipulation. Not intelligence. That’s pretty much what cats do… it’s sort of a devil’s bargain. The dog may get pampered, but the manipulation goes both ways. Leave a dog in the wilderness and it’d be helpless.
What is my acid test that coyotes outshine dogs? I’ve heard a few coyotes barking on a quiet night. They have a call that at first sounds rather eerie, but as I listen, I find it quite melodic and beautiful. Their yip is uttered only occasionally, it is variable in quality, and it’s almost as if they are singing. I get the feeling that some kind of communication is going on.
A dog’s bark? Well, so many of them are boringly repetitive. It’s just “ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, …” They can’t seem to stop. They sound very stupid and dull, with no imagination or attempt to communicate, other than, “Here I am… dumb old me. Ruff!” These canines are more like a machine than a sentient being.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Be No Competition
It is accepted and even admired behavior in western capitalistic cultures to be competitive. Success and a healthy society, we are told, lean heavily on a struggle between contending people and organizations. Competition spawns innovation, hard work, and efficiency—the hallmarks of achievement. It’s the “American way.”
There certainly is truth to the belief in the power of honest competition to stimulate the best effort in people. It’s what has brought millions of immigrants to America—as they fled the stifling environment in their homelands, to have a chance to succeed here through hard work. (We’re all immigrants.) Those who have had the strength and fortitude to get here have helped this country be as successful as it is.
There is, of course, a shadow side to the doctrine of competition. Too often the playing field is not level for all participants and no matter how hard some may work, they stand little chance of succeeding. Those who’ve won a previous round of competition often have a way of stacking the deck so they can take refuge behind their gated communities and eliminate further competition.
Another problematic side to competitive behavior is that it fosters the belief that life is a zero-sum game. This thinking says that there are only so many resources to be had, and if I don’t grab first and win, I’ll lose. One side wins, one side loses—that’s the essence of the zero-sum game. If we buy into this thinking, it fosters greedy behavior. We never think that there is enough for everybody, so we constantly contend for more and more—denying someone their needs.
If we can come to see that life can be a positive-sum game, however, we come to see that win-win situations abound. Rather than automatically falling into competition with others, we can see the benefits of cooperation. Homo sapiens has become as successful a creature as it is, because we’ve cooperated with each other more often than we have competed. How did the pyramids get built? How did the Romans build their aqueducts? How did we become such accomplished farmers? These past successes demanded cooperation.
We can become involved in some pretty fantastic things if we put effort into cooperating with others, rather than compete. If I can interact with others in a way that we engage in a positive-sum game, we’ll find ourselves working together for the benefit of us all. It’s not easy to do. It takes practice and vision. It also means taking a risk.
There certainly is truth to the belief in the power of honest competition to stimulate the best effort in people. It’s what has brought millions of immigrants to America—as they fled the stifling environment in their homelands, to have a chance to succeed here through hard work. (We’re all immigrants.) Those who have had the strength and fortitude to get here have helped this country be as successful as it is.
There is, of course, a shadow side to the doctrine of competition. Too often the playing field is not level for all participants and no matter how hard some may work, they stand little chance of succeeding. Those who’ve won a previous round of competition often have a way of stacking the deck so they can take refuge behind their gated communities and eliminate further competition.
Another problematic side to competitive behavior is that it fosters the belief that life is a zero-sum game. This thinking says that there are only so many resources to be had, and if I don’t grab first and win, I’ll lose. One side wins, one side loses—that’s the essence of the zero-sum game. If we buy into this thinking, it fosters greedy behavior. We never think that there is enough for everybody, so we constantly contend for more and more—denying someone their needs.
If we can come to see that life can be a positive-sum game, however, we come to see that win-win situations abound. Rather than automatically falling into competition with others, we can see the benefits of cooperation. Homo sapiens has become as successful a creature as it is, because we’ve cooperated with each other more often than we have competed. How did the pyramids get built? How did the Romans build their aqueducts? How did we become such accomplished farmers? These past successes demanded cooperation.
We can become involved in some pretty fantastic things if we put effort into cooperating with others, rather than compete. If I can interact with others in a way that we engage in a positive-sum game, we’ll find ourselves working together for the benefit of us all. It’s not easy to do. It takes practice and vision. It also means taking a risk.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Fig-Wasp Mutualism
The deeper biologists delve into the workings of nature, the more they come to appreciate and understand the complexity and entanglement that exists between species. No living entity is in isolation. Every plant and creature has a relationship with and depends upon countless other life forms around it. The web of life connects us all, with varying degrees of interdependency.
Remove one species and there will be manifold types of impact on all species connected to it—even those remotely connected. The web of life has evolved to be so interdependent that if one link is severed, the whole thing might not collapse but it will surely change. We humans are causing the ongoing extinction of numerous species every day, with little comprehension of how we are upsetting the exquisite balance of nature.
Mutualism is the strongest kind of tie between two species, wherein both of them benefit from and depend on each other. Pollination is a common type of mutualism. For example, most flowering plants depend on bees, birds, and bats to spread pollen to other plants of the same species—completing the process of sexual reproduction. In return, the plant may offer the pollinator sweet nectar or some of its pollen for food. If the critter is pleased with the meal, it will fly off—carrying some pollen with it—to seek another plant of the same species, and thus fulfilling the sex act.
Modern agriculture relies heavily on bees for pollination of fruits and vegetables. Many bee colonies are being decimated in the last few years, however, and agricultural folks are in a panic. Is the bee-plant balance being degraded?
Some plant-pollinator mutual relationships evolve to become so specialized that only one kind of insect is able to pollinate one kind of plant. They become completely dependent on each other. If one goes extinct, the other must follow. There are numerous species of tree for which there are no further offspring possible, because their pollinator has died off. On the island of Mauritius, for example, there have been no tambalacoque saplings for some 300 years, because the dodo bird—which once spread the tree’s seeds—went extinct in the late 1600s, having been hunted down by people who arrived on the island. Only ancient tambalacoque trees are left. Soon they may also be gone (unless a new pollinator can step in).
