Smart Food Groups

Americans are constantly bombarded with information about what’s good to eat and what’s bad. Nutritionists have got us bleary brained about those things we should eat to be healthy and those things to avoid, lest they lead us into disease. We’re inundated about the benefits of omega-3 fatty acids, lycopene, and gingko, as we’re warned against trans fats, oxidants, carbohydrates, etc.

But nutritional fads come and go. As soon as we get straight what foods we should be ingesting (or not), the latest studies turn it all upside down and we’re told we’re still bad in our eating habits; once again we need to reorder our food priorities.

It’s a dilemma for many of us—especially for those of us who are getting long in tooth. The older we get, the more we know that various nasty diseases lurk around the next bend. Cancer, Alzheimer’s, heart problems, and many other maladies await the slacker.

So how does one eat and drink sensibly, in the face of all this complexity, conflicting evidence, and shifting sands? Michael Pollan has written extensively on the struggle to eat wholesomely. It’s particularly challenging for Americans, for whom processed food, pesticide-laced farms, and tainted meat are ubiquitous. In his latest book, In Defense of Food, Pollan’s advice boils down to: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.”

That counsel is pretty much what we’ve tried to follow for more than two decades, here on the hermitage. Whole foods—particularly those grown yourself—are best. But we can’t grow all our food—even those of us who live in the country. One must import a few things like olive oil, coffee, tea, sugar, and other “necessities” of life. So the dilemma is one we continue to face: How to eat wisely and age gracefully?

Great news on this front arrived recently. From a study by none other than Oxford University, comes information that gladdens my heart: The ingestion of three foods—chocolate, wine, and tea—enhances one’s cognitive behavior. The Oxford researchers examined a large group of old folks and found out that those whose diets included regular doses of wine, chocolate, and tea (well, it was England) displayed improved brain function.

That’s all I need to know. I’ve enjoyed all three of them for most of my life. What wonderful news! Habits that I’ve sometimes thought may even be a vice, are suddenly transformed into virtues by an impeccable source: Oxford University. Case closed.

Ice on the Creek

Primeval Sky Watching

When I sit in the outdoor tub, the 100º heat soaking into my body, I often gaze upward into the sky. I am looking at stars and other celestial delights with naked eye (attached to naked body). As I get drawn into the experience, I sometimes feel it draws me closer to my forebears; to the ancient peoples who had no way but the naked eye to view the heavens.

Our astronomical discoveries have taken gigantic steps forward in the last few centuries, with the advent of telescopes and other technological sky-probing wonders. With these tools our knowledge of what’s out there and how it works has progressed unimaginably beyond what the ancients knew. We now know, for example, that all points of light up there are not stars, and that they are not portents from the gods. We know much about conditions on the surface of the planets (and many of their moons). We have built a massive data base of our universe’s sights and how it all works.

And yet we moderns—a sea of astronomical facts at hand—are quite unfamiliar with, even ignorant of the starry skies themselves. Astronomy has become a esoteric field of science—beyond all but professional astronomers and the most determined star enthusiast. Additionally, we live in cities whose skies are too light polluted to see all but a few stars. We have no time or inclination even to look at them; we are far more preoccupied with dazzling spectacles from TVs and computer screens.

We are strangers to the sky. We no longer are drawn into the celestial progression across the heavens, the cyclical motion of the heavenly bodies: the sun, the moon, planets, comets, and other delights.

The first accomplishment of modern astronomy was to conclusively demonstrate that the universe does not revolve around Earth. We are not the center of it all. Yet despite our intellectual knowledge of the true nature of the heavens, when we look up naked-eye and view the sky, we experience a geocentric view. As far as what I see and perceive, I really am at the center of my universe; it all does revolve around me.

So I sit there in my tub, naked-eye viewing, feeling connected to my ancestors, who watched the heavens just as I am doing. Over time I get drawn into the night sky and begin to notice patterns that the stars make—maybe not the same constellations of my forebears, but ones that I make up. I observe the cyclical progression of these star designs through the year; along with the moon’s monthly visitations, and the planets odd wanderings.

In time, the cycles and rhythms begin to speak to me. I intellectually know why they appear to me as they do (because modern astronomers and telescopes that I trust have told me so), but the direct, geocentric experience I have is quite different. The ancients watched, became familiar with the cycles, but didn’t know why. I watch, know much more about why, but have lost their acquaintance. I wonder if I can acquire their wonder, awe, and imagination.

To the Dark Side

My outdoor soaks in the tub are done under evening skies. After saturating in hot water for an hour or more and slowly morphing into a jellyfish, I’m ready to flow into the house and sink into a deep night’s sleep. This nocturnal bathing has given me many opportunities, as I lie up to my chin in hot water, to view the night sky in its various degrees of darkness. Let me count the ways.

On long summer days I usually begin my tub sits during daylight and watch the darkness slowly creep in, as I marinate. In winter, however, I start after dark and watch the night sky grow ever blacker. As Guy Clark sings in his song “The Dark,”

In the Dark you can sometimes hear your own heart beat;
One way or another, we are all in the Dark.

There are many shades of darkness to the night sky. A full moon will brightly light up the heavens, illuminating every object around me. On clear, moonless nights the sky appears jet black, yet is liberally sprinkled with stars, meteors, and satellites. Guy Clark again:

Fireflies, sparks, lightning, stars,
Campfires, the moon, headlights on cars.
The Northern Lights and the Milky Way,
You can’t see that stuff in the day.

On nights when scattered clouds fly overhead, I like to watch those celestial lights play peek-a-boo between clouds. Darker yet, when high clouds fully cover the sky, all stars disappear, but I can see the city lights from the nearest town reflect from the cloud bottoms. It’s an eerie but beautiful glow.

When thick, low clouds close in, promising rain or snow, it’s the blackest of all. You can’t see your hand in front of your face (or behind). Yet blackness is relative, especially after your eyes adjust. Even on the darkest night the sky is not completely black, but appears a deep charcoal, while the blackest objects are the tree silhouettes, artistically painted across the sky. Clark again:

How dark is it? It’s too dark for goblins.
How dark is it? It’s so dark you can smell the moon.
How dark is it? It’s so dark the wind gets lost.

The Dark is not all goblin scary; it’s very inviting.

The Creek in Fall

My Habitat

By the dictionary’s definition, habitat is the natural home of an organism—its native environment. One’s surroundings strongly influences one’s health, productivity, and creativity. In turn, our actions impact our habitat. If we collectively take care of our environment it will be healthy and will nurture us.

I am blessed to live in a productive habitat, situated in a rural corner of the northern Shenandoah Valley (because of the direction of flow of the Shenandoah River, it’s also the lower end of the valley). Our region is officially designated as the Appalachian oak forest. Here at the hermitage we are fully surrounded by this forest—many hundreds of acres of woodlands, sprinkled here and there with small farms. Since the farms do not break up the woods, the forest provides a contiguous habitat for wildlife, so their health is satisfactory. It’s also a reasonably stable ecoregion, not too strained, and as yet uncrowded by human development.

These woods are dominated by oaks, which are accompanied by several other large trees such as white pine, hemlock, sycamore, poplar, and maple. Common understory trees are dogwood, cherry, and redbud.

If you had walked these hills a hundred years ago, you’d have seen a rather different mix of trees. Elm and chestnut were common then; but imported blights killed them off. A hundred years hence a different mix will again likely prevail. Current threats to some of these trees are the gypsy moth (mostly the oaks), the wooly adelgid (hemlocks), and dogwood anthracnose. Acid rain, global warming, manmade chemicals escaping into the environment, invasive species, and human development add to the habitat threats. It’s daunting to contemplate the collective impact of these changes. We are collectively not taking care of our environment.

Yet locally, we are blessed by the fact that our habitat is still reasonably fit—especially when compared with many stressed parts of the planet. Despite the local ominous signs of habitat transformation, I live in an area that is beautiful and far more healthy than that provided for too many people and animals. I remind myself daily of our good fortune and I wonder what I can do to help my habitat. No substantial answers come to me, except to try to understand my local surrounding and meld with it as much as possible. And certainly enjoy the gift I’ve been given.

The World in a Drop

Precious Silence

There is a dark side to creativity, however. When our ego enters the picture or our desire for power grabs us, things can go awry. Creativity may then, for example, feed runaway and harmful technology. Language can also go to the dark side of creativity. When language becomes propaganda, it spreads fear; inducing people to succumb to domination and control.

