Cross-species Communication—Part 2

Last time I wrote about cross-species communication that others have explored or have had. This time I'd like to describe some personal experiences.

We may not be able to chat with an animal, but it is foolish to think that there is an unbridgeable gap between us and them. They have many subtle ways of communicating with each other and we can close that gap if we allow ourselves to. If we let go of our myth of superiority and permit the more primal parts of us to become involved, we can realize a deeper connection to other animal species. A good way to begin is to shut our mouth, slow down, pay attention, and open to the possibilities that lie within.

I have had a couple examples over the years of a kind of communication with animals, that have deeply impacted me. In the first case I was working in the yard when I had my attention diverted by birds sounding an alarm. I looked toward the commotion and spotted a black snake raiding a bluebird nesting box. A couple of nestlings had been scattered to the ground and a couple of others had been eaten. I had been enjoying watching these birds over the past few weeks, so I chased the snake off, and replaced the scattered nestlings in the box. I then had to repeat my intervention twice over the next hour or so, as the persistent reptile returned for a follow-up meal attempt.

Later in the afternoon, when things had quieted down, I sat in a swing across the yard from the nesting box, contemplating the traumatic incident. The father bluebird flew to a tree just a few feet away, stared at me intently for a few minutes, and then flew back to his family. These birds are very shy, yet this bird approached me and perched close by. Was he thanking me? It felt like some kind of communication.

In the second case I had just returned from a 10-day silent meditation retreat, so I was in a very calm state of mind. Walking down a path through the woods, I spotted a tiny fawn ahead of me. I stopped and simply watched it for a few minutes. Maybe I transmitted a message of peace to the little guy, because it began to approach me, tail wagging slowly and hesitantly. I moved equally slowly towards the fawn, holding out my hand. As we came together, it reached out and touched its nose to my hand. The fawn suddenly froze, as if to wonder how it got so close to a human, then turned and bounced off into the woods.

It's not clear that these incidents were a case of cross-species communication, but they sure were unique examples of finding myself thrilled to have some kind of close encounter with a critter—a kind of encounter in which the animal seemed to choose to approach me on its own.

Cross-species Communication--Part 1

Cross-species communication is a subject that many people have explored over the ages—with mixed success. Indigenous peoples felt that they could readily do so, as they conferred with their totem animals and other critters around them. Human-to-human communication is sometimes fraught with its own limitations, but is immeasurably easier, because we have evolved a complex and cogent language. Additionally, we humans share a similar sort of mind which assures us that we think alike and hence more readily relate to one another. Finally, human culture is strikingly disparate from animal culture, and that difference adds a major barrier to cross-species communication.

Despite these contrasts, it's been only in recent decades that humans have come to accept the fact that we are just another animal and that we may be able to be more in touch with others critters than we think. There is little fundamental difference between us and many other members of the animal kingdom (especially other mammals)—it's more a matter of degree in how we vary. We seem finally willing to give animals feelings, emotions, and even thoughts—capabilities we once denied them. Among other progressive results, it has brought about better treatment of animals on our part. Where once we even denied them the ability to feel pain (thanks to René Descartes), we now understand that many have the ability for cognitive activities that we once thought were impossible. Yet we still struggle to communicate with our fellow animals.

I recently read a book that delves deeply into an example of the issue of cross-species communication: The Wauchula Woods Accord: Toward a New Understanding of Animals, by Charles Siebert. He writes about a profound experience he once had with a chimpanzee named Roger. Siebert had long been exploring the ways in which humans treat animals, such as when we domesticate them or keep them in zoos—especially fellow hominids such as chimpanzees. He was researching the ways in which people treat captive chimps, when he visited a Florida retirement home for former apes who had starred in movies, on TV, and in the circus.

One of the chimps, Roger, a former circus star, preferred to keep to himself—ignoring his fellow retirees. When Siebert arrived at Roger's cage, escorted by the director of the retirement home, Roger zeroed in on Siebert, fixing him with a stare, almost as if the chimp knew him from somewhere. It transfixed the man.