One of the more spectacular examples of complete mutualism exists between fig trees and the wasps that pollinate them. There are some 750 species of fig tree around the world (mostly in tropical climates) and 750 species of wasp—one for each kind of fig. The fruit of the fig is hollow, with one end open and with a tiny array of flowers inside the fruit. The wasp climbs inside, lays her eggs on a flower and promptly dies. Later, her eggs hatch, larva eat some of the flower’s seeds, and pupate. Yet later the adult wasps emerge, mate, and the males then promptly die. The impregnated females—now coated with pollen, as they’ve mucked around inside the flower for some time—fly off to find another fig tree of the same species, crawl inside the fruit, and pollinate its flowers.
I don’t believe that such an exclusive example of mutualism exists around me. Most local plant and animal species are generalists. But I can’t help watching a bee or butterfly, loaded with pollen, and wish that it fly on and visit many kinds of flowers and help to bring about more of them. And I can’t help but wonder what delicate examples of mutualism do exist around here, that are in danger of being interrupted. Every critter is precious!
Remove one species and there will be manifold types of impact on all species connected to it—even those remotely connected. The web of life has evolved to be so interdependent that if one link is severed, the whole thing might not collapse but it will surely change. We humans are causing the ongoing extinction of numerous species every day, with little comprehension of how we are upsetting the exquisite balance of nature.
Mutualism is the strongest kind of tie between two species, wherein both of them benefit from and depend on each other. Pollination is a common type of mutualism. For example, most flowering plants depend on bees, birds, and bats to spread pollen to other plants of the same species—completing the process of sexual reproduction. In return, the plant may offer the pollinator sweet nectar or some of its pollen for food. If the critter is pleased with the meal, it will fly off—carrying some pollen with it—to seek another plant of the same species, and thus fulfilling the sex act.
Modern agriculture relies heavily on bees for pollination of fruits and vegetables. Many bee colonies are being decimated in the last few years, however, and agricultural folks are in a panic. Is the bee-plant balance being degraded?
Some plant-pollinator mutual relationships evolve to become so specialized that only one kind of insect is able to pollinate one kind of plant. They become completely dependent on each other. If one goes extinct, the other must follow. There are numerous species of tree for which there are no further offspring possible, because their pollinator has died off. On the island of Mauritius, for example, there have been no tambalacoque saplings for some 300 years, because the dodo bird—which once spread the tree’s seeds—went extinct in the late 1600s, having been hunted down by people who arrived on the island. Only ancient tambalacoque trees are left. Soon they may also be gone (unless a new pollinator can step in).
One of the more spectacular examples of complete mutualism exists between fig trees and the wasps that pollinate them. There are some 750 species of fig tree around the world (mostly in tropical climates) and 750 species of wasp—one for each kind of fig. The fruit of the fig is hollow, with one end open and with a tiny array of flowers inside the fruit. The wasp climbs inside, lays her eggs on a flower and promptly dies. Later, her eggs hatch, larva eat some of the flower’s seeds, and pupate. Yet later the adult wasps emerge, mate, and the males then promptly die. The impregnated females—now coated with pollen, as they’ve mucked around inside the flower for some time—fly off to find another fig tree of the same species, crawl inside the fruit, and pollinate its flowers.
I don’t believe that such an exclusive example of mutualism exists around me. Most local plant and animal species are generalists. But I can’t help watching a bee or butterfly, loaded with pollen, and wish that it fly on and visit many kinds of flowers and help to bring about more of them. And I can’t help but wonder what delicate examples of mutualism do exist around here, that are in danger of being interrupted. Every critter is precious!
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Our Shrinking Gray Matter
Over the last 20-30 thousand years the human brain has shrunk by about 10%—from 1500 cc to 1350 cc. No one knows why, and few scientists seem to be aware of the fact or even want to look further into the issue. Maybe it challenges one of humanity’s most cherished beliefs: that we humans are the smartest and it’s all due to our big brain. Could it be instead that we are dumbing down? If you take a look at what we humans are doing today, you could make a strong case for our actions being pretty dumb.
We know when our brain began to grow: around two million years ago, when Earth’s environment changed. Vegetation grew drier, and our deep ancestors came down from the trees and also changed. Their brains grew rapidly. It’s not clear why their cranial volume grew, however. The debate continues.
There’s been a tendency for us to think that we need this big brain—else why have it?—as well as to think that we’re most special, just because we have it. After all, aren’t we in charge here? Don’t we pretty much get our way in this world, primarily due to our being so smart? We rule!
Scientists have created a simple measure of an animal’s intelligence that tends to work in most cases: the Encephalization Quotient, or EQ. It’s the ratio of the brain’s weight to body weight. It’s a rough but helpful measure of intelligence, especially when we’re examining the skull sizes of various extinct species and trying to guess how smart they were and what their capabilities might have been. The idea behind EQ is that the larger an animal is, the larger its brain needs to be, just for basic survival skills. Any surplus gray matter presumably can be then used for higher cognitive skills.
Our immediate ancestors—the Cro-Magnon peoples of 20 to 30 thousand years ago—had bigger bodies and bigger brains than we do, so they had about the same EQ as we do. Both our bodies and our brains have shrunk since then. Will this brain-shrinking trend continue—maybe even as our bodies hold steady—and thus make us dumber? Nobody knows.
A big brain has a major advantage: the owner is smarter (in general) and more adaptable—thus is more likely to survive. But a larger cranial volume comes at a cost: the large human brain, for example, hogs about 20% of the food energy that we consume. So having a smaller brain has its own advantage: it requires less food and thus makes life easier.
Other studies suggest that we humans no longer need to be as resourceful as we once had to be—back when we were chasing down gazelles and dodging lions. Our culture has advanced so much that we can be dumber and survive just fine today, since our complex and interdependent societies can provide food and safety beyond what our ancestors knew. Additionally, our computers do a lot of brainwork for us, and machines provide the brawn, so we don’t need either the larger brain or body.