Our modern culture is overflowing with words and noise; they distract us. The ancients were better at welcoming silence. They opened to it, actively sought it; whereas modern people tend to fear it. We contemporary folks have also detached from nature and its creative calmness. Instead of opening to the wisdom of nature’s silence, we attempt to control it, to bend it to our noisy will.

We can, however, open ourselves to the creativity of the silence, as the sages once did (and many still do). How can we do that? One way: simply put attention to the void. Seek and enter the silence. That means finding the time to turn away from the modern fast lane. Entering the silence opens us up to our—and the universe’s—creativity. We can attend to the void by not hurrying; by sitting with the silence and awaiting its wisdom and inspiration. Creative thoughts literally pop into our heads when we enter the void. They don’t necessarily come from us, and they’re not owned by us—in a sense they’re already in the void, waiting to be received. Our inner space is that void. We share it with all beings.

It’s paradoxical that we can become creative by doing nothing; that we can mature and heal—through inaction. It’s the way of the Tao, taught us by Taoism. Two partial verses from the Tao Te Ching say it beautifully:

Therefore, the Master
Acts without doing anything
And teaches without saying anything.

And

Practice not-doing
And everything will fall into place.

Although words can be special, the silence between words is precious. Can I allow that silence to be? Can I respectfully and reverentially enter it? We become free in that space between words—free to open, to soften; free to connect to our natural instincts. We can catch our mental breath. Through meditation we seek to exist for a short time in a space that is without thoughts, words, concepts. It’s not easy. When we can do it, we find that we have a direct contact with the void—that precious silence.

[Note: These last two postings were inspired by The Blackwinged Night:
Creativity in Nature and Mind, by F. David Peat, 2000.]

Heavenly Conjunction--Moon, Jupiter, and Venus on December 1

Precious Silence—Part 1

We’ve all heard expressions like “Silence is golden.” And we’ve been exposed to the guidance that listening to others is a gift. (Thoreau: "The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.")

We cannot really listen when we are talking. There’s something special about halting the flow of our chatter and opening our ears and other senses to our world. I believe that silence is beyond golden—it’s precious.

A fascinating attribute of silence is that creativity flows from it. It’s fascinating, partly because it’s also a paradox: something comes from nothing. Out of the void of silence emerges imaginative and original things. (Maybe in a future posting I will explore the parallel between this point and an insight that quantum mechanics brings us: subatomic particles—real things—do slip in and out of existence.)

Creativity is the act of bringing something into existence—something that never existed before. It’s a kind of artistic imagination. It’s bringing the new and unexpected into being—from which change and evolution stem. Creativity is also a renewing process that spawns vitality and innovation. It fosters freshness and helps break the dreary rut we may find ourselves in. Creativity is even a form of healing—in the sense that it is intelligence, which leads to regeneration and healing. Our body, our immune system, must be open to our environment, and this kind of intelligence fosters health and healing.

Language also can be creative. It connects us to others. We relate to each other by symbols, creating a common world in our heads. The cosmos is creative. It is unpredictable, unexpected, and constantly evolving. New qualities are continually emerging—things that could not have been conceived of before.

Creativity is often confused with novelty—but it’s very different; it’s far deeper. Novelty is, by definition, something new, but it’s usually something assembled from existing things. It’s just a rearrangement of stuff that’s already around, into something different. It’s often a repetitive process that can eventually lead to a rut—a copy-cat, frenetic existence that lacks true creativity. It can feed fashions and fads, that become addictive and encourage our grasping for the unattainable, as we try to feed an insatiable hunger. When we fall prey to novelty, we become numb and dull. We close ourselves off to our world—hewing to the fad, becoming rigid and dogmatic.

Continued next time…

Bird Leaves

Decreasing Dissonance

Most of us periodically suffer from what is termed “cognitive dissonance.” Its official definition is that uncomfortable mental tension we experience when our beliefs and our actions are in conflict; when there is a discrepancy between them. For example, if I believe that lying is wrong, I will get an uncomfortable feeling when I don’t tell the truth.

There are other forms of cognitive dissonance, but I’d like to focus here on those cases where our actions come up short of our values—those occasions when we would like to have done better but didn’t. Speaking for myself, I often find a gap between what I hold to be good behavior and my actual behavior; and my conscience will bug me about those shortcomings.

So how might we deal with that mental tension, that insistent conscience that is caused by the discrepancy? As long as the gap remains, I will continue to suffer from it. So the straightforward approach is to try to narrow the breach between my beliefs and my behavior. I can do that in several ways—some are healthy, some are pathological. One unhealthy way to attempt to close the gap is to weaken my belief, my values. For example, I know that lying is wrong, but I may try to justify it by telling myself that a little white lie is OK, under certain circumstances. Or: I may believe that causing harm is unethical, but I might rationalize a little damage now and then by telling myself that some situations allow violence. The tangled webs we weave!

This process of diluting my belief doesn’t necessarily have to be deceitful or dishonest, however. It may be possible that my belief is too idealistic and unrealistic, and needs some downwards adjusting, towards reality. If I believe, for example, that I can cure my cancer simply by imaging a healthy body, I may be in for a bad fall. If I think all lies are always evil, I will be a perpetual fraud.

Possibly the most common way to deal with the cognitive dissonance gap is not to try to close it at all, but find ways to rationalize one’s deficient behavior. “I was just following orders.” “I would have done right, but Joe stopped me.” If I can justify or deny why my actions fall short, I may not feel so bad.

Although the feelings surrounding cognitive dissonance can be unpleasant, the experience can be very useful; it can be a motivator for positive change and growth. When I feel the discomfort of dissonance, I can face it, honestly admit my shortcomings, accept them as the cost of being human, and pledge to do better. It will help if I can cut myself a little slack, while simultaneously asking what I might do differently next time, to close that gap a little—to learn from my shortcomings.

If I can let go of expecting easily or quickly to eliminate the dissonance, but instead put energy into figuring out a game plan that brings a steady improvement in my behavior, I may in time get my priorities straighter. One of my main reasons for living as a hermit is to give myself more opportunity to put attention into finding ways to improve my behavior, as well as maybe have a better chance at choosing valid beliefs. I find it’s easier for me to do that from outside society’s tempting mainstream.

Georgia Great Egret

Life Out There

Ever since humans have known that all the stars out there are suns somewhat like our own, the question has posed itself: Is there life out there? All types of people—writers, scientists, sky gazers, religious thinkers—have wondered if we’re maybe not alone. The answer to that question—it will likely come some day—will have a profound impact on our worldview.

I sit in the outdoor tub and gaze deeply into the night sky. I see many stars—both faint and bright, individually and clustered. The longer I gaze at them, the more I wonder about them. How many of them, like our sun, provide their neighborhood with life-encouraging energy and warmth? How many have planets circling them? How many of those planets might be temperate and friendly enough to support life? How many of those stars have been around long enough and are stable enough to have allowed life the required time to evolve into sentient beings? Are there planets out there, upon which someone might be gazing in my direction, wondering if life exists elsewhere?

No one to date knows the answers to these questions. It’s not clear when—or if—we’ll know, but we get closer every day. Astronomers are making impressive strides in discovering other solar systems. Just a few years ago we had no idea of either the presence or prevalence of planets around other stars. Now we know that dozens of them do—and we’re just getting started on the hunt!

It’s not too difficult to spot a monster planet around a nearby star—although even that feat was beyond astronomers until recently. (Most sightings are accomplished by noting a brief and periodic dimming of a star’s light, as a planet moves in front of it.) It’s far harder to spot smaller, Earth-sized planets—but the technology is getting there quickly. In the next few years we’ll have those sightings.

Returning to the question of life out there: every planet we discover increases the odds that life did not originate on Earth alone. The more common we find planets to be—and that seems to be the direction we’re headed—the more likely it is that life is out there. We know there are billions of stars in a typical galaxy and billions of galaxies. How many planets does this imply? That sheer number alone suggests that Earth is not the only planet to have hit the jackpot of life.

But for now, we don’t know. I find it exciting that we get closer to an answer every day. When it comes (if it does) it will shake up a certain segment of humanity. Not me… I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m content to lie back in the tub, gaze deep into that star field overhead right now, and muse on it. I wonder if any being is looking my way.

Hrumph

Satellite Struck

Sitting in the outdoor tub, gazing upward at the night sky, eyes adjusted to the dark, there are many thrilling celestial delights that I view. The stars themselves are, of course, the main show. They provide the unvarying but constantly fascinating backdrop for various transient visitors: planes, planets, meteors, but most especially, satellites.

