Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Fig-Wasp Mutualism
The deeper biologists delve into the workings of nature, the more they come to appreciate and understand the complexity and entanglement that exists between species. No living entity is in isolation. Every plant and creature has a relationship with and depends upon countless other life forms around it. The web of life connects us all, with varying degrees of interdependency.
Remove one species and there will be manifold types of impact on all species connected to it—even those remotely connected. The web of life has evolved to be so interdependent that if one link is severed, the whole thing might not collapse but it will surely change. We humans are causing the ongoing extinction of numerous species every day, with little comprehension of how we are upsetting the exquisite balance of nature.
Mutualism is the strongest kind of tie between two species, wherein both of them benefit from and depend on each other. Pollination is a common type of mutualism. For example, most flowering plants depend on bees, birds, and bats to spread pollen to other plants of the same species—completing the process of sexual reproduction. In return, the plant may offer the pollinator sweet nectar or some of its pollen for food. If the critter is pleased with the meal, it will fly off—carrying some pollen with it—to seek another plant of the same species, and thus fulfilling the sex act.
Modern agriculture relies heavily on bees for pollination of fruits and vegetables. Many bee colonies are being decimated in the last few years, however, and agricultural folks are in a panic. Is the bee-plant balance being degraded?
Some plant-pollinator mutual relationships evolve to become so specialized that only one kind of insect is able to pollinate one kind of plant. They become completely dependent on each other. If one goes extinct, the other must follow. There are numerous species of tree for which there are no further offspring possible, because their pollinator has died off. On the island of Mauritius, for example, there have been no tambalacoque saplings for some 300 years, because the dodo bird—which once spread the tree’s seeds—went extinct in the late 1600s, having been hunted down by people who arrived on the island. Only ancient tambalacoque trees are left. Soon they may also be gone (unless a new pollinator can step in).
One of the more spectacular examples of complete mutualism exists between fig trees and the wasps that pollinate them. There are some 750 species of fig tree around the world (mostly in tropical climates) and 750 species of wasp—one for each kind of fig. The fruit of the fig is hollow, with one end open and with a tiny array of flowers inside the fruit. The wasp climbs inside, lays her eggs on a flower and promptly dies. Later, her eggs hatch, larva eat some of the flower’s seeds, and pupate. Yet later the adult wasps emerge, mate, and the males then promptly die. The impregnated females—now coated with pollen, as they’ve mucked around inside the flower for some time—fly off to find another fig tree of the same species, crawl inside the fruit, and pollinate its flowers.
I don’t believe that such an exclusive example of mutualism exists around me. Most local plant and animal species are generalists. But I can’t help watching a bee or butterfly, loaded with pollen, and wish that it fly on and visit many kinds of flowers and help to bring about more of them. And I can’t help but wonder what delicate examples of mutualism do exist around here, that are in danger of being interrupted. Every critter is precious!
Remove one species and there will be manifold types of impact on all species connected to it—even those remotely connected. The web of life has evolved to be so interdependent that if one link is severed, the whole thing might not collapse but it will surely change. We humans are causing the ongoing extinction of numerous species every day, with little comprehension of how we are upsetting the exquisite balance of nature.
Mutualism is the strongest kind of tie between two species, wherein both of them benefit from and depend on each other. Pollination is a common type of mutualism. For example, most flowering plants depend on bees, birds, and bats to spread pollen to other plants of the same species—completing the process of sexual reproduction. In return, the plant may offer the pollinator sweet nectar or some of its pollen for food. If the critter is pleased with the meal, it will fly off—carrying some pollen with it—to seek another plant of the same species, and thus fulfilling the sex act.
Modern agriculture relies heavily on bees for pollination of fruits and vegetables. Many bee colonies are being decimated in the last few years, however, and agricultural folks are in a panic. Is the bee-plant balance being degraded?
Some plant-pollinator mutual relationships evolve to become so specialized that only one kind of insect is able to pollinate one kind of plant. They become completely dependent on each other. If one goes extinct, the other must follow. There are numerous species of tree for which there are no further offspring possible, because their pollinator has died off. On the island of Mauritius, for example, there have been no tambalacoque saplings for some 300 years, because the dodo bird—which once spread the tree’s seeds—went extinct in the late 1600s, having been hunted down by people who arrived on the island. Only ancient tambalacoque trees are left. Soon they may also be gone (unless a new pollinator can step in).