It may also be that we’ve not really lost any intelligence with our smaller brain, just that it has evolved to become more efficient. If so, we could have our brain shrink, require less food, and still be smart enough. We haven’t used but a fraction of our mental capability so far, so we might do just fine with a smaller cranial volume.
Studies also show that creatures with smaller brains tend to be less aggressive. Hmmm… Has our big brain been the thing that has led us to be so violent? Might our species even benefit from a little brain shrinkage?
Domesticated animals—pigs, cattle, goats, dogs, cats—have smaller brains than their wild counterparts. We have bred them for tame qualities, so they are more docile and less aggressive, but that has also made them dumber. It may be that the same is true for us. If smaller brains really do cause us to be more peaceful, then I say let ‘em shrink! We sure could stand to shed a few ounces of aggression.
We know when our brain began to grow: around two million years ago, when Earth’s environment changed. Vegetation grew drier, and our deep ancestors came down from the trees and also changed. Their brains grew rapidly. It’s not clear why their cranial volume grew, however. The debate continues.
There’s been a tendency for us to think that we need this big brain—else why have it?—as well as to think that we’re most special, just because we have it. After all, aren’t we in charge here? Don’t we pretty much get our way in this world, primarily due to our being so smart? We rule!
Scientists have created a simple measure of an animal’s intelligence that tends to work in most cases: the Encephalization Quotient, or EQ. It’s the ratio of the brain’s weight to body weight. It’s a rough but helpful measure of intelligence, especially when we’re examining the skull sizes of various extinct species and trying to guess how smart they were and what their capabilities might have been. The idea behind EQ is that the larger an animal is, the larger its brain needs to be, just for basic survival skills. Any surplus gray matter presumably can be then used for higher cognitive skills.
Our immediate ancestors—the Cro-Magnon peoples of 20 to 30 thousand years ago—had bigger bodies and bigger brains than we do, so they had about the same EQ as we do. Both our bodies and our brains have shrunk since then. Will this brain-shrinking trend continue—maybe even as our bodies hold steady—and thus make us dumber? Nobody knows.
A big brain has a major advantage: the owner is smarter (in general) and more adaptable—thus is more likely to survive. But a larger cranial volume comes at a cost: the large human brain, for example, hogs about 20% of the food energy that we consume. So having a smaller brain has its own advantage: it requires less food and thus makes life easier.
Other studies suggest that we humans no longer need to be as resourceful as we once had to be—back when we were chasing down gazelles and dodging lions. Our culture has advanced so much that we can be dumber and survive just fine today, since our complex and interdependent societies can provide food and safety beyond what our ancestors knew. Additionally, our computers do a lot of brainwork for us, and machines provide the brawn, so we don’t need either the larger brain or body.
It may also be that we’ve not really lost any intelligence with our smaller brain, just that it has evolved to become more efficient. If so, we could have our brain shrink, require less food, and still be smart enough. We haven’t used but a fraction of our mental capability so far, so we might do just fine with a smaller cranial volume.
Studies also show that creatures with smaller brains tend to be less aggressive. Hmmm… Has our big brain been the thing that has led us to be so violent? Might our species even benefit from a little brain shrinkage?
Domesticated animals—pigs, cattle, goats, dogs, cats—have smaller brains than their wild counterparts. We have bred them for tame qualities, so they are more docile and less aggressive, but that has also made them dumber. It may be that the same is true for us. If smaller brains really do cause us to be more peaceful, then I say let ‘em shrink! We sure could stand to shed a few ounces of aggression.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Be No Threat
Our first impression at meeting another person plays a huge role in the nature of our subsequent relationship. How we initially come across to each other creates an immediate reaction that strongly influences what happens next. We have a deeply-ingrained propensity to quickly size up the potential safety or threat at the first instant of encounter and be ready to react.
It’s how our deep ancestors survived. Those who quickly and correctly sized up the situation did better than those who didn’t—particularly when the encounter might be threatening. Those of our hominid forebears who were quick to discern the threat and then quick to jump were more successful at avoiding being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. Those who were a split second too slow became a meal. Their slower-reacting genes went extinct. The evolutionary result is that the human species tends to lean towards the suspicious side, to be very alert, when encountering someone new. Better to be safe than sorry, as the old saw goes. So we’re naturally on our toes when we first meet each other.
This inherited tendency has helped keep the human gene pool going, but it’s also been the cause of many a conflict between people. We can be so on the alert to possible signs of risk that we misunderstand and flinch and overreact to innocent gestures, body language, or unfamiliar words of a stranger. In contrast, we feel we can trust members of our own tribe—we know them, we have existing reasons to trust them, and we have faith that they’re not likely to do us damage. But a stranger is an unknown. And in these times when suspicion of the other gets hyped by panicky people and then promoted by the media, the opportunities for hostility are abundant.
Those who understand the power and principles of nonviolence are well equipped to do a good job of avoiding trouble during that first meeting. They know how to disarm or calm a potentially aggressive individual. Gandhi, Dr. King, Jesus, and others gave us invaluable lessons on how to avoid or resolve conflict. (“Turn the other cheek.”) They taught us that, rather than ramping up the aggression, we can effectively cool down a situation and avoid discord.
There is one simple method we can employ when we meet another person—even those of us who know little about the theory and practice of nonviolence. If we keep in mind the crucial importance of that first instant of meeting a stranger, we can see the wisdom of doing what we can at that moment to be no threat to the other. If we do what we can to make that initial impression as friendly as possible, as non-threatening as we can, we do our best to put the other person at ease. Getting off on a positive note can make all the difference in the world to what happens next. It is even better to take an insult and let it wash off, than to push back.
We have a culture that too often teaches us that to come on strong is the way to be safe. We are told that if we intimidate others, we will be more secure. It’s a tragic lesson that has caused uncountable harm in the world. It’s better that we do what we can to help the other person feel comfortable. We don’t have to like them or cower before them, just be friendly yet stand our ground. “Blessed be the peacemakers; they shall be called God’s children.”
