You've Been Profiled

If you do much of anything online these days, you can count on being profiled by some high-tech algorithm written by Google, Facebook, Amazon, Yahoo, etc. An algorithm—by the dictionary's definition—is “a process or set of rules to be followed in calculation or other problem-solving operations by a computer.” Thus an algorithm is not monitored by humans; it is set up and then it tirelessly collects its information via machine.

Online algorithms appeal to advertisers and authorities, because they automatically and unerringly categorize and compartmentalize people's behaviors, choices, and even beliefs. When Google or Facebook tracks your online choices and surfing behavior, you become profiled. You become compartmentalized into categories and boxes that they've defined. You've become labeled.

This information primarily is used for targeting advertisements at you. If you are an aging baby boomer, for example, why send you ads for rap music or the hottest bungee jumping spots? Wouldn't an ad for the latest pharmaceutical pill for the body's aging infirmities be more appropriate? Profiling can save advertisers from funding such scattershot ads, instead allowing them to focus on receptive audiences. And it can save the consumer from having to push past many irrelevant ads.

So many people are just fine with online profiling; it does not waste their time and screen space with ads they don't want. What many of these folks do not realize, however, is that they've bargained away some of their privacy for convenience. That may seem to be a fair trade to them, but many of them do not realize the depth of the profiling being done on them. They don't realize just how detailed a picture of their private lives are now sitting in some data bank, available to all who pay a small fee for access.

The profiling information gained by these algorithms even allows the Google, Facebook, and Amazon data collectors to predict what things you may want to buy tomorrow. Did you do a search on baby clothes? You will soon be receiving ads for all kinds of things that prospective parents might be looking for. Do a search on marijuana? Maybe the feds have added you to a data base that keeps an eye on possible pot smokers. This may sound a little paranoid, but the personal details willingly and foolishly posted on people's Facebook accounts expose them to the world and can be used against them at some future time.

Possibly the most insidious use of online profiling is the way in which people's points of view adds to our culture's polarization. The algorithms quickly categorize you into distinct and isolated boxes of belief patterns; then you get fed only those ideas and expressions that conform to your predispositions. You get fed things you already know—confirming your existing beliefs and biases. Your feelings and beliefs can then become confirmed and certain in your mind. Your mind is encouraged to close around this isolated pocket of ideas. Your thinking increasingly avoids any alternatives. You become encased in a bubble of narrow thinking that just reinforces your point of view. Nothing challenges your thinking. Polarization grows.

Profiling goes against the value we may achieve from communication and the opening our mind to alternative concepts and ideas. It feeds insular thinking and suspicion of the other. Our society badly needs critical thinking, openness to alternative ideas, and dialog with other viewpoints. Online profiling essentially does just the opposite.

Sycamore Leaf

This is my sketch of a leaf from the sycamore trees that tower over my outdoor tub. Click to enlarge.

Aversion to Uncertainty

Ask anyone how they feel toward uncertainty and you'll get a consistent response that we humans don't like it. We want life to be predictable. We hate ambivalence. When things are uncertain, we even become stressed. We feel an inner drive to resolve the uncertainty and rid ourselves of the accompanying feeling of anxiety.

Some recent, very cleverly-planned research sheds light on what's going on in our heads when we face uncertainty. Scientists have known for a long time that when we feel uncertain, our stress level increases. Recent studies have shown that dopamine in the brain plays a big role in this aversion of ours to uncertainty.

Science has previously shown that when good things happen, dopamine floods our brain, causing us to feel pleasure. This release of brain chemicals induces us to seek more of the good stuff and thus get more dopamine release—it literally propels us into action. This can cause addiction, when we become captive of the drive for more pleasure. What's fascinating is that the part of the brain—the “reward center” or striatum—that responds to the influx of dopamine and activates us to go for more of the good stuff, is the same place that propels us to run away from the bad stuff. In either case, dopamine plays a role. Whether our brain predicts good or bad outcomes, we feel the urge to act.

What this recent research shows is that when our brain cannot predict (either good or bad) outcomes, we stress out. The uncertainty creates anxiety. As an example, suppose you are driving across town for an important appointment. If you left early and traffic is light, you will arrive in plenty of time. Well before you arrive, it's certain that you'll be there on schedule, so you can relax and focus your attention on the impending meeting. In contrast, if you left a little later and got caught in a traffic jam, it becomes certain that you'll be late, so you might as well let go of anxiety and put your attention to how you'll deal with missing the appointment. You can even start working on your excuse. But if it's nip and tuck; if the traffic is very heavy and maybe getting worse, and it's really uncertain whether you'll make it or not, your stress level climbs.