One of the more spectacular examples of complete mutualism exists between fig trees and the wasps that pollinate them. There are some 750 species of fig tree around the world (mostly in tropical climates) and 750 species of wasp—one for each kind of fig. The fruit of the fig is hollow, with one end open and with a tiny array of flowers inside the fruit. The wasp climbs inside, lays her eggs on a flower and promptly dies. Later, her eggs hatch, larva eat some of the flower’s seeds, and pupate. Yet later the adult wasps emerge, mate, and the males then promptly die. The impregnated females—now coated with pollen, as they’ve mucked around inside the flower for some time—fly off to find another fig tree of the same species, crawl inside the fruit, and pollinate its flowers.
I don’t believe that such an exclusive example of mutualism exists around me. Most local plant and animal species are generalists. But I can’t help watching a bee or butterfly, loaded with pollen, and wish that it fly on and visit many kinds of flowers and help to bring about more of them. And I can’t help but wonder what delicate examples of mutualism do exist around here, that are in danger of being interrupted. Every critter is precious!
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Our Shrinking Gray Matter
Over the last 20-30 thousand years the human brain has shrunk by about 10%—from 1500 cc to 1350 cc. No one knows why, and few scientists seem to be aware of the fact or even want to look further into the issue. Maybe it challenges one of humanity’s most cherished beliefs: that we humans are the smartest and it’s all due to our big brain. Could it be instead that we are dumbing down? If you take a look at what we humans are doing today, you could make a strong case for our actions being pretty dumb.
We know when our brain began to grow: around two million years ago, when Earth’s environment changed. Vegetation grew drier, and our deep ancestors came down from the trees and also changed. Their brains grew rapidly. It’s not clear why their cranial volume grew, however. The debate continues.
There’s been a tendency for us to think that we need this big brain—else why have it?—as well as to think that we’re most special, just because we have it. After all, aren’t we in charge here? Don’t we pretty much get our way in this world, primarily due to our being so smart? We rule!
Scientists have created a simple measure of an animal’s intelligence that tends to work in most cases: the Encephalization Quotient, or EQ. It’s the ratio of the brain’s weight to body weight. It’s a rough but helpful measure of intelligence, especially when we’re examining the skull sizes of various extinct species and trying to guess how smart they were and what their capabilities might have been. The idea behind EQ is that the larger an animal is, the larger its brain needs to be, just for basic survival skills. Any surplus gray matter presumably can be then used for higher cognitive skills.
Our immediate ancestors—the Cro-Magnon peoples of 20 to 30 thousand years ago—had bigger bodies and bigger brains than we do, so they had about the same EQ as we do. Both our bodies and our brains have shrunk since then. Will this brain-shrinking trend continue—maybe even as our bodies hold steady—and thus make us dumber? Nobody knows.
A big brain has a major advantage: the owner is smarter (in general) and more adaptable—thus is more likely to survive. But a larger cranial volume comes at a cost: the large human brain, for example, hogs about 20% of the food energy that we consume. So having a smaller brain has its own advantage: it requires less food and thus makes life easier.
Other studies suggest that we humans no longer need to be as resourceful as we once had to be—back when we were chasing down gazelles and dodging lions. Our culture has advanced so much that we can be dumber and survive just fine today, since our complex and interdependent societies can provide food and safety beyond what our ancestors knew. Additionally, our computers do a lot of brainwork for us, and machines provide the brawn, so we don’t need either the larger brain or body.
It may also be that we’ve not really lost any intelligence with our smaller brain, just that it has evolved to become more efficient. If so, we could have our brain shrink, require less food, and still be smart enough. We haven’t used but a fraction of our mental capability so far, so we might do just fine with a smaller cranial volume.
Studies also show that creatures with smaller brains tend to be less aggressive. Hmmm… Has our big brain been the thing that has led us to be so violent? Might our species even benefit from a little brain shrinkage?
Domesticated animals—pigs, cattle, goats, dogs, cats—have smaller brains than their wild counterparts. We have bred them for tame qualities, so they are more docile and less aggressive, but that has also made them dumber. It may be that the same is true for us. If smaller brains really do cause us to be more peaceful, then I say let ‘em shrink! We sure could stand to shed a few ounces of aggression.
We know when our brain began to grow: around two million years ago, when Earth’s environment changed. Vegetation grew drier, and our deep ancestors came down from the trees and also changed. Their brains grew rapidly. It’s not clear why their cranial volume grew, however. The debate continues.