A satellite looks just like a star—a point of light—except that it moves. It’s as if a star took a sudden notion to yank itself from its fixed location and soar across the sky. My fancy takes flight with it. A typical satellite circles the planet in about 90 minutes, so it can take some 10 minutes or more to cross a small viewing field.

You need a pretty dark sky to spot satellites. City lights mask most of them. Out here in the woods they are common—especially on clear nights. On any given night, if I gaze into the sky for five minutes, I can expect to see a satellite cruise overhead. So an hour’s soak in the tub can treat me with as many as a half dozen of them.

Like the moon and planets, you can see a satellite only because it reflects sunlight. So it’s the ability of them to bounce sunlight down to you that governs their visibility. A satellite can be quite bright for awhile, but then suddenly wink out, as it passes into the Earth’s shadow.

There are several types of satellites I’ve seen. Some are steady points of light that drift relentlessly along. Some blink on and off, as they tumble—and like a moving mirror, send their reflected light in diverse directions. The most spectacular satellite is the International Space Station (ISS). It’s as bright as Venus. There are a few websites that, when you put in your site, list when the ISS will pass overhead. They give the time and sky location when the space station first will appear in your neighborhood. It’s a thrill to look up at that patch of sky and suddenly see this very bright light pop into view.

I’ve occasionally watched satellites cross each other’s path. Recently I saw two of them almost appear to crash into each other. I couldn’t help but wince. Once I saw three closely-grouped satellites chase each other, like some migrating constellation. They were headed east—towards the Earth’s shadow. One by one, they winked out. Another time I lay on my back, looking into the deep sky with binoculars. (I love to view the sky this way—seeing far more stars than my naked eye can.) Suddenly a very dim satellite swam across the field of view! I’d never have seen it without binoculars.

Satellites can be more fun than stars. They move. They attract the eye. But that constant backdrop of real stars engages my imagination more than satellites. Stars are truly heavenly—not just a manmade piece of hardware. Stars are much more mysterious. They speak to my mind, more than to my eye.

Earlier Gardeners

I get a kick out of scientific findings that run counter to the accepted view. Darwin, Galileo, Newton, and Einstein all discovered a more accurate way to comprehend our universe. They each ran counter to their predecessors. (And all of their theories subsequently became amended.) Their descriptions shook up accepted beliefs. It’s the way that science should go.

I also get a kick out of ruminating on the ramifications of new and unexpected scientific findings. I like to play around with how they might alter our current worldview. One recent example is a research finding that human cultivation likely began much earlier than previously thought. The current belief is that our ancestors began to evolve from hunter-gatherers to horticulturists about 10,000 years ago, and then transitioned into an agrarian culture some 5,000 years ago. These recent findings show, however, that we entered our horticultural period much earlier—maybe as long as 20,000 years ago.

If true, this suggests that we were gardeners for far longer than we had been believing. That struck me as possibly quite meaningful, as far as helping to interpret our modern behavior, and giving me some optimism. How so? Well, as horticulturists we began gardening by simply poking a hole in the ground and dropping a seed in it. It was work that required little physical strength. Women could do it, while the men went on the hunt. In horticultural societies the contributions of women and men were equally valued. Our religious sense also began to bloom during that period, so our deities tended to be both male and female.

When our ancestors became serious about farming, we moved from being horticulturists into the agrarian period—a much more intensive form of agriculture, when animals were used to plow and plant. Agrarian work required more strength, so it fell largely to men. Women couldn’t risk miscarriage, so they turned the hard labor of farming over to men. As our skill at farming grew, food surpluses came into being for the first time. This allowed some people to take on non-food jobs, such as priests, scribes, politicians, and artisans. Since men were now in charge, the specialty jobs were filled mostly by men. Women gradually came to be viewed to be of lesser value, even eventually to become demeaned and abused. Children often suffered similar mistreatment in an agrarian culture.

Since the agrarian period is closer to us, we are more familiar with its customs and viewpoints. In fact, modern culture contains many vestiges of patriarchy, in the way we continue to demean women and children. We are struggling to overcome that agrarian worldview. Much more growth awaits us.

But if we were horticulturists for twice as long a period of time than we previously thought, maybe the equal valuation of men and women that prevailed during that period is deeper in our bones than we thought.

Evolutionary science tells us that many of our actions are guided by the extremely long time that we were hunter-gatherers (for as much as 500,000 years). We may have acquired a big brain along the way, but a lot of our unconscious behavior is still patterned after our deep hunter-gatherer ancestors. If so, I welcome the news that we were gentle horticulturalists for much longer than we’ve believed. Maybe that will make our work of getting past our aggressive, patriarchal, agrarian outlook a little easier. We’ve already begun the transition—maybe we’ll succeed sooner than we thought.

Jack O' Lantern Shroom

Oh Deer

Out in our neck of the woods we’ve been increasingly faced with incursions of deer, the last few years. Their numbers and audacity seem to have grown immensely. A century ago they were held in check by big predators like wolves, coyotes, and wildcats; but humans drove them out, so the deer now ramble quite freely. A few decades ago numerous hunters roamed these woods with rifles and played the primary role of deer population-control predator. But each year these woods see fewer hunters and more deer. The automobile may soon become the sole predator.

Deer love to eat the things that people grow: luscious vegetables, fruit trees, ornamentals. These fancy plants are far tastier than tough forest vegetation. Deer may be cute, but they can be pests.

We have been quite lucky not to have been too bothered by deer in recent years—even though many of our neighbors have been. We’ve always had good-sized dogs as members of the family. They’ve roamed the immediate area, spread their scent, and enjoyed a good deer chase.

But that luck has recently been changing. Maybe it’s the increased deer population, maybe it’s the current dog getting older and more sedentary, maybe it’s all the luscious apple saplings I’ve planted. We’ve repeatedly been invaded by deer, with the buggers nibbling off the tender tips of the saplings. Their pruning technique is not to my liking. After some research and a few false starts, I’ve come up with a repellant that does a pretty good job—a noxious blend of raw egg, milk, vegetable oil, liquid soap, and cayenne powder. The sour milk and rotten egg turn my stomach, but I believe that the hot pepper bothers them most. The vegetable garden has yet to be invaded, but how much longer?

There is a worse problem than the deer nibbling our plants, however: Lyme disease. This scary malady is caused by an adaptive little germ—the bacterium Borrelia burgdorferi (Bb)—that is carried by the deer tick. The tick sequentially attaches itself to field mice, humans, and deer, in that order. We—in the middle—suffer from the disease; the animals don’t. The germ must accomplish that triple-host journey, riding in the gut of the tick and pulling off the unlikely stunt of getting transferred to its current mammalian host and then back to subsequent generations of the tick. Unfortunately, Bb is very successful in meeting the challenge.

The germ’s incredibly complex journey once was rare, but is progressively more common. Humans and deer cross paths more frequently, as people have moved farther out into the exurbs. Lyme disease is nasty. But it’s certain that we’re likely to see more of it in the near future, as we rub shoulders with an escalating deer population. I think I’d rather deal with apple sapling nibbles.

Black Swallowtail Larva

Beyond the Big Balloon

The Big Bang theory is a story that carries a lot of weight in the scientific community. It was first proposed a half-century ago—first as a mocking comment, but then became accepted—and has gained general concurrence ever since. It helps explain many observations that astronomers have made and fits the mathematical models. The theory pulls a lot of loose astronomical threads together into a very satisfying weaving. And yet…

While the Big Bang story accounts for a lot, it also presents us with a few conundrums for which science as yet has no explanations. It also plays games with our brain by tossing it seemingly illogical situations to deal with. For example: How is it that all the matter contained in the universe could have once been wedged into a space the size of a pinhead—or even a pinpoint? That just doesn’t seem possible. Yes, the mathematics elegantly describe that “in the beginning” this vast universe occupied virtually no space at all, but wrapping your mind around the math can cause a big headache.

Another conundrum: What happened “before” the Big Bang? Was there a “before?” The mathematical model of the universe simply places its origins at about 13.7 billion years ago—it doesn’t care about any “before.” But my mind keeps asking that unanswerable query. Maybe the question makes no sense. Maybe an answer will come some day.