It's kind of a control issue. If I'm convinced that either I'll win or lose in a situation—if I either have control or I don't—I feel less stress and maybe even not necessarily have a motive to act. I'll either coast to a win or concede defeat. Either way, I accept the situation. But if I'm uncertain of success or failure—if my ability to control the situation is up in the air—I feel anxious and I will be driven to take some kind of action, in an attempt to gain control.

Evolution has instilled this aversion to uncertainty in us. All animals—including Homo sapiens—need to take action when the situation is unpredictable. So there's good reason for the stress we experience: it's telling us to do something. Our survival can depend upon our transforming that unpredictability into certainty, and thus lower our stress and get on with life.

Icy

We had an ice storm today. It makes for nasty footing, but some beautiful scenarios. Click to enlarge.

Searching for Andromeda

When you walk outdoors on any clear night and gaze upwards, you may see 2-3 thousand stars, if you're away from interfering city lights. Every single star you spot resides in our Milky Way Galaxy. There are a few hundred billion stars out there in our home galaxy, though you'll see, naked eye, at most a couple of thousand. Get yourself a pretty decent telescope and you'll maybe see a few tens of thousands of Milky Way stars, but that's still just a very small fraction of the total.

There's another quite different kind of astronomical object than stars in our home galaxy to look for: Andromeda Galaxy. It's much farther away than any star within our galaxy, but it can still be observed, because it's so huge. Due to its distance, however, we can't distinguish with the naked eye any of Andromeda's individual stars. All we see is a milky smudge.

The other night my neighbor came by for a two-person star party. He brought the beer, I set up my telescope, and we set out to view the heavens. As our solar system planets are currently not visible overhead in this November's night sky, Andromeda was our best celestial object for the evening, so we set up to view it.

Andromeda is not an easy thing to locate... at least for me. That's why I bought a very nice telescope a couple of decades ago. It comes with a small but amazingly capable computer that both steers the telescope to celestial objects and then locks onto them, following them across the night sky, as the Earth rotates. It's a wonderful little tool; align the scope to the North Star and another prominent star, and you've calibrated it for the night. Now all you do is type in the name of one of several thousand celestial delights in the tiny device and the scope will slew itself around, to stop and aim itself at the object you chose.

Unfortunately, the problem for an old analog guy like me, when trying to operate one of these digital wonders, is that I can't always understand the instructions. The directions confuse me and my thumbs are just a little too slow and clumsy, and I screw it up. I know if I had a 12-year-old computer nerd with me, he'd have the whole thing nailed in five minutes.

Unable to perform the alignment procedure accurately enough to have the little computer locate any celestial choice of mine, I must do it manually. So when my neighbor arrived he and I partnered, in an analog attempt to find Andromeda. I had been successful a couple of nights earlier (after an hour or so of effort) so I knew it could be done.

Despite our diligent attempts, we failed. I thought at one point that we were zeroing in, but alas, we saw no Andromeda. No big smudge; just more stars. Maybe the beers were impeding our astronomical skills. Whatever the limitation, Andromeda was not to be found that night.

What we did discover, however, was a phenomenon that every night sky observer comes upon, if you spend more than 15 minutes looking up on a clear, dark night: there are so many other things to see. Over the next couple of hours we gazed at the Pleiades, the Hyades, and then we dove into the core of our Milky Way Galaxy, where you can see so many stars that they blend into, well, a milky trail across the sky. The only thing that terminated our evening was the November chill penetrating into our bones, and opening the last two beers.

Look at Those Wings

This is a dead cicada (that's why it held so still for my camera). Click to enlarge.

Towering Trees

I sit in the outdoor tub on a fall evening, during a gusty, windy event. The winds blow through from time to time, peaking at speeds of 40 miles per hour (25 km/hr). Some 50 feet (15 meters) above me, sycamore trees tower overhead, flexibly bending this way, then that, as the force of the wind first pushes them aside, and then abates, causing the trees to sway and once again assume their erect posture. Soon another strong gust blows through, once again causing the trees to bow deeply. It's as if these sycamores are tall Chinese sages, genuflecting this way and then that, as they honor the forces of the universe.