There’s been a tendency for us to think that we need this big brain—else why have it?—as well as to think that we’re most special, just because we have it. After all, aren’t we in charge here? Don’t we pretty much get our way in this world, primarily due to our being so smart? We rule!
Scientists have created a simple measure of an animal’s intelligence that tends to work in most cases: the Encephalization Quotient, or EQ. It’s the ratio of the brain’s weight to body weight. It’s a rough but helpful measure of intelligence, especially when we’re examining the skull sizes of various extinct species and trying to guess how smart they were and what their capabilities might have been. The idea behind EQ is that the larger an animal is, the larger its brain needs to be, just for basic survival skills. Any surplus gray matter presumably can be then used for higher cognitive skills.
Our immediate ancestors—the Cro-Magnon peoples of 20 to 30 thousand years ago—had bigger bodies and bigger brains than we do, so they had about the same EQ as we do. Both our bodies and our brains have shrunk since then. Will this brain-shrinking trend continue—maybe even as our bodies hold steady—and thus make us dumber? Nobody knows.
A big brain has a major advantage: the owner is smarter (in general) and more adaptable—thus is more likely to survive. But a larger cranial volume comes at a cost: the large human brain, for example, hogs about 20% of the food energy that we consume. So having a smaller brain has its own advantage: it requires less food and thus makes life easier.
Other studies suggest that we humans no longer need to be as resourceful as we once had to be—back when we were chasing down gazelles and dodging lions. Our culture has advanced so much that we can be dumber and survive just fine today, since our complex and interdependent societies can provide food and safety beyond what our ancestors knew. Additionally, our computers do a lot of brainwork for us, and machines provide the brawn, so we don’t need either the larger brain or body.
It may also be that we’ve not really lost any intelligence with our smaller brain, just that it has evolved to become more efficient. If so, we could have our brain shrink, require less food, and still be smart enough. We haven’t used but a fraction of our mental capability so far, so we might do just fine with a smaller cranial volume.
Studies also show that creatures with smaller brains tend to be less aggressive. Hmmm… Has our big brain been the thing that has led us to be so violent? Might our species even benefit from a little brain shrinkage?
Domesticated animals—pigs, cattle, goats, dogs, cats—have smaller brains than their wild counterparts. We have bred them for tame qualities, so they are more docile and less aggressive, but that has also made them dumber. It may be that the same is true for us. If smaller brains really do cause us to be more peaceful, then I say let ‘em shrink! We sure could stand to shed a few ounces of aggression.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Be No Threat
Our first impression at meeting another person plays a huge role in the nature of our subsequent relationship. How we initially come across to each other creates an immediate reaction that strongly influences what happens next. We have a deeply-ingrained propensity to quickly size up the potential safety or threat at the first instant of encounter and be ready to react.
It’s how our deep ancestors survived. Those who quickly and correctly sized up the situation did better than those who didn’t—particularly when the encounter might be threatening. Those of our hominid forebears who were quick to discern the threat and then quick to jump were more successful at avoiding being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. Those who were a split second too slow became a meal. Their slower-reacting genes went extinct. The evolutionary result is that the human species tends to lean towards the suspicious side, to be very alert, when encountering someone new. Better to be safe than sorry, as the old saw goes. So we’re naturally on our toes when we first meet each other.
This inherited tendency has helped keep the human gene pool going, but it’s also been the cause of many a conflict between people. We can be so on the alert to possible signs of risk that we misunderstand and flinch and overreact to innocent gestures, body language, or unfamiliar words of a stranger. In contrast, we feel we can trust members of our own tribe—we know them, we have existing reasons to trust them, and we have faith that they’re not likely to do us damage. But a stranger is an unknown. And in these times when suspicion of the other gets hyped by panicky people and then promoted by the media, the opportunities for hostility are abundant.
Those who understand the power and principles of nonviolence are well equipped to do a good job of avoiding trouble during that first meeting. They know how to disarm or calm a potentially aggressive individual. Gandhi, Dr. King, Jesus, and others gave us invaluable lessons on how to avoid or resolve conflict. (“Turn the other cheek.”) They taught us that, rather than ramping up the aggression, we can effectively cool down a situation and avoid discord.
