Our Dangerous Adventurousness

Scientific research discoveries often fascinate me; they can get me to meditating upon our world and how it came to be. It often leads me to speculation about the message. Of course, the species that the majority of scientific studies focus on, and is endlessly fascinating, is us: Homo sapiens.

A recent example: the results of a British study identified a key region of our brain which encourages us to be adventurous creatures. It seems as if we humans are sometimes inclined to go after an unfamiliar option—rather than choose a habitual one—particularly when we sense the reward might be greater. Our life may sometimes seem as if we generally trudge the old, familiar path, day after day, following the same safe steps we’ve taken many times before. But if a new, unknown path presents itself one day, we can feel an urge to check it out.

The British researchers say that this propensity for taking a risk may have provided us with an evolutionary advantage over competing species. Those of our ancestors who were willing to take the chance to explore new territory may have been rewarded with a more beneficial environment or found a new and more nutritious food source. They prospered and passed those inquisitive genes on. (Of course, some made bad choices and perished, but we don’t know about them.)

Several million years ago, when our hominid ancestors were forced down out of the tropical trees by a changing climate (which killed off many of those trees), an adventurous spirit helped us to adapt better than our cousins who timidly clung to the few remaining trees. (Chimpanzees are still up there.) When living conditions in various parts of the pre-industrial world became wretched a couple of centuries ago, an adventurous few folks struggled to reach America. Many of them prospered. (And isn’t that what drives oppressed folks from Latin America to brave the hostile unknown and attempt to migrate to the US today?)

The British researchers found that when we choose the untried, take that risk, and find a prize awaiting us for our gamble, we are also rewarded by a release of pleasant neurotransmitters such as dopamine. This can create a feedback process that makes us desire even more. The scientists feel that this can explain why re-branding of familiar products keeps consumers coming back for more.

Evolutionary advantages, however, can sometimes be a double-edged sword. A particular trait that provides an advantage—in the way of making a species more fit—can sometimes lead to too much success. Locusts, finding a plentiful food supply, will exponentially increase their numbers until the source is gone and their population crashes. Has Homo sapiens become so successful that we are overrunning the earth, crowding into every niche, bloating our numbers to the point that we’ve become unsustainable—and about to cause our own crash? Is our propensity for adventurousness gotten us into a dangerous runaway situation? Can we learn to find a balance between our dangerous adventurousness and stagnancy?

An Odd Stick

I am sitting in the outdoor tub, deep into meditation. My body is submerged in 102-degree water, up to my neck. I float weightless in the healing waters. I lose sense of my body, as my mind also floats in a sea of quiet contemplation. In this state I either go deep into concentration, forgetting about my body and most of the thoughts that have been roiling around in my head all day, or am very aware of my body and am alert to any sensations that occur. Or I may get deeply drawn into stars overhead, or listen to the forest sounds of critters in the night, or to the breeze flowing by. I just allow what comes up to take my attention, as fully as I can.

On this black night in June I am subliminally aware that Cecil the cat is sitting three feet above me, perched atop the wall, surveying his realm. I know he crouches there motionless and silent, waiting for any critter to come near, any hapless and tasty creature that may be unaware of his presence. He might appear relaxed but his muscles are coiled and ready to spring him into action in an instant. I can’t see Cecil in this darkness, but I had earlier heard him ascend to his post, as I sank into my meditative state.

Suddenly I hear him whap at something above me. The sound pulls me partially and momentarily out of my reverie, wondering what happened. I hear him whap again, followed by the sound of something splashing into the water next to me. Now fully roused, I look up towards Cecil and blurt out, “No! Stop that!” He leaps from his perch and moves off.

Before I resettle into my meditations, I feel around for what I believe is the stick that he knocked down into the tub. It must be floating on the surface. But I can’t locate it. Hmmmm… I push my hand towards the bottom of the tub, in order to brace myself for a more thorough search for Cecil’s dislodged stick.

As my hand descends, I feel something. Ah, it must be that I’ve found that stick! But I note that the stick does not feel as I had expected it to. It’s not stiff and rough, as it should be. It isn’t floating, as it should be. In fact, it seems to be moving, even to slither through the palm of my hand. It feels animate, slick, slender, and long.

Holy defecation, it’s a snake!! A wriggly snake! That evil beast that spoiled Adam & Eve’s idyllic lives. The most loathsome, threatening cold-blooded brute on the planet: in my tub, up against my body! I feel pure panic and the instant rush of adrenalin.