It’s how our deep ancestors survived. Those who quickly and correctly sized up the situation did better than those who didn’t—particularly when the encounter might be threatening. Those of our hominid forebears who were quick to discern the threat and then quick to jump were more successful at avoiding being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. Those who were a split second too slow became a meal. Their slower-reacting genes went extinct. The evolutionary result is that the human species tends to lean towards the suspicious side, to be very alert, when encountering someone new. Better to be safe than sorry, as the old saw goes. So we’re naturally on our toes when we first meet each other.
This inherited tendency has helped keep the human gene pool going, but it’s also been the cause of many a conflict between people. We can be so on the alert to possible signs of risk that we misunderstand and flinch and overreact to innocent gestures, body language, or unfamiliar words of a stranger. In contrast, we feel we can trust members of our own tribe—we know them, we have existing reasons to trust them, and we have faith that they’re not likely to do us damage. But a stranger is an unknown. And in these times when suspicion of the other gets hyped by panicky people and then promoted by the media, the opportunities for hostility are abundant.
Those who understand the power and principles of nonviolence are well equipped to do a good job of avoiding trouble during that first meeting. They know how to disarm or calm a potentially aggressive individual. Gandhi, Dr. King, Jesus, and others gave us invaluable lessons on how to avoid or resolve conflict. (“Turn the other cheek.”) They taught us that, rather than ramping up the aggression, we can effectively cool down a situation and avoid discord.
There is one simple method we can employ when we meet another person—even those of us who know little about the theory and practice of nonviolence. If we keep in mind the crucial importance of that first instant of meeting a stranger, we can see the wisdom of doing what we can at that moment to be no threat to the other. If we do what we can to make that initial impression as friendly as possible, as non-threatening as we can, we do our best to put the other person at ease. Getting off on a positive note can make all the difference in the world to what happens next. It is even better to take an insult and let it wash off, than to push back.
We have a culture that too often teaches us that to come on strong is the way to be safe. We are told that if we intimidate others, we will be more secure. It’s a tragic lesson that has caused uncountable harm in the world. It’s better that we do what we can to help the other person feel comfortable. We don’t have to like them or cower before them, just be friendly yet stand our ground. “Blessed be the peacemakers; they shall be called God’s children.”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wordlessness—Part 2
Another way we can experience wordlessness is to have a moving experience happen to us. If we come face to face with a snake, for example, for a split-second we are utterly beyond words. Even for less dramatic situations—seeing a beautiful bird, having the sun suddenly burst through clouds, hearing a gorgeous piece of music—we may find ourselves completely absorbed and in a wordless state. These events usually are beyond our control. They are visited upon us. Some of them are moments of grace, when we are touched by a power greater than ourselves.
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wordlessness—Part 1
Words are at the core of what it means to be human. They are, by definition, speech sounds that we can make with our voice mechanism in almost endless variations. No other creature has the ability to create so many different sounds and thus build a highly complex way of communicating amongst themselves. With the invention of writing, we further extended our ability to communicate by generating visual symbols of words with which we can create a written record. Printed words are a powerful way that we learn from each other—a unique way that we pass on knowledge.
To be human is to use words. Language is the key to our intelligence. Words are wonderful. And yet, they can also cause problems. When two people use the same word, but have different mental images for it, confusion and even conflict can occur. We sometimes employ words, believing that the other person understands our usage, when in fact they may see things very differently. We might suppose that we are effectively communicating when, in fact, we may perhaps be fueling dissension. We tend to create conventions and rules for words we use and then insist, in an insular manner, that others conform to our concepts and notions.
The mere use of some words invites trouble, depending on the context and who we are talking to. These are called trigger words or hot-button words—such as terrorist, welfare, liberal, abortion, taxes, the Koran, illegal immigrants, and a few more that I don’t wish to write.
Another way we can run into problems with words is when we come to live too much in our heads. Words themselves have no material existence—they’re just abstract symbols in our minds. If we frequently remind ourselves that they are just symbols, we’re OK, but we can go too far and become out of touch with reality. If, for example, we create words for things that do not exist and then try to make them real in our mental realm, we delude ourselves. It can lead us to making up spurious stories about imagined things.
So words are wonderful tools, but they also can have a shadow side. They can lead us into discord—with others as well as with ourselves. So it can be useful sometimes to intentionally go beyond words, to experience what it means to enter wordless realms. This kind of experience can break us out of a narrow way of thinking. It can even bring us into better touch with reality—by directly engaging in life (without the mediation of words), much as an animal does.
Living without words is impossible for us, for anything but a brief moment, but it can be enlightening to delay putting words to an experience—if only for a second. The typical process that happens to us is that we have a sensation—we hear something or see something, for example—and then we immediately name it. The split second we name it, we’re also likely to categorize and judge it. We deem it good or bad, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. We’ve instantly decided whether we want more of it or to ban it from our presence.
A similar precipitous response after we name something is immediately to decide that we know enough about it to group it with similar things that we’ve seen or labeled in the past. “Oh, that’s the same dumb bird I heard last week.” Or: “When she acts like that, she’s probably lying to me.” We thus close ourselves off to learning anything new about that bird or that woman. We’ve locked them into a rigid interpretation—not only limiting our understanding or our ability to learn more about them, but not even allowing for the fact that our perceptions may be erroneous.
It can be very helpful to rein ourselves in a little, to try to hold ourselves back from naming and labeling. Can we stay wordless for just a moment? Can we just be with the experience, without thinking or categorizing? It can open us up to a deeper understanding of life, if we momentarily pause and see what more we can learn, rather than hastily assigning the experience to some closed file cabinet in our mind; a dead-end slot where it atrophies.
As an antidote to being overly wordy, some people attempt to escape the world of words (that abstract universe in their minds) by engaging in intensive, attention-grabbing activities. A high-speed chase, or a bungee jump, or watching a horror movie can bring us visceral experiences that are beyond words, as long as our attention remains captured. It can be fun, as well as a welcome diversion from our humdrum mental images; they can be thrilling experiences, as they wrench our minds from that artificially-manufactured interior world. But the danger in going that route is that we can come to rely on external—and often imitation—means of touching reality. It can be an escape from the conceptual world of words by turning to sensational methods.