There is one simple method we can employ when we meet another person—even those of us who know little about the theory and practice of nonviolence. If we keep in mind the crucial importance of that first instant of meeting a stranger, we can see the wisdom of doing what we can at that moment to be no threat to the other. If we do what we can to make that initial impression as friendly as possible, as non-threatening as we can, we do our best to put the other person at ease. Getting off on a positive note can make all the difference in the world to what happens next. It is even better to take an insult and let it wash off, than to push back.
We have a culture that too often teaches us that to come on strong is the way to be safe. We are told that if we intimidate others, we will be more secure. It’s a tragic lesson that has caused uncountable harm in the world. It’s better that we do what we can to help the other person feel comfortable. We don’t have to like them or cower before them, just be friendly yet stand our ground. “Blessed be the peacemakers; they shall be called God’s children.”
It’s how our deep ancestors survived. Those who quickly and correctly sized up the situation did better than those who didn’t—particularly when the encounter might be threatening. Those of our hominid forebears who were quick to discern the threat and then quick to jump were more successful at avoiding being eaten by a saber-toothed tiger. Those who were a split second too slow became a meal. Their slower-reacting genes went extinct. The evolutionary result is that the human species tends to lean towards the suspicious side, to be very alert, when encountering someone new. Better to be safe than sorry, as the old saw goes. So we’re naturally on our toes when we first meet each other.
This inherited tendency has helped keep the human gene pool going, but it’s also been the cause of many a conflict between people. We can be so on the alert to possible signs of risk that we misunderstand and flinch and overreact to innocent gestures, body language, or unfamiliar words of a stranger. In contrast, we feel we can trust members of our own tribe—we know them, we have existing reasons to trust them, and we have faith that they’re not likely to do us damage. But a stranger is an unknown. And in these times when suspicion of the other gets hyped by panicky people and then promoted by the media, the opportunities for hostility are abundant.
Those who understand the power and principles of nonviolence are well equipped to do a good job of avoiding trouble during that first meeting. They know how to disarm or calm a potentially aggressive individual. Gandhi, Dr. King, Jesus, and others gave us invaluable lessons on how to avoid or resolve conflict. (“Turn the other cheek.”) They taught us that, rather than ramping up the aggression, we can effectively cool down a situation and avoid discord.
There is one simple method we can employ when we meet another person—even those of us who know little about the theory and practice of nonviolence. If we keep in mind the crucial importance of that first instant of meeting a stranger, we can see the wisdom of doing what we can at that moment to be no threat to the other. If we do what we can to make that initial impression as friendly as possible, as non-threatening as we can, we do our best to put the other person at ease. Getting off on a positive note can make all the difference in the world to what happens next. It is even better to take an insult and let it wash off, than to push back.
We have a culture that too often teaches us that to come on strong is the way to be safe. We are told that if we intimidate others, we will be more secure. It’s a tragic lesson that has caused uncountable harm in the world. It’s better that we do what we can to help the other person feel comfortable. We don’t have to like them or cower before them, just be friendly yet stand our ground. “Blessed be the peacemakers; they shall be called God’s children.”
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wordlessness—Part 2
Another way we can experience wordlessness is to have a moving experience happen to us. If we come face to face with a snake, for example, for a split-second we are utterly beyond words. Even for less dramatic situations—seeing a beautiful bird, having the sun suddenly burst through clouds, hearing a gorgeous piece of music—we may find ourselves completely absorbed and in a wordless state. These events usually are beyond our control. They are visited upon us. Some of them are moments of grace, when we are touched by a power greater than ourselves.
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
But we can also cultivate wordless states. Meditation or moments of intense contemplation are times when we open ourselves to the present moment and become fully engaged with life as it unfolds—right now. This is the essence of the practice and discipline of meditation: to become so absorbed into the moment that we have no words to mediate or distort the experience. We’re not doing, we’re being. When we are able to get to this place, we are removing a major barrier between our outer self (persona) and our deeper self. Our persona is something we’ve acquired, that is mostly a phony structure of words and names. It’s a masquerade that we engage in. If we can place ourselves in a wordless state, however, we can burrow behind the mask to the real person hidden there.
We’d obviously be lost without words. They’ve become essential to our social interactions and how we interpret the world. They’re a part of us. They’re the essence of what it is to be human. But how we react and think is often controlled by words—words that are in our heads and words that other people tell us.
So words can also be pests. As Charlie Brooker (an English satirical commentator) put it: “Words are like cockroaches—only once the lights are off do they feel free to scuttle around on the kitchen floor.”
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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