Tall, mature trees merit my esteem for several reasons. First, they are much older than I, so just their longevity deserves tribute. I have always respected elders—plant or animal—simply because they've managed to weather the uncertainties and threats of life and have survived thus far. For example, any person who has managed to reach her nineties deserves my recognition, just for getting there.

Second, big trees are impressive because they dwarf me. I may believe that I'm special because I possess this unique and powerful brain—the greatest one on Earth—but when I'm in the presence of a towering tree I'm quite minuscule. It puts me in my place, like when I view a marvelous sunset: it's so much grander than I.

Third, trees possess a strength and a resilience far beyond mine. When I face a threat that can destroy me, my first and most effective defense is to run. Trees cannot retreat. They must stand their ground, and to do so, they must be strong, resourceful, and flexible. How many times has a 100-year-old tree withstood attacks and persevered?

Fourth, trees mean no harm. Unlike some humans, I do not have to fear that a tree has any intention to hurt me. In the deep woods I may tend to look over my shoulder, wondering if some sort of beast is about to pounce on me. But even if there were such a threat, it would be attacking me for its meal, not just to be nasty. No tree will ever track me and leap for the kill. I can safely sidle up to a tree in the woods and feel unthreatened.

So I have what I believe are good reasons to honor and feel comfortable around trees. I can relax and esteem them and be moved by their beauty. Yet, on a windy night like this, as I watch the massive trees towering above me bend in the gusts, I'm also aware that, if one of them is overcome by a huge gust and topples onto me, I'm squashed like a bug on a car's windshield. I'm vulnerable and weak out here, knowing those trees are many hundreds of pounds of hard mass that can fall on me. It is rather sobering to realize that the benevolent giant above me could quickly do me in, in an instant.

Nevertheless I trust the trees' exquisite balance and flexibility. I trust in their longevity and the fact that they've withstood many winds far stronger than what tonight offers. The chance of my getting squished is vanishingly small (or so I hope), so let me shed any anxiety due to fear of being crushed, and rejoice in the ability to share this lovely evening with my magnificent friends the trees.

Carpenter Bee on Bloom

Carpenter bees have the ability to zero in on blossoming shrubs and plants. Click to enlarge.

Contingency or Coincidence?—Part 2

In fact, I like to speculate about what our world might be like, if a given major event had not occurred. For example, what if that contingent asteroid 65 million years ago had not blasted into Earth? At the time, the dinosaurs ruled the planet, and they had successfully done so for more than a hundred million years. (Try to wrap your head around that time frame: that's some 500 times longer than we humans have been a species!) At thatsmall mammals—from which we humans evolved—scurried around in the dark, trying to keep from being trampled upon or eaten by the big lizards. In the aftermath of the collision, the dinosaurs died out and the age of mammals began. How would life on Earth have been different, if that asteroid had missed the planet? Might today's dominant species be an intelligent lizard, rather than Homo sapiens?

In 2000 Al Gore lost the US presidential election... but he really didn't. Some nefarious activities by George Bush's brother Jeb, Florida's governor at the time, managed to prevent thousands of Floridians from voting—most of whom, since they were either black or poor, would have voted for Gore. George Bush would thus have been relegated to history's trash bin. By coincidence (well, actually with the aid of a biased US Supreme Court), Bush became president. Had Gore won, it's doubtful that the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan would have happened. It's also likely that the US would have assumed a leadership role in dealing with global warming, rather than deny that it is happening. Surely history would have taken another path, had Gore become president.

Let's look at a third alternative possibility. Certain contingent events hundreds of years ago placed European countries in a position to dominate the planet—both economically and militarily. As Jared Diamond demonstrated so well in his book Guns, Germs, and Steel, the Europeans gained the upper hand, when competing with all other societies on the planet. Europeans defeated and controlled peoples in the Americas, the Middle and Far Easts, and Africa. The European way came to dominate. But how radically different would today's world appear if, for example, Africans had held the upper hand? Or if the Aztecs had been stronger than the conquistadors? What if the mighty Islamic empire of the Middle East had won its rivalry with the West in the 1400s? Play history over again and the world would be a very different place.

I find this a fascinating game to play. Of course, there is no way to realistically guess how these and countless other contingencies may have altered the world of today. In a similar manner, I cannot begin to speculate who I might be if my parents had never married. I simply would not be!