More wordless ways next time…
To be human is to use words. Language is the key to our intelligence. Words are wonderful. And yet, they can also cause problems. When two people use the same word, but have different mental images for it, confusion and even conflict can occur. We sometimes employ words, believing that the other person understands our usage, when in fact they may see things very differently. We might suppose that we are effectively communicating when, in fact, we may perhaps be fueling dissension. We tend to create conventions and rules for words we use and then insist, in an insular manner, that others conform to our concepts and notions.
The mere use of some words invites trouble, depending on the context and who we are talking to. These are called trigger words or hot-button words—such as terrorist, welfare, liberal, abortion, taxes, the Koran, illegal immigrants, and a few more that I don’t wish to write.
Another way we can run into problems with words is when we come to live too much in our heads. Words themselves have no material existence—they’re just abstract symbols in our minds. If we frequently remind ourselves that they are just symbols, we’re OK, but we can go too far and become out of touch with reality. If, for example, we create words for things that do not exist and then try to make them real in our mental realm, we delude ourselves. It can lead us to making up spurious stories about imagined things.
So words are wonderful tools, but they also can have a shadow side. They can lead us into discord—with others as well as with ourselves. So it can be useful sometimes to intentionally go beyond words, to experience what it means to enter wordless realms. This kind of experience can break us out of a narrow way of thinking. It can even bring us into better touch with reality—by directly engaging in life (without the mediation of words), much as an animal does.
Living without words is impossible for us, for anything but a brief moment, but it can be enlightening to delay putting words to an experience—if only for a second. The typical process that happens to us is that we have a sensation—we hear something or see something, for example—and then we immediately name it. The split second we name it, we’re also likely to categorize and judge it. We deem it good or bad, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. We’ve instantly decided whether we want more of it or to ban it from our presence.
A similar precipitous response after we name something is immediately to decide that we know enough about it to group it with similar things that we’ve seen or labeled in the past. “Oh, that’s the same dumb bird I heard last week.” Or: “When she acts like that, she’s probably lying to me.” We thus close ourselves off to learning anything new about that bird or that woman. We’ve locked them into a rigid interpretation—not only limiting our understanding or our ability to learn more about them, but not even allowing for the fact that our perceptions may be erroneous.
It can be very helpful to rein ourselves in a little, to try to hold ourselves back from naming and labeling. Can we stay wordless for just a moment? Can we just be with the experience, without thinking or categorizing? It can open us up to a deeper understanding of life, if we momentarily pause and see what more we can learn, rather than hastily assigning the experience to some closed file cabinet in our mind; a dead-end slot where it atrophies.
As an antidote to being overly wordy, some people attempt to escape the world of words (that abstract universe in their minds) by engaging in intensive, attention-grabbing activities. A high-speed chase, or a bungee jump, or watching a horror movie can bring us visceral experiences that are beyond words, as long as our attention remains captured. It can be fun, as well as a welcome diversion from our humdrum mental images; they can be thrilling experiences, as they wrench our minds from that artificially-manufactured interior world. But the danger in going that route is that we can come to rely on external—and often imitation—means of touching reality. It can be an escape from the conceptual world of words by turning to sensational methods.
More wordless ways next time…
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Watching Cardinal Rearings—Part 2
As dad was taking care of his hungry offspring, mom entered the scene part way through the meal and pecked up her own food—completely ignoring her mate and kids. It was as if she was now turning the job of fueling over to her hubby. In fact, if mom is going to lay eggs for the next brood, she will rely on dad to finish raising the earlier clutch. The incubation period for cardinals is up to two weeks, followed by a nestling period of another one to two weeks—so they can raise broods some 3-4 weeks apart, if all goes well (for example, if dad completes the child raising).
This is exactly what happened. About a month later I was alerted once again by the frenetic chipping/cheeping of a cardinal fledgling. (It’s an unmistakable triple-note, high-pitched call.) I looked to see mom land on the ground beneath the feeder and her noisy child drop awkwardly behind her, insistently begging. She ignored it and abruptly flew off. The baby fluttered up into the tree. I then saw dad filling his beak at the feeder and fly over to his baby—but not too close. Dad chipped away at it (dad style, double notes, deeper tone), encouraging his baby to come to him, as if urging it to practice flying, in order to get fed. I watched him feed the kid 3-4 times, always flying to a different branch and coaxing the fledgling to come to him.
Four days later I again saw dad, this time with two youngsters. Instead of responding to their pleas with food, he aggressively flew at them, chasing them off. He repeatedly did this, until he’d scattered them. Was he forcing them into a life of self-reliance? A couple of days later I saw one youngster at the feeder, pecking away on its own. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be successful in its attempts to feed itself. (Or was it just going through the motions?)
Each year I have watched the cardinal pair raise their young (although not in such detail), after which I never again see the youngsters. Throughout the fall, winter, and following spring the only two cardinals around here are mom and pop. Their kids have dispersed—probably rather close by, but I lose touch with them and have no idea of their whereabouts. How many survive? The survival rate of songbirds is not very high. How many successfully mate and carry on the family tradition? I have no idea.
I never saw a fledgling again for another month. I was thinking that two broods was the end of this summer’s kid raising. I assumed that my good fortune of seeing both broods successfully raised and fledged had run its course for the summer, but Lady Luck had another gift in store. About a month later (now mid August) I once again heard that insistent cardinal baby chipping sound. A third brood! I looked toward the feeder, to see a youngster perched on a twig, exhorting his dad for some food. Dad dutifully flew to the feeder, filled his bill with sunflower nuts and then stuffed them into the pleading beak of his child. It was a thrill for me to witness that third brood come to a successful conclusion. I almost felt like these youngsters were my grandkids, about to take on the big world on their own. Bon voyage!