We know that when we are underwater, we cannot move quickly. The dense liquid slows our movements. It bogs us down. How many of us have had anxiety dreams, in which we are trying to run through water, but our bodies move excruciatingly slowly? Maybe something is pursuing us in our scary dream—something that can move much faster than we do through water—and threatens to overtake us. This frightening scenario can morph into a full-blown nightmare.

This time, however, the bath water does not slow me down one whit. I launch myself into the air, like a whale breaching the ocean’s surface, leaping far above the surface. In a microsecond I am standing beside the tub, not even having had enough time to be fully terrified. Only then I realize that adrenalin is wildly coursing through me, causing me to shake and flutter. There is just enough light, when I look down into the tub, to see the black snake as it surfaces. It peers up at me, recognizing the monster that had tried to grab it, and in a flash, swims to the opposite end of the tub and disappears over the edge. The water didn’t seem to slow it down either!

My meditation mood now shattered for the night, I hop towards the house, trying to shake the jitters, thinking I might need a scotch to calm down.

The Unwavering Wasp

We have two kinds of wasps around here (well, maybe three, if you count white folks who attend the local Methodist Church): paper wasps and mud daubers. The former are social, the latter are solitary. The former build paper nests in out-of-the-way places. We occasionally stumble unknowingly upon their nest, are perceived as a threat to the community, and get nailed. Their sting is very painful. My spouse will get all swollen up and need doses of medicine to recover. I will have the throbbing of the sting stay with me for a couple of days, even though I don’t swell.

Needless to say, we try to be very careful around paper wasps. They seem to know that they are intimidating little critters, because they will buzz you—flying around your head, almost as if they were trying to get you to flee. If you do, they hover in the air in your wake, as if laughing derisively at your timidity. (Ever hear a paper wasp contemptuously laughing? It's a chilling sound that rattles you to your marrow.)

The second type of wasp, the mud dauber, is an interesting and less bullying critter. We have never gotten stung by one, as they are not at all aggressive. The solitary female wasp selects a site for her mud tunnel—well out of the weather, tucked into a cozy spot. She builds a mud tunnel that is about four inches long and a quarter inch in diameter. She stuffs an egg of hers in the end of the tunnel and then captures various insects—spiders, flies, and other soft-bodied creatures—stuns them and seals them in the tunnel, lining up a delectable selection of meals for her baby. When the larva hatches in a couple of weeks, it eats its way down the tunnel, until it reaches the end—and is then ready to venture forth into the world. It bores a hole in the side of the tunnel and flies away—to mate and continue the tunnel-building process.

It is fascinating to watch the prospective mom build the tunnel; its walls are impressively thick. I'm amazed at the size of the load of mud that she can carry to the tunnel site. When she lands, she begins packing the new mud against the wall. As she crams the mud in, she makes a very loud rasping sound that can be heard for a long distance (at least out here in the quiet country).

Each round trip of hers takes several minutes. While she is building the tunnel, she gets extremely focused on her work. She picks a flying route that is the shortest distance from her mud source to her tunnel nest. Then she settles into her routine and begins her dozens of trips to complete the tunnel. As she labors, nothing else in the world exists for her—except if an ignorant human happens to step into her flight path. She will not deviate from that path—she is locked into it and seems so focused as to be unable to make a flight change. If you get in her way she will bash into you, or threaten you menacingly, but virtually never sting.

Last week I watched a mud dauber building her tunnel inside my workshop, along the window frame. I had neglected to close the door for a day or two and she had identified that inside perch as a safe spot for her baby’s birth. I became aware of her presence, as I began working at my bench, when she buzzed my head, on her way toward her tunnel. I then heard her rasping loudly, as she added to her project. I watched her for awhile, puzzled about what to do. If she finished her tunnel, her baby would emerge some day when the door might be shut and it might be trapped for days. Was it better to stop mom now and interfere with her mission, or let her finish and have the baby possibly meet some grim fate later, locked inside the building?