This kind of musing is fun for me, but has no real point to it, other than reminding me that it didn't have to be this way. There was no destiny or cosmic intent involved in how things played out. Our future is not fixed by fate. Things simply happen, and they don't happen because they were supposed to. There is no plan. The future remains unknown and even random. The world wasn't destined to be what it is. May I let go the need to want to see some purpose that determined it all and simply accept and be thankful for what is.

Bonsai

I recently visited the US National Arboretum in Washington, DC, and spent some time with a special bonsai exhibition there. The amount of time and artistic talent that goes into these creations is astounding. They truly are a object of meditation. Click to enlarge.

Contingency or Coincidence?—Part 1

I am fascinated by the role of chance in the unfolding of history (as well as prehistory, before we humans came upon the scene). When we look back at events that occurred in the past, we can see that many (if not most) of them were flukes: complete surprises that no one could have foreseen. And when they occurred they dominated the course of events. Had they not happened, the present would have unfolded in an entirely different way. Had not Jack Kennedy been assassinated, for example, how differently would American history have unfolded? Had the Soviet Union not dissolved a quarter century ago, what would the world look like today?

The asteroid that crashed to Earth 65 million years ago and terminated the reign of the dinosaurs is another (prehistory) prime example. Another is the ice age of 10-20 thousand years ago that provided a pathway for Asian wanderers to inhabit the Americas. And, to bring it closer to home, what about that time when, as a teenager, I nearly trashed the family car? Had I expired in the accident, this blog (or my kids) would never have been.

I have tended to classify these events as being either an example of a coincidence or a contingency. They both describe similar happenings. To be more specific, a coincidence usually refers to a couple of events that occurred simultaneously, but with no apparent causal connection. A contingency usually describes a single incident that seems to have been unanticipated. In either case, it's a surprise, a chance, a random happening, a fluke, an unpredictable event.

It is a human tendency, however, to interpret most of these unforeseen events as neither coincidental nor contingent. We dislike having things happen for no apparent reason. We rebel against chance and arbitrariness. We want reasons for things. We read intent into incidents and want to believe that things happen for a purpose. We are inclined to look for patterns, or for the hand of God or some other superhuman cause. Something must have caused this significant thing to happen—it couldn't simply have been chance!

Many people wonder how they are to live their lives, if they concede that the universe is simply a chance unfolding. As Einstein once quipped, “God does not play dice.” He was referring to random events at the quantum level, but many people feel that his comment applies to a much wider range of events.

Having a scientific bent, I have fun speculating about events throughout history; looking at them as if they were quite random and unpredictable. When I let go the inclination to see a particular happening as caused by some powerful agent, I can ponder the many alternative scenarios that could have transpired instead. It helps me to grasp and appreciate just how fickle this world is.

More on contingencies and coincidences next time...

Clouds

As Joni Mitchell sings, "I really don't know clouds at all." Every now and then clouds stop me in my tracks and demand my attention. Even if I ca't really understand them, I sure can feel in awe of them. Click to enlarge.

Prodigal Planets

Astronomers have made many exciting discoveries in recent years. For example, we now know—thanks to NASA's Kepler space telescope—that our Milky Way galaxy hosts hundreds of billions of planets; a fact that was mere speculation just a couple of decades ago. We also know that far beyond Pluto, our own little solar system contains hundreds of thousands of proto-planets that orbit the sun. (In fact, Pluto itself was recently downgraded to a “dwarf planet,” losing its role in our solar system's eight-member planetary family.)

Many other recent discoveries are being added to the list. For example, the Juno spacecraft now orbiting Jupiter is giving us a far greater understanding of that giant planet. The Cassini mission, now in its 12^th year flying around Saturn, is revealing many discoveries that are changing our understanding of how planetary systems form and what conditions might lead to life in the universe. Black holes have been discovered in far-off galaxies. Gravity waves have been measured. The list goes on. It's an exciting time in the cosmological world.

A new discovery that I will focus on here is the recent finding of free planets that wander alone in our galaxy—unattached to any star; not a part of any solar system. Until recently, the reality of these prodigal planets was, like planets around other stars, mere speculation. But now a few have been observed. It's very difficult to spot these dark wanderers through interstellar space. They cruise through a black void, nearly invisible. Recent advances in telescope technology are allowing us to locate them.