Over the next couple of weeks Siebert sojourned at the retirement home and spent many hours, one-on-one, in intense contemplation with Roger. During that time the author experienced some deep connections with the chimp—causing him to shake off many of human society's presumptions about “dumb” animals and how we have mistreated them.

More on communication next time...

Horsefly

Look at those nasty weapons! (Click to enlarge)

Here she is, full size.

I wrote a blog sometime ago about how horseflies can drive me buggy. This one attacked me the other night while I was reposing in the tub. She was hoping to sink those sharp knives into my skin. She would not cease her dives at me, until I was able to swat her down, without killing her or smashing her flat--allowing me to get some photos of her. She is about an inch (2-3 cm) long. It took me several swipes to knock her out of the air, before I could relax in the water again.

Immutable Moon

When I wander through the woods, I note the scenery around me changing, as I approach and pass trees, wildflowers, and shrubs. The faster I walk, the faster the scenery changes. That's a big reason why I sometimes stroll slowly along: it gives me ample time to gaze at the passing wonders.

There's an interesting phenomenon (one we often pay no attention to) caused by my changing perspective, as I walk along: close, small objects (like shrubs) quickly pass and recede behind me, while distant, large objects (like trees) stay in my view for a longer time period. An extreme example of this phenomenon is looking at distant hills as I walk—it takes far longer to put them behind me... maybe all day!

But the ultimate examples of this perspective phenomenon are the Moon, the sun, and the stars. They are so far away that I could walk all day and all night long and they'd never move from their location in the sky. If, for example, the Moon is directly overhead tonight, I could even jump in the car and drive for hours in any direction and Mr. Moon would remain exactly overhead.

If we think about it for a moment, what I've been describing is obvious and even a little trivial sounding, but I have learned over the years to pause and give so-called obvious thoughts a second look. We humans have a tendency to become accustomed to common events, to the extent that we almost become oblivious to them. We don't allow them to show us something a little different that we've not noticed before. We can become jaded—been there, done that—let me move on to the next novelty.

I was slowed down and caught up by a fascinating perspective on this issue the other evening, when I took a few moments to pause and take another look at what happened when I saw the Moon. I stepped outside and casually noted where the Moon was hovering that evening, by noting where it was located in the upper branches of a nearby tree. Then I walked a few feet in a familiar direction, knowing unconsciously how my perspective of the overhead trees would change, when I looked up again. As I did, I was momentarily taken aback by the fact that the Moon hadn't moved with the trees. What I had expected—without really thinking about it—didn't happen: the trees fell behind me, but the Moon had not! It was keeping up with me.

When I was a kid I heard the expression, “The Moon is following me.” Of course, it doesn't.. it simply stays at the same location in the sky wherever one moves. As you pass trees and buildings, the Moon can't be passed up, no matter how fast or far we move. It just “keeps up” with us.

Another interesting example of this phenomenon is the moth that keeps circling a candle or streetlight. Evolution has taught the moth to use the immutable Moon as a guide when flying at night. Since the Moon stays at the same location, the moth can set course and fly a straight line from one point to another. But evolution did not prepare the moth for these late-comer humans, who build and install night lights. The poor moth keeps trying to keep the streetlight off to its left, but is forced to make circles around it, since it did not “keep up” with the moth.

It's nice to pause now and then and tune into what's really happening at the moment; to allow the everyday events to capture (or recapture) our attention and show us a fresh perspective. They may seem routine and mundane, but they can also bring us little surprises and fascinating reflections.

Copperhead Family

Copperhead snakes are common in Virginia and rather poisoness. While recently uncovering the cover to the compost pile, I was greeted with the startling sight of momma copperhead and her seven babies. After jumping back a few feet, I ran for the camera to record the family photo. Here are four of the babies. Each one is nearly a foot long.










And here is momma, keeping a close eye on me. She's about three feet long. You can see why they're called copperheads.