Then there’s the riddle of what may lie outside the universe, if indeed there is an “outside.” One mental model of our universe is to imagine that it’s a Big Balloon that’s been blowing itself up for nearly 14 billion years. The balloon contains the “known” or “visible” universe—by definition, “the totality of all the things that exist.” Earth and all we can see are somewhere inside this balloon. The farthest we can observe—by either the math or the Hubble Telescope—is out to the skin of the balloon; not at all beyond.

But if the cosmos was once dancing on the head of a pin (when the balloon was tiny), can anything ever have been outside the expanding Big Balloon? Any “thing” beyond the Big Balloon is by definition outside the universe. Huh? Does that mean there is no “beyond?” I feel another headache coming on.

But it gets even more interesting. Recently a group of astronomers analyzed the motion of a group of galaxies. After cranking their computers for a few days, their results suggest that the speed and direction of this group of galaxies is being controlled by “something” outside the balloon! So, if they’re right, there is something out there in the vast nothing. It’s gotta make you chuckle. Stick around—this story’s ending has yet to be written. Maybe the Large Hadron Collider will help us out.

Two Months After the Mast—Part 2

I looked last time at the need for people to predict the coming winter’s severity by consulting folk omens. It was first the wooly bear caterpillar. Now the masting of acorns…

Another favorite winter prophecy is the size of the fall crop of acorns. This story goes that if a hard winter is coming, Mother Nature is planning ahead for the protection of her charges. She’s directed the oak trees to grow an extra large batch of acorns so the squirrels, mice, deer, and turkeys will have enough to eat, to get through the coming severe winter. It’s nice to think that nature does such a kindhearted job of planning, so all her critters are well cared for.

Squirrels, the belief goes, return the favor by helping to grow more oak trees, when they bury acorns and then forget where some of their stash is. Well, there’s a little truth to that, but your average squirrel has a better memory than this gives it credit for. Moreover it kills far more acorns than it plants—either by eating them or simply biting into them and destroying the seed. The squirrel is more a foe of the oak, than a friend. In turn the oak would consider squirrels to be a menace—not a friend to feed.

So what’s going on? A heavy acorn crop is an example of the genius of Mother Nature, but not as a prognosticator of winter. Instead, it’s her way of ensuring the survival of the oak forest. A bumper harvest of acorns is called “masting.” If oak trees were to put out the same number of acorns every year, the squirrel population would stabilize at a level that would see most all acorns consumed. If there were more squirrels than that, some of them might starve; fewer in number and they’d quickly multiply, with all those extra nuts available.

The oak survives by keeping squirrels (and other acorn-eating critters) off balance. The trees put out a conventional (even predictable) supply of acorns for several years, fooling the eaters into thinking that it’s all they’re gonna get. Then, when the animals are looking the other way, the oaks surprise them by masting—producing a copious crop of acorns and carpeting the forest floor with them. The animals may gorge themselves, but cannot eat them all. Some acorns will survive and sprout new oaks. Since oaks live for so long, they need to mast only every few years.

One marvelous feature of the masting process is that most all of the oak trees in a locale will mast the same fall. You can imagine what would happen if the trees didn’t coordinate their crop: randomly scattered oaks would mast when their cohorts would be taking it easy. Such randomness would negate the masting effect. But oak trees are in unison when they mast. How do they do this? We don’t know for sure, but plant research is showing us that trees communicate chemically with each other. They do this in defense of insects—to alert their buddies about invasions. Might they use the same technique to coordinate their masting?

I sure don’t want to take the fun out of checking out wooly bears and monitoring the abundance of acorn crops. Being attentive to nature is a wonderful thing. I love to examine those cute caterpillars, as well as marvel at the abundance and many shapes of acorns during a mast. We might be careful, however, about projecting our idiosyncrasies and hankerings onto Mother Nature. She’s beautiful enough in her own right, that we don’t have to dress her up in anthropomorphic clothing.

Nestled Acorn

Two Months After the Mast—Part 1

Humans—since we alone seem able to ruminate over the past and fret about impending events—love to look for omens that prognosticate future happenings. The past is finished and fixed (although we hate to admit that our memory of it is quite faulty). So be it. The future, however, holds infinite possibilities—some pleasant, some painful, all intriguing. If only we could get a glimpse today of tomorrow’s fate, we’d be in such an advantageous position. We’d fare far better than the guy next door, who ignorantly faces each new moment. Or so we tell ourselves.

Weather prediction has become an obsession for many people. We moderns don’t have to deal with the complex and ambiguous process that our ancestors did—such as pulling out the pack of tarot cards to get our weather forecast; it’s instantly available 24/7 from the Weather Channel. The National Weather Service cranks its many computers, giving us quite accurate predictions for the next couple of days. This service has encouraged people to become fixated on tomorrow’s weather, or to endlessly watch images of the aftermath of today’s extreme storms.

An accurate forecast for the next few days may be one thing, but we want more. We want to be able to peer months into the future and to become privy to its weather conditions. The fall is a favorite time for folks to be seeking a glimpse of the nature of the impending winter. Is this going to be a “bad” winter? Lots of snow? Is global warming going to make it balmy again? There are numerous forecast gurus, who claim to have special knowledge about the coming weather. They hawk almanacs to sell the results of their secrets to eager fans. But there are also a couple of simple folk methods for weather prediction, that are accessible to everyone.

A favorite such predictor around here is the wooly bear caterpillar. You see them marching over the ground in the fall, as if parading their winter prophecy. The wooly bear (fully as cute as a teddy bear) has a black band around its middle, that separates two brown ends. The wider the central black band—so the story goes—the colder the coming winter. (I wonder why scientists have not been monitoring the bellyband width of wooly bears, these last few decades, to give them proof of global warming.)

Of course, this cute caterpillar has no way of gazing into the future. I fail to see why Mother Nature would bother with such a notion. Besides, if you examine several parading wooly bears, you’ll find that their “predictions” vary widely—as their bellybands are anywhere from a thin line to covering the complete caterpillar’s body. It’s like a simultaneous prediction of anything from a Brazilian to an Alaskan winter.

But I would guess that a died-in-the-wool wooly bear aficionado would counter my argument by protesting that you only get the “real” prognostication from the first preordained caterpillar one encounters. That initial one—like the “First star I see tonight”—has special powers. Well, maybe so.

What’s the other folk weather forecasting technique? What’s the meaning of this posting’s title? See you next time.

The Dark Stuff

The story of our marvelous universe has been revealing itself to us at an ever-increasing pace. Nearly every day it seems that another piece of the puzzle is added, and we come to better understand how this cosmos has unfolded and what its true nature is. It’s an astounding world—beautiful beyond words; so I’ll not even try to do so. Go out in the country, lay on your back some clear, dark night, and gaze at the sky for awhile.

The details of the universe’s story have been coming hot and heavy in recent years—what with the Hubble Telescope and all its related stellar tools. On another front, DNA analysis peers deep into inner space and reveals secrets of life. I find it fascinating how rapidly these stories get amended, as new discoveries flesh out and correct details. We’re learning so much, so fast.

And yet our ignorance of the cosmos remains monumental. The more we come to know, the more we comprehend all that we don’t know. A door to knowledge opens, revealing a roomful of additional doors. It’s a wonderful check on our hubris, if you pause for a moment and realize just how much more we have yet to discover.

One of the best examples of how little we understand our universe—despite the impressive advances we’ve made in recent years—is that we have no idea what constitutes 95% of it! We have built a pretty good story of the 5% or so that we can see and measure (although that needs a lot of fleshing out). Yet 95% of it all remains a Great Mystery. We can’t see it; we can only infer its presence, and we have no idea of its physical properties. Oh, what we don’t know!

Scientists have appropriately dubbed our 95% ignorance as Dark Matter and Dark Energy. (It’s more like some plot for Star Wars than the real world.) About ¼ of this stuff—the Dark Matter—is what seems to keep galaxies held together more tightly than we can explain. If you count up all the stars in a galaxy and give them suitable mass and subsequent gravitational attraction, computer models tell us that the galaxy should not be as compactly clustered as it is. Some kind of unseen stellar glue is holding it together. What could it be? Guess I’ll call it Dark Matter.

That was a tough enough blow to some astronomers’ egos, but more recently those marvelous telescopes we’ve trained on the heavens (backed up by marvelous computers) tell us that the universe is expanding much faster than we thought it should. It seems as if there must be some unknown energy that’s pushing all those galaxies apart—a form of energy that we’ve never detected. What could it be? Guess I’ll call it Dark Energy.