So now we've spotted several of these solitary worlds—enough to give astronomers the confidence that these free-floating planets are quite common. In fact, there are probably hundreds of billions of them wandering alone through the Milky Way.

The mystery: how did they get out there? Aren't planets formed only around stars? In fact, these lonely planets were created in a similar manner to the planets in our own solar system: through a gradual accumulation of bits of rock and dust and gas surrounding a newly-formed star. But then something like a gigantic slingshot action occurred, as one of them gravitationally encountered a huge planet in its solar system, flinging the smaller planet out into space—destined to become a lonely body free of its originating solar system; forlornly meandering through the ages.

Are these prodigal planets destined to be forever lonely and relegated to being just a cold pile of rocks? Could they ever possibly host life? As improbable as it seems, they theoretically could harbor life. Some scientists speculate that, despite having no star to provide warmth, conditions just may be that warm-seeking life could have come into existence in such a forbidden environment. The scenario is completely conjectural, but radioactive decay deep within such a planet could provide the required warmth. Or a thick covering of ice could hold in the necessary heat.

It's all guesswork, but the point is that, before the discovery of these prodigal planets, we had no idea that they even existed. Now we now they do. The fascinating thing is that they conceivably could harbor life. What's more, they are far more accessible to spacecraft from Earth than planets around distant stars, since they float alone, and some of them might be closer than planets still accompanying their star. We would just need to locate a couple of them and send spacecraft out there to investigate.

Who knows what we might find next in outer space? Just a few years ago we had no confirmation that billions of planets are out there in our galaxy. We had no idea that moons of Saturn or Jupiter just might offer conditions conducive to life. Cosmology is advancing at a breathtaking pace. Stay tuned.

Ground Beetle

I found this guy dead. It is a ground beetle, one of the most common and abundant beetles in the eastern US. They are very welcome around here, as they prey upon Japanese beetles and cut worms--both nemeses of the garden. They hide during the day and climb trees at night, seeking caterpillars. This specimen might even be what is called a "bombardier beetle," because of their habit of ejecting from their anus a "glandular secretion that literally explodes when released, producing a popping sound. The secretion is foul-smelling and irritating, and serves as a means of protection." I think my wife would say that I am trying to imitate the ground beetle on a regular basis... although I don't seem to do it for protection. Click to enlarge.

Lao-Tzu's Treasures—Part 2

So, returning to my suggested list of alternative virtues that I offered earlier, it seems to me that most of them seem to be covered by Lao-Tzu's three treasures. For example, I asked about honesty. Well, that's one of the synonyms for simplicity. How about kindness? Compassion's got it covered. Moderation? Simplicity expresses it. Generosity? Both simplicity and compassion cover it. And so on.

So one might conclude that Lao-Tzu's three treasures of simplicity, patience, and compassion do provide a very good list of virtues that one may practice. When I look at my own behavior in light of these three treasures, I realize how they've long served as beacons for me, and I believe them to be excellent virtues to acquire or practice. My first reaction, when looking in the mirror, is to examine myself to see which one I fall most short on, and thus need the most work on. Patience is the one that usually calls for my extra effort. (Ask my wife.)

I also think that these three treasures can be a good bench mark upon which to evaluate society, for how rich or poor it is. When I consider the behavior of people, I have no doubt that a very generous proportion of them do exhibit these qualities. A great many people live simply—in the sense of being honest, sincere, humble, etc. Many people are patient—in the sense of being tolerant, restrained, diligent, etc. And a lot of people practice compassion—in the sense of being kind, considerate, lenient, etc. Maybe even most people often exhibit these virtues. (I often think that humanity has survived as well as it has, by dint of many of its members acting virtuously.)

Be that as it may, these three treasures do not get promoted very well at all by society's political leaders, popular figureheads, and the media. What is broadcast in our culture and modeled for us is, in fact, often quite the opposite:

Simplicity? Instead, we are bombarded by messages that promote unrestrained greed, arrogance and pride, insincerity, muddled thinking. These immoral behaviors contribute directly to injustice and poverty.

Patience? Instead, we are encouraged to be intolerant, to be aggressive and pushy. We are told we don't have to wait—we demand fast food, convenience stores, fast internet. Don't wait to earn what you want to buy; get it on credit and become swamped by debt.

Compassion? Hardly. We're encouraged not to care about the stranger, to be judgmental, to discount the humanity of some peoples, to shut out others and not care. Instead of reaching out to refugees and the poor, our politicians urge us to build walls—so barriers get erected, rather than charity practiced.