My final peek at this third brood came three days later, when I saw three cardinal kids land on the feeder platform, next to dad. They all looked expectantly at him, hoping to get stuffed again, but he ignored them and flew off. All three of them began hesitantly to peck at seeds on their own. I wonder if I’ll get a chance in another few days to watch dad shoo this last brood away—forcing them to begin foraging for themselves in a new location. After all, this is his feeder and he’s not about to put up with competition from any adult cardinal.
This is exactly what happened. About a month later I was alerted once again by the frenetic chipping/cheeping of a cardinal fledgling. (It’s an unmistakable triple-note, high-pitched call.) I looked to see mom land on the ground beneath the feeder and her noisy child drop awkwardly behind her, insistently begging. She ignored it and abruptly flew off. The baby fluttered up into the tree. I then saw dad filling his beak at the feeder and fly over to his baby—but not too close. Dad chipped away at it (dad style, double notes, deeper tone), encouraging his baby to come to him, as if urging it to practice flying, in order to get fed. I watched him feed the kid 3-4 times, always flying to a different branch and coaxing the fledgling to come to him.
Four days later I again saw dad, this time with two youngsters. Instead of responding to their pleas with food, he aggressively flew at them, chasing them off. He repeatedly did this, until he’d scattered them. Was he forcing them into a life of self-reliance? A couple of days later I saw one youngster at the feeder, pecking away on its own. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be successful in its attempts to feed itself. (Or was it just going through the motions?)
Each year I have watched the cardinal pair raise their young (although not in such detail), after which I never again see the youngsters. Throughout the fall, winter, and following spring the only two cardinals around here are mom and pop. Their kids have dispersed—probably rather close by, but I lose touch with them and have no idea of their whereabouts. How many survive? The survival rate of songbirds is not very high. How many successfully mate and carry on the family tradition? I have no idea.
I never saw a fledgling again for another month. I was thinking that two broods was the end of this summer’s kid raising. I assumed that my good fortune of seeing both broods successfully raised and fledged had run its course for the summer, but Lady Luck had another gift in store. About a month later (now mid August) I once again heard that insistent cardinal baby chipping sound. A third brood! I looked toward the feeder, to see a youngster perched on a twig, exhorting his dad for some food. Dad dutifully flew to the feeder, filled his bill with sunflower nuts and then stuffed them into the pleading beak of his child. It was a thrill for me to witness that third brood come to a successful conclusion. I almost felt like these youngsters were my grandkids, about to take on the big world on their own. Bon voyage!
My final peek at this third brood came three days later, when I saw three cardinal kids land on the feeder platform, next to dad. They all looked expectantly at him, hoping to get stuffed again, but he ignored them and flew off. All three of them began hesitantly to peck at seeds on their own. I wonder if I’ll get a chance in another few days to watch dad shoo this last brood away—forcing them to begin foraging for themselves in a new location. After all, this is his feeder and he’s not about to put up with competition from any adult cardinal.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Watching Cardinal Rearings—Part 1
There’s something special about cardinals that allows me to follow the local pair and observe the rearing and dispersion of their youngsters each year. It’s because—unlike other birds—I can distinguish cardinal individuals. The father is bright red, year round. The mother is a dull red, with lots of brown mixed in. There’s no confusing them! They are also the only bird around here for which I can distinguish mature from young. For most songbirds, the kids—by the time they’ve left the nest—are about the size of their parents and their coloring is virtually identical. Cardinal youngsters may look a lot like their mom, but can easily be distinguished from her by their gray bill. Mom’s (and dad’s) is a bright yellow-orange.
There’s one final special quality of our cardinals: they are the sole pair here, year after year. They remain monogamous and dad will not allow any other male cardinal to set up shop within his fiefdom. We often see other species of birds in small flocks, so telling one pair from another in that bunch is well beyond my current observational skills.
These unique qualities of the cardinal help me keep tabs on the local family. It’s a wonderful gift to be able to get to know the individuals of this crew—and not have to feel that all cardinals look alike. What helped me even more this year is that I finally discovered the location of their nest, so I could monitor mom incubating her eggs and then watch both parents feed the little ones.
All year round the cardinal parents are daily clients at the bird feeder. They particularly favor the big fat sunflower seeds that I keep well stocked. They are usually the first to come in the morning and the last to visit at dusk. At times in between I rarely see either one, except when the male perches on some exposed vantage point and lustily fills his domain with song. This pair has also been in residence for half a dozen years now, so their normal skittishness is beginning to fade, as they get more comfortable with our presence. (In fact, most of my watching is done from the outdoor tub, so maybe they’ve caught on that a naked human is not going to give chase.)
This year I was rewarded with being able to watch them raise three broods! This is uncommon—one to two broods are typical of cardinals. I’d like to believe that their plentiful diet of nutritious sunflower seeds makes them healthy enough to go for that third brood.
The show got off to a start in April. The pair usually come to the feeder about the same time each day, but then chomp away with little conviviality between them (sort of like human families eating TV dinners in front of the tube). They even appear to ignore each other, much as other feeder birds do. In mid April, however, cardinal mealtimes became far more congenial. They’d fly together to the feeder, but she would simply sit there, as if unable to figure out how to eat, and quietly chip at him. He would fill his bill and then affectionately sidle up to her as she opened her beak, and he’d tenderly French-kiss her, stuffing her bill with sunflower bits. They’d repeat this romantic food exchange a few times and then fly off into the dusk, wing-to-wing. How sweet! How attentive! Fade camera… Hollywood style.
A week or two later I spotted mom sitting on the nest. She was obviously incubating, as she’d leave the nest for only brief periods. Dad would fly over to her a few times a day and feed her, bill-to-bill. In early June I heard two birds peeping and squeaking and looked up to see two cardinal fledglings (those gray bills!) uncertainly balanced on twigs near the feeder. They fluttered and peeped, shaking their wings, as if working out the kinks in wing muscles that were being tested for the first time (or maybe in excited anticipation of the hoped-for meal). Dad appeared and began filling his beak and crop with sunflower seeds. Then he flew up to his babies, one of whom squawked loudly and urgently, as they do in the nest. It got fed first. Dad then flew to the other youngster and stuffed its bill. He made two or three more trips to satisfy his voracious kids.