It tickles my fancy that most of our cosmos seems to consist of dark stuff that is hiding beyond our stupendous science. Just think, as smart as we are, we know virtually nothing about 95% of our universe! Still, just a few years ago we didn’t even know that we didn’t know. That’s scientific progress.

Sphinx Moth Larva Buddies

Those eyes are fake!

Fall Equinox

I wrote in an earlier post (July 31) about the four Celtic cross-quarter days of the year, and how they can hold more meaning than the solstices and equinoxes for folks who live close to the land. Well, I’ll retract that sentiment a little bit, after experiencing another fall equinox. I still contend that the solstices creep by so excruciatingly slowly that one gets precious little sense of anything happening then—other than the intellectual knowledge that the sun has reached its extreme northerly or southerly point in the sky.

In contrast, the equinoxes speed by so quickly that it’s hard to keep up with the changes. The day’s length shortens nearly three minutes every day. Most of that is caused by a sun that sinks about two minutes sooner every night. That’s too fast a transformation to keep pace with!

That rapid change sort of slaps me upside the face, shouting to me that a new season is upon us. It jerks me out of those boring, interminable dog days of summer. Cool weather is upon us. Look out! Fall is here; winter’s near.

The rapid decreasing of day length triggers all sorts of commensurate changes in nature—the most spectacularly visible one being the loss of the photosynthetic capability of tree leaves, as they release their green and display those vivid fall colors. Garden plants have already been noticing the shorter days, as they yield their last fruits and prepare to die. A month earlier we could barely keep up with the vegetable harvest—chucking things into the freezer and frantically canning. Now we savor the taste of every bit of the fresh produce, as it slowly peters out.

Insects also get ready for the coming season. For most of them, their final days are here. Profuse mating, procreation, and dying are occurring. In fact, the letting go of life is everywhere. Plants seed and then die. Bugs lay eggs and then die. When I sit on decaying leaves for a few minutes in the woods, I become aware of dead things all around me.

While we humans fear death and attempt to distance ourselves from it, nature’s creatures seem to go willingly into that dark night. Certainly they have little ability to complain about it, as we do. When I become absorbed in nature, however, fall’s death and dying are really a reminder of the amazing cycle of life—rather than a gloomy reminder of my mortality.

The price of evolution, the cost of being part of the beautiful variety, development, and robustness of life on this planet, is death. It’s an exquisite balance. None can live but that others die. We all—insect, plant, human—have but the most brief but marvelous moment to experience our taste of that life. May we make the most of it, while we’ve got it. I think I’ll go for a walk in the equinox forest.

Destroying Angel Shroom

Country Killing

There are many differences between country and city life—some of them we expected when we moved out to these woods, and some were a surprise. In the latter category is the fact that when you kill a critter out here, you often have to look it in the eye, as you take its life. That can be very unsettling.

I don’t like to kill any creature, but to live on this planet means that one regularly terminates other beings—intentionally or not. Death is a constant in nature. Many creatures’ food comes at the loss of another creature’s life. Some critters we consider pests and we willingly do away with. Others we accidentally or unintentionally dispatch.

I’m now more aware that when we lived in the city we usually hired others to do our killing. The butcher killed my meat, the farmer killed pests to bring me crops. More insidiously, multi-national corporations harm and kill people for me on the other side of the globe, so I can buy affordable running shoes and electronic gadgets. Worse yet, soldiers kill for me, to bring me plentiful, low-cost gasoline at the local pump. These and other vicarious types of killing are a part of modern life. Many of us who live in a modern urban environment have our attention consumed with various forms of activity, and are literally ignorant of the killing that occurs on our behalf. Country life has given me more time to ponder the killing-by-proxy issue.

While I attempt to live a life—out here in the country—that minimizes harm and killing, I frequently fall short. It’s a huge challenge. I still do far more killing than I’d like, and still allow some killing to be done for me. However, one big change, living out here, is that while fewer killings are now done for us, more are done by us. For example, we intentionally kill many garden bugs (although not with chemicals). However, we try to repel them when we can and even allow a small proportion of vegetables to be claimed by invaders. But some garden bugs we have to look squarely in the eye (or eyes) and squish in our fingers.

Other invaders—ants, termites, mice—will move into your comfortable home and take over, if given half a chance. We’ve found ways to deter some of them, but now and then a determined invasion is met with mass death.

Some questions I try to keep in mind are: Do I need to kill (in a given situation)? Is there a way to cut back on my carnage? Can I learn to live with the intruders? If I kill, can I do so with respect and regret?

The ideal would be to be free of killing, but that’s impossible. I can’t walk across the yard without crushing an ant. In the end, I’m thankful that country living brings the killing up close and personal. It is disturbing, but it makes me more conscious of the cycle of life… and death.

August Sunset

The Old Ford

This posting’s title might create the image of a favorite vehicle, but it’s much wetter than that. One of the charms of this piece of land—that induced me to buy it nearly 30 years ago—is its seclusion. It was deemed downright inaccessible back then, due to the fact that the “access” road forded the creek. To get in here, one had to negotiate that ford—simple at times, impossible at others.

During our first few years of camping out here we learned the definition of impossible, when the engine of the old van (no, not a Ford) sputtered and died a few times, in deep water, midstream. It caused a few scary situations in which I cranked the van out with a come-along—hoping that I could crank faster than the flood waters rose. So before getting serious about moving here, we had to put in a driveway. It eliminated the vagaries of attempting to ford.

Over those first several years living out here we watched, as other adventurous (or foolish) folks learned their definition of impossible. A few of them I pulled out—armed with a Jeep and a long chain. One memorable rescue came when the tax man walked down the drive years ago, wearing a sheepish grin. He had tried driving the official county car through a too-full creek and it’d died on him. We loaded the Jeep and headed for the sunken car. While sitting in the Jeep, waiting for him (wading out, dressed only in his undershorts) to attach the chain, I looked in the rear-view mirror and was horrified to see three ladies approaching on horseback. He moved real fast, escaping back to the Jeep. I like to speculate that we got a little break on our tax rate, the next few years. In any case, he became very friendly.

Then there were the three heavyweight dudes who pulled up to the top of the hill, after somehow successfully negotiating the deep ford in winter. The creek would ice over and some folks guessed (wrongly) that they might be able to slide across and not crash through. I had pulled a few of them out, too. These guys, however, miraculously made it on their own. They climbed out of their little Ford Pinto—which lifted a good three inches, when free of their bulk—while laughing raucously. They were very drunk. They maintained their inebriated uproar, as they pulled big chunks of ice from the grill and atop the hood of the Pinto. They waved at me, still shaking with laughter, climbed back in the car (which again settled down near its axles), and drove merrily off.

Not long ago the state built a bridge across the old ford. Increasing traffic now easily crosses. I kinda miss the fun.

Garden Spider

Star Bright

One of my favorite sports is to lie back in the outdoor tub and star gaze. (The body is disengaged, while the mind goes into overdrive.) As my eyes adjust to the darkness I can see dimmer and dimmer stars—the star count dramatically increases. This is especially true for those dim stars not directly in my central vision. (The peripheral rods in the eye’s retina are more light sensitive than central-vision cones. So, if you don’t look exactly at a dim object, you can actually see it better.)

I love to notice dim peripheral stars—ones that I’d otherwise miss—and wonder how far off they might be, what planets might be circling them, or what their corner of the galaxy might look like.

I’m also aware that my naked eye can see but a tiny fraction of the stars whose light reaches Earth. Only the closest, brightest stars can I observe. From the most dazzling star in our sky—Sirius—to the dimmest, my eye can detect a very limited range. I can make out stars whose light is 250 times fainter than Sirius, and that’s it. All the billions and billions of dimmer stars and galaxies, I am forever banned from detecting—that is, without peering through some mechanical magnifying aid.

That’s why Galileo and his buddies were so thrilled when the telescope was invented. Suddenly, oodles of more stars could be seen (as well as the moons of Jupiter and other celestial delights). A small telescope, for example, will allow me to see stars that are 50 times dimmer than what the naked eye can make out. Even a modest pair of binoculars will let me see 25 times better.

Years ago I bought an 8-inch scope. It allows me to see 600 times better! Oh, if only I had one of those giant scopes they build on mountain tops in my backyard; I could see stars that are over a billion times fainter than the naked eye! And what can the Hubble Telescope see? Too much!