As I pondered my decision, I went outside and closed the door, to see what she would do if denied access. Soon she returned with another load of mud, flew right up to and nearly bashed against the closed door. She flew about in confused circles, continually returning to the door. Had she been much bigger, I think she would have tried butting the door, to get it out of her way. I watched her for a few minutes, as she circled the building and repeatedly came back to the door, as if wondering each time how her path had gotten blocked by something that looked like the wall of the building. I watched, guessing how she might be feeling (as if she had the ability to think about her dilemma). Had she maybe miscalculated her flight, and flown past the opening? She retraced her path and returned, once again frustrated by the closed door. Maybe the opening was farther along? She flew on by the door this time, looking for her opening, to no avail. I shortly left the area—feeling culpable and remorseful for her impasse. I don't know what she ended up doing. She probably simply moved on and tried another location—harboring no resentment.

Life on the homestead often leads to the harm of various critters—sometimes knowingly (I have no qualms about killing flies or house-invading ants) and sometimes ignorantly. Simply by settling down here in the woods, we have become part of a little eco system, that we've partly created and partly disturbed. We help make the lives of some creatures a little more pleasant and the lives of some a little more miserable. Finding the balance is an ongoing meditative experiment.

Just Another Animal

In my nearly three decades of residence here in the woods I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to come to understand nature far better than I once did. It’s been a treasured gift to be able to be an ongoing student of my natural world. A significant result of this increased grasp of my world has been coming to see that I’ve just scratched the surface—my level is ignorance is daunting.

Another result of my study of nature has been to help me appreciate the findings of numerous scientific analyses in recent years—research that shows humans are much closer to our fellow animals than we previously thought. Our outmoded (and biased) viewpoint told us that humans were fundamentally different from other animals. We created a wide, barren gap between us and them—a gap that placed us superior to all other animals.

Some examples of the qualities that we deemed uniquely human were: symbolic cognition, the design and use of tools, possession of so-called “higher” emotions (such as love, pleasure, excitement, depression), memory, imagining outcomes, language, and of course, the belief that we were forged in the image of the creator. We saw ourselves as the perfected end product of an intentional design process. We believed that the universe has unfolded with the sole purpose of bringing humans into existence. In fact, we once were deluded enough even to believe that the universe literally revolved around us.

But we’re growing up. We now understand that many of the capabilities we once saw as exclusively ours are shared by many fellow critters. Maybe they have them to a lesser degree, but it’s only a matter of degree. The barren gap is gone. We’re more of an animal than many of us would like to believe. We got all puffed up on ourselves and now some of the air in our sails has escaped.

I revel in this awakening—this maturing of the human perspective that’s being abetted by science. It gives credence to the response that springs up when I watch a wild critter here on the homestead: I am both fascinated by its beauty and I feel a close connection to it. I don’t see myself as superior to the spider, squirrel, or sparrow. Sure, I feel lucky to be born a human (with all those enhanced cognitive abilities), but we’re all Earthlings who are much more alike than different.

In fact, I am often struck by the magnificent capabilities that I see in these animals. They are often better than I at smelling, seeing, in their incredibly sensitive perceptions, and in intelligently interacting with their environment. I marvel at their harmony with their world, how in balance they are, and at the positive role they play in their world. I am humbled and even embarrassed when I contrast their effect on the world with our human impact—which finds us fouling our nest and causing so much widespread havoc. I guess, in fact, that’s why I live the life of a hermit: it’s more inspiring to be surrounded by nature than humans.

Tracking Summer Storms

It’s midsummer and thunderstorms frequently broil through the area in late afternoon or early evening. The day’s heat gets stored in atmospheric bubbles and then is violently blasted back out as lightning, thunder, and rain. They are intimidating events, but very welcome, in that they bring most of our treasured summer precipitation.

When I’m outside I can hear the storms forming, way off to the west. Occasional low rumbles of distant thunder alert me to the approaching fury. The sky might later turn an ominous gray, as swirling clouds appear. Many of these storm cells are small—only a mile or two in size. Most of them will miss us, zipping by to the north or south. Some will form and shoot their wad before reaching our area; some are still building their fury as they pass overhead, later to release their built-up tensions to the east. And then a small portion have our name on them, exploding right overhead.

On some stormy evenings I will lie peacefully soaking in the outdoor tub, tuning warily into those early warning rumbles. I feel quite vulnerable in the tub—naked and at the mercy of the storms. I lay there, trying hard to estimate the path of a storm from the thunder grumbles I hear and the roiling clouds I watch. Will this one go on by to the north? Am I watching the edge of a passing storm cell—a near miss, or is it coming right down my alley?

