Triumphant Squirrel

"I'm top dog around here."

Squirrel Squabbles

Squirrels scamper everywhere through our woods—usually silently. On occasion, one will scold the cat or the dog—as it hangs upside down from a branch or tree trunk, tail twitching, chattering away noisily, chastising its enemy, its eyes glued on its target. Squirrels may even bombard us human ground-bound critters with acorns—demonstrating their disdain for us.

One recent evening while reposing in the outdoor tub, I heard a squirrel-like chattering, a short distance into the woods. It did not sound like their usual scolding or babbling, but more like a warning or a threatening noise—a deeper, growl-like sound. It continued for several seconds, as my eyes scanned the trees, trying to locate the source of the ruckus.

Finally I spotted two squirrels up on a tree branch, nearly nose to nose—as if in a macho face-off. The lower squirrel had its back to a nest and it seemed to be the noisemaker. The higher squirrel suddenly turned and retreated up the limb, as the lower one then returned to the nest. The upper squirrel quickly returned, came within a foot or so of the nest, made an in-your-face chipping sound, and quickly withdrew back up the limb. It leapt to another tree and disappeared to safety—having bravely delivered its parting shot.

What was happening? A fight for the nest? Some kind of territorial battle? A parent booting its offspring out of the nest? A sexual jousting? I will probably never know. Quiet returned to the area, as I sank back into the hot healing waters.

Horny

It's a sheep farm we are watching over and here is the big daddy ram.

Amiable Earth

There is a sad irony about what is recently happening to planet Earth. For most of the time that our planet has existed (some 4 ½ billion years), the environment was too harsh for humans to thrive—let alone even survive. Earth has gone through extremely hot or cold periods, has had an atmosphere that was poisonous to us, was once dominated by monstrous critters who would have easily gobbled us up, or was subject to natural disasters such as meteorite or asteroid collisions, earthquakes, or horrendous volcanic blasts.

In the last million years or so the planet has gone through numerous alternating glacial and torrid periods. Finally, in just the last 10,000 years—since humans have settled into a sedentary lifestyle—Earth has calmed down and become a very gentle and benevolent place; much like a Garden of Eden. For our entire written history, that congenial ambience is all we have known. We have had no exposure to the harsh conditions that prevailed for most of Earth’s past. We have been spoiled.

The sad irony is that we humans seem hell-bent on destroying this amiable Earth—and the tragedy is that we are either in denial about it or blissfully ignorant of the extent of our damage. During this last 10,000 year period—just as Earth was becoming congenial—we became the top predator and, in doing so, came into possession of an unimaginable amount of power. Rather than wisely use that power to nurture our planet, we have been foolish; fouling our beautiful nest. In the wink of a geological eye, Earth is turning uncongenial—and this time we are the cause.

The even sadder situation is that we blindly continue our foolishness as conditions worsen. We are playing with a type of fire that is far more powerful than we are. Our shortsightedness and disinterest in the larger reality of our world keep us numb to the consequences.

There is no question that we are steering this beautiful planet into grim times. No one can predict what the future will bring. Conjectures span the range from little change at all (believing that our undeserved comfortableness will somehow continue indefinitely) to the end of the world approaching. I believe that the latter guess is overly extreme. Planet Earth has weathered unimaginably tough conditions in the past—far nastier than we humans could ever bring about. Gaia will survive the next harsh period, and we humans also likely will. Our habitat, however, will become far more unpleasant than we’ve ever experienced. It’s not going to be fun. 

What’s sad is that it needn’t be this way. We needn’t have been so irresponsible.

Virginia Little Brown Bat

We are farm sitting on friends' sheep farm in the Allegheny Mountains this week. Upon arriving, we were greeted by a little brown bat clinging to the kitchen curtains. I carefully removed him and took him outside. His thanks was to bare his teeth at me. Cute, eh? (Click to enlarge.)

Don't Fence Me In

A never-ending menace to gardening is the plethora of feral free-loaders who wait in the wings to invade and behave as if it is their royal right to consume your hard-fought edibles for themselves. Everything and anything from insects (far too many varieties to even attempt to enumerate) to rabbits to deer to voles to fungi to nematodes to bacteria, have competed with us for vegetable harvests. It can be a frustrating experience dealing with all these thieves.

I've written before on this blog about how we try to live with these many menaces, without going toxic and poisoning them (and ourselves a little, to boot). There's a certain degree of vegetable damage that we've learned to accept—sort of like a tax grudgingly paid to the government. There are also many nonviolent methods a gardener can use, to discourage purloiners or to lessen their damage. A gardener can never let down the guard, however, as some of these critters can quickly multiply and overwhelm you.

Of the larger-size thieves, deer have blessedly been one of our minor problems. Unlike our neighbors, we've not had to install tall fences, or electric shock mechanisms, or implement other major defenses. I believe that our free-roaming dogs who love to chase deer are our biggest deterrent. Luckily we live in a very rural location in which our dogs can roam without infringing on neighbors.