(Just to play with the numbers a little more—and going the other way, to brighter objects in the firmament: The brighter planets—Venus, Mars, Jupiter—are about 15 times more vivid than Sirius. The full moon? It’s 30 thousand times brighter. And going to the ultimate, our own Sol is 17 billion times brighter than Sirius! Of course, that’s just how we see it, since it’s a whole lot closer.)

While gazing at those stars—with naked eye and body—in the tub, I may not be able to see much, compared to those big scopes, but my imagination isn’t hindered. I’m immensely thankful for what Hubble and all those wonderful scopes show me, but for the current tub-soaking moment, the small selection of dim points of light are amazing enough.

Fear or Love

We don’t often think of fear as the antonym of love—hate is the word that usually comes to mind. (In fact, my blog posting of 8/17, titled “Love & Hate”, looks at them as antonyms.) I was recently shown that fear and love can be seen as opposites, especially in the context of thoughts. Thoughts filled with fear are quite different from thoughts filled with love—but it’s the subsequent conflicting actions that really matter.

To a large extent, our actions are guided by our thoughts. If my head is full of negative thoughts, I’m likely to act negatively. If I’m thinking positively, I’m more likely to do positive things. Buddhist teachings express this quite well (in the very first verse of the Dhammapada):

Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Suffering follows an evil thought as the wheels of a cart follow the oxen that draw it. Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think. Joy follows a pure thought like a shadow that never leaves.

Suffering follows evil thought. Joy follows pure thought.

So getting back to fear versus love, loving thoughts are certainly positive, joyful thoughts. Those who we regard as saints and sages had their minds pretty full of loving thoughts. My best examples are people like Jesus, the Buddha, Gandhi, Thomas Merton, and Dorothy Day (who started the Catholic Worker Movement). Although I doubt that love filled their heads all the time, their actions were certainly mostly positive.

I discovered a Bible verse a few years ago that also describes it very well for me: “Love has no fear.” (1 John 4:18) I interpret this verse to mean that when love fills our heart and mind, there is no room for fear. Certainly the people I listed above, with minds filled with love, lost all fear and became centered, purposeful, and capable. They were better able to see the truth and act lovingly... with joy.

When we feel fearful, however, we feel disconnected from others. We are suspicious and mistrustful, and are far more likely to commit acts of harm and violence. If I see enemies surrounding me—fearing them and what they might do—I posses a literal form of mental illness that can drive me to commit hateful acts. Rather than perceive evil-doers as “bad guys,” I find it more useful to see them as people who’ve had fear take over their minds.

Fear is gripping the collective mind of America today. We see terrorists around every corner. We live in gated communities, turn our civil liberties over to Homeland Security, and build fences along our borders. Is there not a connection between public fear and the military actions we’ve initiated in the Middle East?

Feeling that there is an opposition between love and fear, I find it useful to try to cultivate loving thoughts—knowing that the more I do, the less room I have for fearful thoughts. More positive actions will naturally follow. The task of replacing fear in the American public’s mind with love, however, is a formidable task. We can hope that small, individual actions of love will somehow add up.

Fore Eyes

Virtually all of the wild critters I encounter around here have their eyes located on either side of their head—birds, reptiles, fish, deer, mice, rabbits… even our dog. We humans are once again the oddball, with eyes in the front of our heads. While this brings us binocular vision, all the others have panoramic vision. I got to wondering about the advantages and disadvantages of each.

It seems that evolution saw to it that creatures who live in daylight do need eyes (a good starting point), but some of us evolved to have our eyes point in the same direction, while others have side-pointing eyes. Why? Evolution rewards advantageous developments (which often spontaneously occur and then get passed on, while the disadvantageous ones die out). Thus, for panoramic vision, the advantage is being able to see pretty much in all directions at once. Small animals need to evade numerous predators, and need to see them coming from any direction. So nature gave them eyes on either side of their head. In contrast, large animals are usually the predators, so they need to be able to have good depth perception—so they got forward-looking binocular vision. That’s their advantage. It allows them to pursue little critters and know when and how to pounce, so as not to miss.

Recent research has shed more light on the issue. It seems that large animals who evolved in cluttered environments—like primates in the jungle (that’s us)—have forward-facing eyes that can see “through” the clutter. Hold a finger up a foot or so in front of your face. You are able to look past or “through” the finger, without any important object in the distance being blocked. Our eyes, spaced a few inches apart, give us binocular vision; which may be limited in its field of view, but any dangling leaves in our face don’t bother us. We can still see our prey (or foe).

Critters who evolved in open environments, however, don’t need binocular vision—nothing is in their face. They get an advantage with panoramic vision. What’s more, small animals (insects and mice) have their eyes much closer together than we do. Even a fat blade of grass—let alone a leaf—gets in their way. (Place your whole hand in front of your face—like a leaf to a mouse. Can you see things behind it? Watch out! You’ve just missed seeing an attacker.)

So now I can understand the advantage my bird friends have, with eyes on each side of their head. It’s hard to sneak up on them. But I bet that if I tossed one of them a ball, he’d do a poor job of catching it.

Saddleback Caterpillar

Lowly Geese

A few nights ago I was in the outdoor tub, soaking and relaxing. I heard the overhead honk of Canada geese. We love to hear them when they are migrating (north in March and south in October), when they fly at high altitudes, in groups of a couple dozen and more. Their flying V is amazing to watch. A flock can be heard for half a minute or more before they come into sight; many of the geese honking constantly and encouragingly. If we are indoors when we hear them coming, we run outside and look up, to watch the V fly on by.

I have come to think that their honks are intended either to urge the leader on, knowing that it takes much more energy to fly point, or to scold those who allow themselves to fall a little out of the slip stream of the perfect V shape.

But we also hear them, every other week or so, all year long. (Some Canada geese are year-round residents.) There is a pond close by, from which they fly, and back to which they fly, in the mornings and evenings. We will hear a small number of them honking—quite close and low—as they circle and head in for a landing on the pond.

I thought, as I was sitting in the tub, that I was hearing a couple of them making that last swoop down for the night, to settle on the pond. I looked up, hoping to watch them cross the clearing above me. In the next instant I was startled by a V of some 15-20 geese, flying very low and immediately overhead. The V was perfectly shaped, as if each goose knew its exact position in the aerodynamically-efficient line. If I had been able to take a picture, I could have drawn a straight line with a ruler on the photo, down each side of the V, exactly intersecting the nose of each goose. As they flew directly overhead, they halted their honking for a moment. They were so low that I could hear their wings flapping—all in perfect synchronicity. A "whish, whish, whish", and then they were gone. I sat there stunned—trying to soak in what I just saw and heard.

My Hermitage

When I inform people that I live as a hermit, I sometimes get the feeling that their image of what I do isn’t a good match with the reality of my life. I think they see me as much more withdrawn from society, more isolated than I am. While I do seek solitude, I haven’t mainly disconnected from the world at all. Even Thoreau—while hermiting on Walden Pond—visited, and was visited by, folks quite often.

In Western cultures hermits are often viewed as misanthropes, as outsiders, as oddballs, as withdrawn personalities. (I will confess to a mild case of some of these qualities.) This perception stems, to some extent, from early Christian church leaders. After waiting several decades for what they believed would be Jesus’ imminent return—while living under voluntary poverty conditions—church leaders concluded that the Messiah was not coming back anytime soon. Their next step was to decide that being wealthy was OK after all.

Some early Christians disagreed, however. They believed that very simple living led to a more devout life, so they continued their ascetic ways. They became outcasts, and retreated into solitude, in the barren wilderness. We now call the them Desert Mothers and Fathers. The powerful church leaders branded them as hostile misfits, bad-mouthed them, and established an ongoing suspicion of hermits, in Christian eyes. In the far East, it’s been quite another matter: elderly people often retreat into hermitage, after family obligations are discharged. It’s an honored tradition.

I find resonance with the hermit tradition: that ones lives largely in solitude, in order to seek insights and understanding that one cannot get, as a full-time member of society. Today’s society (or the one of Jesus’ time, for that matter) is caught up in activities that lead to mental and physical ills. There’s a craziness that abounds in the fast lane of urban life—a craziness that swoops one up and distorts one’s ability to think clearly. A hermit finds mental health in nature, away from society’s delusions.

So yes, I’ve retreated from my culture, to the sacredness of the woods. It’s taught me that there is so much more to learn about my world than just the narrow slice of humanity’s focus. The flora, fauna, and silence have much to teach me.