I hate to truncate a tub soaking—I require an hour or more to fully let go, and it seems as if those blasted storms always appear shortly after I submerse myself. A light rain begins and wind gusts start to swirl. My emotional state—just beginning to come down—jacks up a notch. It’s thrilling to witness a storm envelope you, but I’d far rather prefer that this one veer to the north or south.

I don’t have the courage of John Muir, who once thrilled to a passing thunderstorm, while clinging to the upper branches of a tree—swaying crazily back and forth. Increasingly alert as the storm approaches, I ready myself, bunching my leg muscles like a cat—ready to explode from the water, grab my towel, and bolt for the house; as I pray that a storm bolt isn’t aimed at me. Would I be safer to hunker down and weather the storm in the tub?

Teaching Science

I have taught various subjects over the years in various settings—from college physics, to meditation, to spiritual practices, to nonviolence. Because of my technical background, one of my favorite subjects to teach is science—particularly in a one-on-one setting. I love the definitiveness, the objectivity of science. To every scientific question we pose, there is an unequivocal answer; a truth. That unambiguous answer may often not be quite known yet, but it does exist and potentially can be found. The unknown factor can provide the stimulus for us to keep on searching.

How big is the universe? How did life begin? Where did life begin? How much of global warming is being caused by humans? Why is that bird singing? What is the cognitive ability of a dog? Why is the sky blue? These questions all have definitive answers. Some we know now, some we don’t. When someday we do know the answer, our early hypothesis or theory will finally become a “law.” It’s an unfolding of truth.

Just knowing that an answer does exist is very satisfying to me, when I teach science—even if I can’t give the answer today. In that sense science is different from religion or philosophy, in that it deals neither with absolute certainty nor with anybody’s opinion, belief, or insight. It does not rely upon the charisma or repute of anyone. The truth of scientific matters is accessible to both the mighty and the humble. It’s the people’s knowledge.

Humility is, in fact, very central to science (or should be). Despite the fact that the human science book of knowledge is massive, we know that the book of our ignorance is far larger. So when I teach science I might be able to come across at one time as authoritative—say, when describing why the sky is blue—but I must admit that nobody yet knows how big the universe is. It probably does have a size (possibly infinite), but we haven’t cracked the code yet. As a teacher of science, that keeps me humble. I can’t in all honesty spout either dogma or certainty—and even when I can, it’s nothing that I own. The “law” of gravity is independent of the mind of any human. Furthermore, most things we teach are not laws, but just our current best guess. Be advised that tomorrow’s discoveries may turn it all upside down.

When we dig a little deeper, we come to understand that science’s foundation of certainty is even shakier than we first thought. (Of course, this lack of certainty is exactly what religious fundamentalists love to attack—for they possess the arrogance to think that they have nailed down the answer, for once and forever.) As scientists, however, we must honestly admit that we know less than we’d like to think we do. That comes hard for some scientist types. We might use precise models and elegant equations to describe and predict natural phenomena, but we often don’t know if the problem at hand even fits our model—let alone that the model may be specious. Disturbingly often someone comes up with a new observation or a new model that consigns the current favorite to the trash can.

An example: Newton’s laws once were believed to define a precisely predictable universe, until Einstein rocked that boat (and quantum mechanics flipped it over). Example: We’ve developed elaborate theories and models for the workings of the universe, but we have no idea what 95% of the stuff in the universe is! Dark matter and dark energy are just that: big things that seem to hide in the shadows. Example: We can often very accurately predict the behavior of water’s amazing properties, but we have no idea of why water behaves that way. Example: Only recently have we gained some confidence that we know the size of the observable universe (some 13.7 billion light-years radius), but we don’t know if there’s anything beyond that; also we’re not sure if the universe will continue expanding indefinitely or one day, like a stretched rubber band, will begin to contract again. The more we learn, the more we realize just how much we don’t know.
All that uncertainty may sound like an indictment of science (and some people conclude exactly that), but it makes it all the more wonderful for me. The marvel lies in not knowing; the wonder arises from viewing the fantastic growth of scientific knowledge over the centuries and having the faith that unimaginable horizons of wisdom wait to be viewed. I think it is just dandy to live with the uncertainty. The more I come to comprehend this magnificent world, the more beautiful and immaculate I can see it is. And if I accept the current uncertainties, I am open to new wonders that will inevitably come along, rather than resist them, because I’ve already made up my mind. It’s a form of the humble Zen “I don’t know mind,” which eagerly awaits to be enlightened.

