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.