And I’m not at all disconnected from the human world. For example, even in the most remote corner of today’s world, one can access the internet. I browse, I research, I email, I keep up with human happenings. I like to stay in touch with numerous people, but I treasure being able to shut humanity’s craziness out and wander through the woods at my leisure.

Oops, upon further research, I find this is an Ailanthus Webworm moth!

Incessant Singers

I once regarded the whip-poor-will as a noisy pest—back when I was a city-bound person coming out to the country to camp for long weekends. I felt at the time that I was attempting to trade city clamor for a pastoral weekend, and did not enjoy this bird’s annoying call—which can be repeated many dozens of times, without pause. Now, however, I consider his call a blessing, when it emanates from the blackness of the forest on summer nights. What changed me?

An early factor in my conversion was reading years ago that a “whip-poor-will consumes more mosquitoes in a single night’s feeding than a purple martin in a lifetime.” How can you not love such a voracious appetite?

The whip-poor-will is a species among the family of night jars—many of whom have calls that give them their name. It’s scientific name is Caprimulgus vociferus. I love the second word—it says so much about his call. The first word is Latin for goatsucker; because mythology has it that the whip-poor-will sucks milk from the teats of cows and goats. In fact, although they have a very small bill, their mouth does open to a huge gap—the easier to scoop up insects on the fly.

The whip-poor-will is a solitary bird. It’s shy and very cryptically colored. It roosts and nests on the ground, but remains still and almost invisible, as it blends into leaf litter. Not long ago I was lounging in the outdoor tub at twilight. After awhile, I heard a rustling nearby. I stared in the sound’s direction, seeing nothing but leaves. Suddenly the whip-poor-will burst into flight—a pile of leaves taking off!

A few times while I’m in the tub, as I stare into the woods, I’ve spotted the dark form of a whip-poor-will flutter silently to a perch. It is just a black shadow in the growing dusk—a hint of an animate object. If my eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, I’ve been able to watch the bird, as it repeatedly darts out and circles back to the same perch—leaving the night air with one less flying insect.

So now I love the whip-poor-will’s song. Its clarion call fills the nighttime woods with music. When one is perched really close, we can even hear a guttural “chuck” sound, just prior to each call. Sing on, sweet whip-poor-will! May you find all our mosquitoes tonight.

Forehead Bulge 2

Insights are sudden moments of lucid understanding that pop into our consciousness. In the past they were perceived to come primarily from divine intervention, but recent brain research shows that certain parts of the brain appear to cooperate, communicate, and dig up the awareness; to bring us insights. I’m not sure but what it might still imply that we get a little help from something greater than we are—call it what you will.

Science researchers have been making fantastic strides in brain studies. Tools like magnetic resonance imaging allow researchers to identify specific parts of the brain that become active when certain cognitive activities occur. It tells us a lot about where in the brain things happen and which parts cooperate to perform various high-level functions. We are developing a wonderful understanding of how this forehead bulge—and all the gray matter behind it—works.

Preparatory to an insight, for example, research has found that the prefrontal cortex—the brain’s conductor—draws upon many corners of the brain. It’s as if the answer is in there somewhere, and has been all along; it just takes the right “search engine” to find it.

It seems to me that there are various levels of insight. Some are quite easily accessible, if we simply are mindful and pay attention to our world. How often do we go around in a preoccupied state of mind, oblivious to what’s happening? Pay attention! Meditative disciplines train us to become mindful, and when we do, lots of modest but insightful wisdom is our reward. It ain’t that hard!

Deeper insights, deeper truths, however, require more work, more discipline. Truths that came to the saints and mystics usually did so after long periods of dedication and devotion. Einstein’s revelations came to a brilliant mind—but only after many hours of grinding effort, followed by a detached state of mind. Jesus came to his insights after wrestling with the problem and then spending many meditative days and nights in the desert.

So insights come in various levels and can be spiritual, personal, or scientific (natural truths). They all entail our seeing some sort of truth—about ultimate reality, ourselves, or the world around us.

A beautiful message I take from the insight process is that it’s accessible to every one of us who carries around that forehead bulge. In that sense, the insights do come from within—we needn’t wait for some authority to tell us the truth, coerce us into believing their spin on it, or lead us into delusion. Yes, we have many wonderful teachings available to us, in the form of writings and speech, but we can also access much truth and understanding from within ourselves.

But within where? Does insight reside predominantly within our brain? The brain seems to know much more than we do, but is it that vast a storehouse? How is the brain related to the mind? The former is stuff, the latter is immaterial. The former is confined to our physical body, the latter is not. If the mind is not bounded by our skin, do some insights arrive via some connection to the universal consciousness, or from God?

Science may be finding some fascinating things about various parts of the brain that light up, but it can’t yet say much about the extent or workings of the mind. All those questions can become a little “mind numbing” to me. The brain—or the mind—doesn’t care what we think or believe about it. It just does its marvelous job, and science sometimes tells us some fundamental things about it. The biggest truths still await our discovery.

Forehead Bulge 1

We humans (I’m presumptuously assuming that it’s only humans who might be reading this) possess something no other creatures have: a bulging forehead that encases the prefrontal cortex (PFC) of the brain. We have the biggest brain (relative to body size) of any living creature on Earth. We are unique. What’s more, the PFC has exploded in size, the last few million years of our evolution. It’s grown six times bigger, while the brain itself has grown only three times. The growth of this forehead bulge is, in fact, almost out of control.

Science still is not certain what the PFC is and what it does. Most basically, it seems to act as the brain’s conductor, or as its executive function. It is in constant touch with various areas of the brain, coordinating and guiding their activities—often without our conscious involvement. The prefrontal cortex is responsible for our higher cognitive abilities, such as planning, discerning right from wrong, moderating social behavior, abstract reasoning, the use of symbols, making choices, and creating (often imperfect) memory.

The PFC integrates the two halves of the brain—effectively balancing the left brain’s analytical and denotative capabilities with the right brain’s intuitive, connotative, and emotional capabilities. When we chew on a problem, the PFC, like the conductor of an orchestra, draws upon various parts of the brain, seeking harmonious answers. It knows best which corners of the brain to probe. It even creates new connections, if need be.

The PFC plays the lead role in the creation of insights—those moments when we have an Aha! experience; when we leap from the bath water, exclaiming, “Eureka!” Many of humanity’s breakthroughs in understanding followed an individual’s long period of puzzling over a problem, with no progress. Stuck. Then, following a period of relaxation or of mundane distraction (while the PFC continued its background search), the answer popped into mind… as if on its own.

Newton, Einstein, and numberless other scientists had such sudden insights. Many saints on the spiritual path experienced similar breakthroughs about ultimate truths. Sophisticated brain research is showing that the PFC, in its conductor mode, literally creates the insight—as it searches diligently and patiently around the brain. Suddenly the symphonic answer comes blasting forth in one glorious trumpet blare.

What is curious about the insight process is that when it comes, there is no doubt but what it’s true. The person having the “Aha” experience is certain the problem is solved. The answer is there. It is simple, elegant, and right. (Note: this is very different from answers we get by dogged analysis. We may reach a solution that way, but we know that it requires thorough checking out, before we’re really sure it’s right.)

The other curious thing is that the “Aha” solution cannot be forced; it cannot be arrived at by a purely intellectual effort. We cannot will the insight to come—it’s as if it’s somewhere in there, waiting to be discovered, but we must let go and open up to it. It is readily available to us, but it will not be manipulated or ordered around. In fact, if we try to bull our way through it, a mental block will be met. It’s fully within our reach, but not our control. It’s grace.

So, does the insight come from solely from within our brain, or must we open to the universal consciousness to receive it from without? Does it come from us or from God? More next time…

Lazy as a Beaver

For many years now we have seen signs of beaver activity, at various spots down along the creek. A dam will appear, then many saplings will get gnawed off, then we might see a very large tree tackled. They really clear out an area of underbrush.

In all that time, I just once briefly spotted a beaver. Just one momentary glance. They are private little critters. I've admired their ability to gnaw big trees down (gracious, what sharp, powerful teeth you have, Mr. Beaver!), to doggedly repair damage after flood waters blast through their dam, then to suddenly abandon their efforts and move on to new locations when the time came (all good trees gone?). But never did I get a chance to get more than a quick glance at one beaver.

Until last year, that is. I meandered down to the creek one day. We were at our driest point in several decades and the creek bed was essentially dry. I was able to walk down the center of the bed of the creek, for the first time since we've lived here. It gives one sort of a beaver's-eye (or a fish-out-of water) view of the area.