Star Gazing

I was laying back in the hot tub recently, gazing at the sky. (One of my deepest joys is reclining twice weekly in an outdoor wood-fired tub of hot water, siphoned from the creek.) It was a crystal-clear night; the stars shone brightly. I love to look at them and ponder the nature my universe. I'm looking into deep space, and it can stimulate deep thinking.

I often begin my star gazing by looking at familiar celestial friends—a couple of planets, or maybe the constellation Orion, or other star groupings—and just hang out with them for awhile. It's nice to get myself oriented by starting with star formations that I know the names of, but I also like to pick out a random star and stare fixedly at it—having no idea what its name is. I try to imagine what it's like to be in its vicinity; wondering what planets it might have revolving around it. I send greetings to the star and any beings who might be there.

Lately as I have stared into the sky, I have been trying to get a sense of the profound depth that I'm looking into. It's natural to look at the starry sky and view it as a large hemisphere, somewhere far above me; an upside-down bowl that has had many holes poked in it, through which light shines from somewhere beyond. The ancients saw it that way. Interpreted thusly, all the stars appear as if they are the same distance away—some shining through bigger holes than others. But I'm really seeing a three-dimensional field, with some stars much closer than others. So as I lay there, I try to get the sense of that deep field.

Last night I was reminded that most of the points of light I'm seeing are stars in my own galaxy. A very few of them might be distant galaxies that appear to me as points of light (along a couple of nebulas, star clusters, pulsars, etc.), but most all of what I see by naked eye are solitary stars. And those stars are all in my Milky Way galaxy; they’re “local” suns. So at best I can see, with the naked eye, maybe half way across just my own galaxy, maybe some 50 light years away. Although I know that I can see out that far, I can't seem to get my head around that kind of distance. If I've done the math correctly, that's about 300,000,000,000,000 miles that I can gaze! That's too big a number for me to comprehend.
But it gets bigger. Even though my naked eye can see objects 3oo trillion miles away, I realized, laying there in the hot water, that it was still capable of seeing only a vanishing fraction of the universe. I’m just gazing into my Milky Way; one of well over 100 billion galaxies. So if my vision extends partly across just my own galaxy, I am seeing less than one part in 100 billion of the universe! That's an astoundingly infinitesimal part of the whole. I’m gonna need a lot more soakings in that tub, before I can expand my mind that much.

Watching Ants

The homestead clearing, after years of labor, is getting so pretty that it distracts me. As I work, I sometimes have to stop and gaze at something that arrests me with its beauty. It makes me realize just how fortunate my mate and I are to be living here.
Recently I was pumping water and found my gaze falling on one of the posts that holds up the enclosure over the hand pump. I noticed a line of ants crawling up the post and another line headed down. I moved closer to watch what they were up to. What amazing little critters they are! They are so social. They each have their place in some grand scheme of the community, that I don't think any one of them vaguely comprehends. They just go about their work, busily providing for the greater good.
One line of these ants was moving up the post. I think they were carrying something up to the nest, but I could not see what they may be toting, without my glasses. (They are those tiny little black ants.) About half way up the post they disappeared into a knot hole. Another line of descending ants emerged from the hole. I guessed they might be headed off for the same provisions that the ascending ants were returning with.
Many of the ants in the downward-headed line briefly paused, touching heads with the ascending crew, before moving on. I think this is a way for the departing ants to check out their returning fellows, to see what they are carrying and to pick up a smell, so they can follow the trail to the source of provisions.
Then I noticed a third category of ants. They emerged from the hole and appeared to be dropping something to the ground, before moving back inside. That was just too fascinating for me, so I got my magnifying glass from my nearby workshop and moved in close, to see if I could discover what they were doing.
Imagine the shock of an ant, emerging from the dark hole and looking up to see this giant eye peering at it! The first ant that came out and saw me literally jumped and rushed back inside. I stood my ground, magnifying glass to my eye, immobile. A few more ants soon came out. I could see that they indeed had something in their mouth pincers: a tiny ball that they dropped into space, then wiped off their pinchers and returned inside. Was it shit they were removing? The remains of some excavating they were doing? I may learn that another day. None of the ants would tell me.