More on brood number one next time…
There’s one final special quality of our cardinals: they are the sole pair here, year after year. They remain monogamous and dad will not allow any other male cardinal to set up shop within his fiefdom. We often see other species of birds in small flocks, so telling one pair from another in that bunch is well beyond my current observational skills.
These unique qualities of the cardinal help me keep tabs on the local family. It’s a wonderful gift to be able to get to know the individuals of this crew—and not have to feel that all cardinals look alike. What helped me even more this year is that I finally discovered the location of their nest, so I could monitor mom incubating her eggs and then watch both parents feed the little ones.
All year round the cardinal parents are daily clients at the bird feeder. They particularly favor the big fat sunflower seeds that I keep well stocked. They are usually the first to come in the morning and the last to visit at dusk. At times in between I rarely see either one, except when the male perches on some exposed vantage point and lustily fills his domain with song. This pair has also been in residence for half a dozen years now, so their normal skittishness is beginning to fade, as they get more comfortable with our presence. (In fact, most of my watching is done from the outdoor tub, so maybe they’ve caught on that a naked human is not going to give chase.)
This year I was rewarded with being able to watch them raise three broods! This is uncommon—one to two broods are typical of cardinals. I’d like to believe that their plentiful diet of nutritious sunflower seeds makes them healthy enough to go for that third brood.
The show got off to a start in April. The pair usually come to the feeder about the same time each day, but then chomp away with little conviviality between them (sort of like human families eating TV dinners in front of the tube). They even appear to ignore each other, much as other feeder birds do. In mid April, however, cardinal mealtimes became far more congenial. They’d fly together to the feeder, but she would simply sit there, as if unable to figure out how to eat, and quietly chip at him. He would fill his bill and then affectionately sidle up to her as she opened her beak, and he’d tenderly French-kiss her, stuffing her bill with sunflower bits. They’d repeat this romantic food exchange a few times and then fly off into the dusk, wing-to-wing. How sweet! How attentive! Fade camera… Hollywood style.
A week or two later I spotted mom sitting on the nest. She was obviously incubating, as she’d leave the nest for only brief periods. Dad would fly over to her a few times a day and feed her, bill-to-bill. In early June I heard two birds peeping and squeaking and looked up to see two cardinal fledglings (those gray bills!) uncertainly balanced on twigs near the feeder. They fluttered and peeped, shaking their wings, as if working out the kinks in wing muscles that were being tested for the first time (or maybe in excited anticipation of the hoped-for meal). Dad appeared and began filling his beak and crop with sunflower seeds. Then he flew up to his babies, one of whom squawked loudly and urgently, as they do in the nest. It got fed first. Dad then flew to the other youngster and stuffed its bill. He made two or three more trips to satisfy his voracious kids.
More on brood number one next time…
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Why Do They Do That?
I have written before about what happens after I learn something new: it makes me aware of just how little I really do know and it always seems to raise three more questions for every one that it explains. It’s sort of like the Pandora’s Box of knowledge—once you open it, just hold on for the ride.
For many of my questions, I realize that continued observation will likely bring me an answer. I may watch a bird do something that puzzles me and understand that if I just keep watching some more, I’ll come to know why it behaves as it does. This is the essence of scientific research: if you doggedly stay with it, keeping your mind open and all senses alert, the answer will most likely come to you.
For other questions, however, I feel confident that someone has already discovered answers and has even recorded them somewhere. This is the promise of human knowledge: we document our revelations and pass them on to countless others. My challenge in this case is finding out where the findings may be recorded. That’s the prime reason why I so highly value the Internet—it contains a stunning amount of knowledge.
But for a few of my questions, I doubt that either searching the records or additional observations on my part will bring me answers. These are questions for which there may be no answer, or questions that I’ve framed so poorly that I need to understand more so I can even ask the right question, or maybe questions that are so silly, I’d be ashamed of having anyone know I even asked them. You may have heard someone say (attempting to reassure another person), “There are no dumb questions.” On the contrary, I’ve formulated more than a few obtuse questions. I’m not sure but that some of the following examples may fall into this latter category.
First, here’s an example of one for which I later did find an answer: How is it that a woodpecker can bang his beak so hard against a tree and not suffer brain damage? (Sort of like a washed-up boxer being unable to assemble an intelligible sentence.) Years later I read that a woodpecker’s brain is surrounded by a cushioning fluid that protects it’s brain. Aha!
Here are a couple that continue to puzzle me: How does a firefly keep from temporarily blinding itself when it flashes? If I were to switch on a bright light in the dark, my slowly-acquired night vision would immediately be destroyed, and I’d blindly stumble around for a few minutes until I recovered. That temporary blinding could be fatal for the firefly. In a similar manner, how does a cicada not deafen itself? From 50 feet away he hurts my ears; I’d hate to think of the pain I’d feel if I held him in my hand. How does he tolerate his own noise?
How does a whippoorwill ever tell if he has another competitor singing nearby, when he never shuts up long enough to listen? How does a plant decide when to continue growing upright and when to send out a lateral twig? Does a grasshopper or a flea ever get leg cramps and have to limp along, rather than jump? Or when they make one of their spectacular leaps, do they ever sprain an ankle as they land? Do they even have an ankle?
So many questions, so little time to answer them all.
For many of my questions, I realize that continued observation will likely bring me an answer. I may watch a bird do something that puzzles me and understand that if I just keep watching some more, I’ll come to know why it behaves as it does. This is the essence of scientific research: if you doggedly stay with it, keeping your mind open and all senses alert, the answer will most likely come to you.
For other questions, however, I feel confident that someone has already discovered answers and has even recorded them somewhere. This is the promise of human knowledge: we document our revelations and pass them on to countless others. My challenge in this case is finding out where the findings may be recorded. That’s the prime reason why I so highly value the Internet—it contains a stunning amount of knowledge.