I came upon a new dam, that I'd not noticed before. It was a wonderful opportunity to examine the construction of a beaver dam—above water. What marvelous engineers they are! The circular dam wall bowed gracefully across the creek. It was a mixture of branches and rocks. (And one imbedded beer can. Did he can plant itself or get lodged there by one of the dam’s builders?) I was impressed by the size of the many rocks that they had placed on the dam wall, but then remembered that they hefted them there when the rocks were much lighter, under water.

Then a couple of weeks later we got some decent rains, so the creek was once again running a little bit. I wondered how the beaver dam might now appear, so I sauntered downcreek to check it out. The dam was now mostly submerged and the pool behind it had grown. As I approached, I glanced down and saw a beaver, lazily swimming along. I froze, lest it see me and dive. It either didn't notice me or decided that I was no threat, as it continued slowly to swim in circles around its pool. It was a fantastic sight: its cute nose protruding from the surface, sending V-shaped waves outwards, as it swam lazily along. Every now and then I could get a glimpse of its body and a hint of its size. They aren’t small critters!

Suddenly, PLUNK!, it dove under. I thought it had spotted me and had smacked the water surface, in warning to its family and friends, that a two-legged threat was near. But it quickly resurfaced and continued to paddle along, unconcerned.

Shortly, it crawled up on the bank; but down among some weeds, so I could barely see what it was doing. It appeared to be grooming itself. (The next day I returned and got a closer look at the spot and noted many bark-stripped twigs laying around. I'm thinking it was chowing down on lunch.) As I waited to see if the beaver might soon reenter the water, I noted some activity out of the corner of my eye. Another beaver had entered the pool! It began lazily paddling around, as its friend/spouse/relative sat munching up on the bank. Then I saw another beaver, then yet another! There were three of them swimming around, while and one played on land.

What a treat they gave me! After awhile I was beginning to get a little stiff from standing like a statue, so I slowly wandered homeward. The guy/gal on the bank spotted me, slipped ever so silently into the water, then smacked the surface loud and hard, with that flat, leathery tail. It and the other three beavers instantly vanished. I never saw them again.

Love & Hate

Two words we find used in a wide variety of situations are “love” and “hate.” Without knowing something about the context in which they’re used, it’s not often clear to me what the user means by either one of these words. There are many forms of love and an equal range of hate. In particular, I find myself sometimes quite uncertain about how someone is using the word hate. While the dictionary might tell me that hate means “extreme aversion,” or “to detest,” I’m often unclear about the sentiments or actions behind the word that are meant by the user.

It seems reasonable to consider love and hate as antonyms, so it might help if I start from the standpoint of love—which I do understand better. For years I have found that Erich Fromm’s definition of love is helpful for me. He was writing, in The Art of Love, about altruistic or unconditional love (not romantic passion). He described the art of love as exemplifying four qualities: care, respect, responsibility, and understanding the other.

So starting with Fromm’s definition of love, its opposite—hate—comes better into focus for me. If to love someone is to care for them, then to hate them is to be indifferent. Second, to love someone means to respect them; to appreciate them for who they are. To hate someone, therefore, is to reject them, to demean who they are, or withhold acceptance until they change into someone I might value.

To love someone, by the third Fromm definition, is to feel responsible for them; to take action to help them when they are in difficulty, or at least to curb my actions so as not to harm them. Hatred in this sense is to turn away from them, to ignore them, to sever any connection we might have. The Good Samaritan showed admirable responsibility, when he stopped to help.

Finally, we show love by wanting to understand the other—by going out of our way to break down barriers of misconception and false impressions. Empathy is a form of understanding, when we show love by standing in the shoes of another. Hatred is denigrating the other to the point that they’re seen as not worthy of attempting to understand them.

And it all comes full circle when I realize that to be disinclined to want to understand another person is to reject them. It implies not caring, not respecting, and having no sense of responsibility. So the boundary into hatred territory is not as far away as I might think. I can quickly slip over the line, if I lack care, respect, feel no obligation, or harbor misunderstandings (that I don’t feel inclined to resolve) of someone.

A Titmouse Rebuke

In late summer I sit out in the tub as dusk comes on; sunken deeply into the soothing hot water, listening to Mother Nature’s varied sounds. In the evening at this time of year, it is mostly the calls of birds that enter the ear; but soon it will also be the incessant calls of katydids and crickets. I prefer to listen to birds singing their melodious tunes.

On this evening I gradually become aware of the non-melodious chatter of a titmouse—not his simple, whistle-like call, but his raucous, ear-grating squawk. Both the titmouse and the chickadee rant this way. They use it to rebuke one another, in my imagination. The scolding I hear this night is different, however. It persists, and it begins to be picked up by more birds. When I hear a badgering, raucous chorus like this, my first thought is that a predator is near, and the birds are joining forces to chew out the intruder. I have seen them berate and even attack a snake that might be going for babies in a nest.

The scolding sound I hear tonight does not indicate to me the presence of an attacking predator, however. It doesn’t seem that threatening. It is more like the sound of a parent chewing out a child. As the chorus adds more voices, I begin to wonder what the object of their attention is. The noise gets louder and more insistent. I turn around in the tub to see what is happening. Is it possible that they are aiming their diatribe at Cecil the cat? I had seen him in the vicinity a little earlier. He’d be a perfect target for such a diatribe.

I spot several birds flitting around in the branches of a white pine just above the tub. They are working themselves into a fine lather, and seem to be directing their attention down towards the ground, under the tree. I follow their gaze and there’s Cecil, lying placidly and immobile. Turning back to the birds, I can see that nearly a dozen titmice are gathered on the lowest branch of the pine, fluttering around and squawking loudly. Is Cecil really the target of their tirade? I look at him again, noticing that he is absolutely ignoring them, as if they did not exist. He’s completely unaffected by the raucous group.

I turn again to the birds. I notice that as they chatter, they look down at him with baleful stares (OK, I may be reading something into their demeanor, but it sure looks that way). Their raspy chorus rises in intensity even more. As I tune into them, I begin to notice that their pulses of noise come into sync with each other—like the vibratos of singers who blend tightly. The scolding pulses periodically surge in a hypnotic manner, drawing me deep into their chatter. It seems to build and sustain itself for a long time. I am getting woozy from the spellbinding sound.

I look back towards Cecil. How is he reacting? He appears to notice absolutely nothing, as if the only inhabitants of this corner of the woods are himself (his royal self) and me.

The birds, meantime, are really getting into it, as if participating in an old-time, call-and-response revival meeting. They spur each other on, encouraging every member to blast out in his best fashion. It’s as if they are trying to outdo each other, to see which one wins the prize for chief denouncer. After a time their chatter slows and even begins to break up a bit.

As their rebuke fades, one bird insistently begins anew, pushing on his comrades once again to take up the challenge. It’s as if he was saying, “Don’t stop, brothers! This cat must be dealt with. We must chew his ass into shreds, comrades! We must put him down, tell him off. Remember when he attacked Brother Fred a few days ago? We must let him know that he cannot escape our wrath. Make him realize his lowliness, lying down there in the dirt, while we superior creatures fly about up here in the heavens. To the ramparts! Let us fling our sarcastic arrows at him until he repents or slinks away in shame!”

Meanwhile, Cecil lies there, unperturbed, acting as if the tree is empty. I envy his ability to ignore them. Soon the intensity of their tirade fades once again. One final attempt is made by the titmouse provocateur. “Don’t stop, brothers! He’s beginning to feel intimidated by us. We must persevere. Look, I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. We’re getting to him. Don’t stop! I can see him begin to tense up and worry. Go after him! Chew out his feline butt!”

But the brotherhood begins to weary. Other distractions come to their wee bird brains. The “wiser” ones realize that they’re just wasting their beautiful voices on a stupid cat. It’s time to move on. Maybe a few more bugs can be caught and eaten before dark fully descends. One by one, they depart the battle scene. The last couple of birds sling one final shot at Cecil, then depart.

As they scatter, I imagine one bird saying to the others (realizing the ephemeral nature of their brotherhood), “Well, that was great fun. The cat’s been humiliated. Did you see how I told him off? Man, I was BAD! It was great to band together with you guys again and face the enemy. But now we must go our ways. My chick is waiting. And any of you guys get the idea to go after her, your ass is grass! Hear?”