Now and then an invader gets the upper hand, however, and we struggle to control the damage. This year the beets and Swiss chard—just as they were at a succulent two-inch height—got nipped off at soil level by some critter bigger than a beetle, yet was too small to leave behind telltale tracks. Rabbit? Chipmunk? Weasel? Couldn't be voles—they sneak in from underground and drag the plant down into their subterranean lair, to chow down at their leisure. We lost our first round of chard and beet plantings to the mystery thief.

Later on, while picking beans, my wife discovered the identity of our invader. And what an audacious little critter! Hunkered down in the bean patch mulch was a rabbit's nest, from which momma and three babies made a dash for safety! Attracted by the uproar, our dog went on the chase. He caught one baby, and we flinched at its squeals, feeling bad about its death, while at the same time recognizing that the dog was just following nature's urge. We'd rather repel critters than kill them, but when they cross a certain line, more drastic measures may be in order.

We soon retired for the night, leaving the dog on night patrol around the garden, hoping that what remained of the rabbit family was still heading over the far ridge. (My major ire was directed at our cat, who is supposed to take on night patrol duties, fending off rabbits and their rodent cousins. What's he been doing all night—dancing to the light of the moon?)

Just after dawn the next morning, we heard occasional canine yips coming from the direction of the garden. Was the dog fending off a threatened return of the rabbits? Was he celebrating another catch? His insistent yipping drew me from my cozy bed. Shuffling through the morning dew toward the garden, I saw him trapped inside the garden fence. He’d been calling to us (all night!) to free him. 

How had he managed to trap himself inside, with the gate closed, when we were sure he was outside? Did the rabbits push the gate shut behind him, and then from outside, tease him? Had he gotten so excited about catching more rabbits that he managed to leap the fence to get at the nest? I could find no other place of entry and I doubt that he managed to latch the gate behind himself. How many times I have wished he could speak English and explain himself... he'd have another hilarious story to tell!

Rocky Mountain High

Taken at 11,000 feet--feeling dizzy.

Three-Second Present

I began meditating many years ago. I am fortunate to have a Buddhist monastery/retreat center nearby, where I have been able to acquire a solid training in meditation techniques. It has brought a major and positive change to my life. At the core of Buddhist meditation is the concept of mindfulness: living fully in the present moment.

The present moment is all that we have that is real. The past is gone and the future has yet to be realized. Just because we humans, with our higher cognitive abilities, know that there is a past and a future, doesn’t mean that we can reach out and touch them. Animals, in contrast, are always able to live in the present moment, because they don’t have the higher mental powers to conceive of either a past or future. 

It is through our ability to place full attention to the moment-to-moment passing of life that we can live it to the fullest (as animals do). We so easily miss much of life by going into our heads and either dwelling on what once happened or anticipating what may be. We become embroiled in emotions of regret about having missed certain opportunities or try to relive past times of victory. We worry about coming events—investing psychic energy into playing out threatening or exciting scenarios that may never happen. In the meantime, we’re losing out on what’s happening right now—the only reality that we have access to.

When we are able to avoid being sucked off into the inaccessible past or future, we can fully participate in the now. We become mindful of what’s happening in the present moment and find ourselves not missing opportunities that manifest themselves and thus making wiser choices on how to live. The present moment is also very personal—it’s our own experience.

Many meditators view the present moment as an instantaneous window in time, during which one attempts to be aware of every split second that exists—fully engaging with it. That work is extremely hard to do. No matter how diligently you try to be fully aware of each moment in time, your mind will repeatedly follow some event into the past, or be dragged into the future, or take off on flight around the world. I spend most of my meditation time being reminded that I’ve once again drifted off from the now and patiently returning my mind to the present moment. A second or so later, my mind is once again off to distant temporal realms.

It can become rather frustrating. I believe that the practice is valuable, however, if only to demonstrate to us how uncontrollable the mind is, and to periodically experience the exhilaration of “now,” or occasionally remaining mindful for a few minutes. It is very liberating. An additional reward comes when you arise from your meditation pillow and resume your normal activities: you’re just a little more aware of the value of paying attention to what is going on and engaging life as it unfolds.

I recently read about some current neurological research on how our brain perceives time. Our personal apprehension of time is referred to as “biological” or “psychological” time. It’s different from physical time, which is an objective entity, something that can be measured by instruments. Our brain continually receives signals from our various senses, and then it constructs our view of reality from those inputs. Neurologists have wondered: How does the brain distinguish between past and future stimuli? Where does the mind draw the line between past, present, and future? 

This research suggests that our temporal reality is not based on the instantaneous now, but interprets events as being on the order of three seconds long; in other words, reality comes in three-second chunks. It seems that our gray matter integrates over a three-second period and creates a subjective response for that interval of time. In other words, the subjective “present” for us is not an instant, but a three-second-long temporal window. Our mind will see “one thing” for three seconds and then shift to another equal span of time. 

These findings have cast a little different light on meditation for me. I’m now not trying to adhere to that elusive instantaneous moment, attempting to surf the crest of a temporal wave and repeatedly “wiping out.” It’s  not so precise as that. Maybe I can cut myself a little slack, knowing that, at best my attention is smeared out over a three-second interval. Maybe I can be more successful in staying within that interval, than trying to be ever present with each passing instant. Maybe I can ride the wave all the way through to the beach.