But for a few of my questions, I doubt that either searching the records or additional observations on my part will bring me answers. These are questions for which there may be no answer, or questions that I’ve framed so poorly that I need to understand more so I can even ask the right question, or maybe questions that are so silly, I’d be ashamed of having anyone know I even asked them. You may have heard someone say (attempting to reassure another person), “There are no dumb questions.” On the contrary, I’ve formulated more than a few obtuse questions. I’m not sure but that some of the following examples may fall into this latter category.
First, here’s an example of one for which I later did find an answer: How is it that a woodpecker can bang his beak so hard against a tree and not suffer brain damage? (Sort of like a washed-up boxer being unable to assemble an intelligible sentence.) Years later I read that a woodpecker’s brain is surrounded by a cushioning fluid that protects it’s brain. Aha!
Here are a couple that continue to puzzle me: How does a firefly keep from temporarily blinding itself when it flashes? If I were to switch on a bright light in the dark, my slowly-acquired night vision would immediately be destroyed, and I’d blindly stumble around for a few minutes until I recovered. That temporary blinding could be fatal for the firefly. In a similar manner, how does a cicada not deafen itself? From 50 feet away he hurts my ears; I’d hate to think of the pain I’d feel if I held him in my hand. How does he tolerate his own noise?
How does a whippoorwill ever tell if he has another competitor singing nearby, when he never shuts up long enough to listen? How does a plant decide when to continue growing upright and when to send out a lateral twig? Does a grasshopper or a flea ever get leg cramps and have to limp along, rather than jump? Or when they make one of their spectacular leaps, do they ever sprain an ankle as they land? Do they even have an ankle?
So many questions, so little time to answer them all.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Past Mistakes
Every one of us can look back and recall times when we made choices that were not all that good—times when a choice led to subsequent problems and pain, or just wasted valuable time. (We each enjoy a preciously small amount of time in this existence, so why waste any of it?) The wisdom of hindsight tells us that we could have done better. So how do we deal progressively with these regrettable actions that we once took? It doesn’t help to dwell upon them because they caused us pain, or wasted our precious time, or led us down dead ends that got in the way of happiness.
It also doesn’t help if I bemoan my past poor choices or wallow in self-pity. It’s easy to become consumed with feeling sorry for myself or blaming others for what happened, or even disapprove of myself.
There is another reaction that I’ve sometimes had people suggest—a way that can help one to get past self-pity or blame. That is, to say, “Well, I didn’t do all that well, but I did the best I could at the time.” There may be truth in that sentiment, but it can also become a justification for what was simply a bad choice or a lackadaisical performance. Such a response can just help us fall into the same bad choice again, because it justifies coming up short. If I take this route, maybe I’m not wallowing in self-pity or blaming others, but I also haven’t learned much from the mistake; in fact, I may rationalize the situation so much that I don’t even see it as a mistake.
If I’m candid about my previous poor choices, however, I can admit to times when I simply didn’t do my best, or when I just made a dumb choice. If I go into it a little deeper, I can recall times, for example, when I made bad choices because my priorities at the time were poorly arranged. Can I be honest with myself and admit to those screw-ups, without either dwelling on them or dismissing them?
I got a nice suggestion recently from a passage in a book by Joyce Sequichie Hifler, A Cherokee Feast of Days. She writes about how we may look back and regret the time we wasted, “…wishing we knew then what we know now. But we did not know and life is not lived by hindsight. We did what we knew to do—sometimes with great ignorance.” And it’s not too late at all, she adds: “Many have started over and have had more happiness and contentment in a short time than is in all of what is known as the wasted years.”
I like the idea of simply accepting the mistakes and letting them go, rather than hanging onto them and thus continuing to waste time and continuing to stave off happiness. As Hifler says, we can begin again, despite our past mistakes. Each day is fresh. The challenge is to get past excuses and regrets, admit to messing up, and find self-forgiveness and self-acceptance. Tomorrow’s true happiness begins with today’s wiser choices; and they are best made when we’re unencumbered by dwelling on the past. It’s a key way that we learn and grow.
It also doesn’t help if I bemoan my past poor choices or wallow in self-pity. It’s easy to become consumed with feeling sorry for myself or blaming others for what happened, or even disapprove of myself.
There is another reaction that I’ve sometimes had people suggest—a way that can help one to get past self-pity or blame. That is, to say, “Well, I didn’t do all that well, but I did the best I could at the time.” There may be truth in that sentiment, but it can also become a justification for what was simply a bad choice or a lackadaisical performance. Such a response can just help us fall into the same bad choice again, because it justifies coming up short. If I take this route, maybe I’m not wallowing in self-pity or blaming others, but I also haven’t learned much from the mistake; in fact, I may rationalize the situation so much that I don’t even see it as a mistake.
If I’m candid about my previous poor choices, however, I can admit to times when I simply didn’t do my best, or when I just made a dumb choice. If I go into it a little deeper, I can recall times, for example, when I made bad choices because my priorities at the time were poorly arranged. Can I be honest with myself and admit to those screw-ups, without either dwelling on them or dismissing them?
I got a nice suggestion recently from a passage in a book by Joyce Sequichie Hifler, A Cherokee Feast of Days. She writes about how we may look back and regret the time we wasted, “…wishing we knew then what we know now. But we did not know and life is not lived by hindsight. We did what we knew to do—sometimes with great ignorance.” And it’s not too late at all, she adds: “Many have started over and have had more happiness and contentment in a short time than is in all of what is known as the wasted years.”
I like the idea of simply accepting the mistakes and letting them go, rather than hanging onto them and thus continuing to waste time and continuing to stave off happiness. As Hifler says, we can begin again, despite our past mistakes. Each day is fresh. The challenge is to get past excuses and regrets, admit to messing up, and find self-forgiveness and self-acceptance. Tomorrow’s true happiness begins with today’s wiser choices; and they are best made when we’re unencumbered by dwelling on the past. It’s a key way that we learn and grow.
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