The reality of this lack of virtue in the public arena argues that society, rather than possessing Lao-Tzu's moral treasures, is rather poor. But it's not the case that most people in society are not virtuous. In their ordinary lives people do help each other and work towards building a healthy society. It's too bad that the public domain is so flooded with messages by the media and public figures to the contrary. It's too bad that society does not model a life of Lao-Tzu's three treasures for its members. But we do have an abundance ancient wisdom in the form of teachings like those of Lao-Tzu—as well as from Jesus, the Buddha, Muhammad, and others—to help us chart our individual moral course through a minefield of misdeeds.

Lao-Tzu's Treasures—Part 1

I was given a Zen calendar last winter by a friend. Each day is a tear-off sheet that offers a quote from a wise teacher—many of them from the Zen Buddhist tradition, but many of them also are sayings from a wide variety of teachers of other traditions. The offering from a July sheet was a quote attributed to Lao-Tzu: “I have just three things to teach: simplicity, patience, and compassion. These three are your greatest treasures.”

Lao-Tzu has for many years been an inspiration for me. He was not a Zen Buddhist, but preceded Zen wisdom teachers by a few centuries. He was a Chinese Taoist sage. He gave us an abundant set of pithy messages in the classic book Tao Te Ching. His enigmatic and succinct verses have given me much food for thought over the years, as I chew on a passage, and often find that his concise message, initially enigmatic, eventually speaks volumes to me. I think that was precisely Lao-Tzu's intent.

I will take it on faith that the above quote is an accurate one. (I'm a bit skeptical, because Lao-Tzu never claimed to teach, as I recall. Similar to Socrates, he simply offered his ideas to people who could then mull them over and use them to teach themselves.) Assuming that it's a valid quotation, what did he mean by listing these particular three teachings: simplicity, patience, and compassion? I am aware that when we read English translations of an ancient master's writings from an other culture, many of those English words do not really capture the essence of the original word. But let me assume that these English translations from Chinese—simplicity, patience, and compassion—are accurate translations.

What do these three words describe? I think they express virtues. My dictionary describes virtues as “behavior showing high moral standards; a quality considered morally good or desirable in a person.” OK, so simplicity, patience, and compassion appear to be pretty good examples of virtues. But surely there are many more kinds of virtues that a person may exhibit, than just these three. How about, for example, honesty, kindness, courage, moderation, generosity, and dependability, to name just a few?

Did Lao-Tzu contend that his three treasures covered all the moral bases? He did call them the three “greatest treasures,” so maybe they are just his three greatest hits—if you strive to exhibit them, then maybe you've accomplished 90% of what it means to be a good person?

Whenever I ponder questions like these, I like to turn to a good dictionary for clarification. So here's what my Oxford American Dictionary tells me about Lao-Tzu's three treasures.

• Simplicity: the quality or condition of being easy to understand or to do; the quality of being plain or natural. Some synonyms: lucidity, clarity, unpretentious, restrained, honest, sincere, humble.
• Patience: the capacity to accept or tolerate delay and suffering without getting upset or angry; staying cool. Some synonyms: calmness, composure, equanimity, restraint, tolerance, perseverance, diligence.
• Compassion: the sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings of others (accompanied by the urge to help them). Some synonyms: gentleness, mercy, understanding, concern, kindness, charity, benevolence.

After that bit if dictionary research, it seems to me that Lao-Tzu's three treasures sure cover a lot of moral ground—and I would bet that even if the three English words aren't exact translations for the three Chinese words he used, surely some of those synonyms must capture his meaning.

More of Lao-Tzu's treasures next time...

Tattered Butterfly Wings

I found this tired butterfly clinging to a concrete block wall. Its right wing is in pretty good shape, but its left wing is badly tattered, as often happens late in the season. This critter is about to end its life. I hope it had a good summer. Click to enlarge.

A Dog Duet—Part 2

So that's the first story (cones and rods in the eyes) about the similarity between humans and dogs. The second relationship between people and our canine friends is another physiological similarity that can be considered maybe to be a little disturbing.

Researchers have noted over the last few decades that the sperm count of males—both dog and human—have been decreasing. Specifically, sperm motility—the ability of sperm to swim in a straight line—has diminished. If sperm can't swim energetically and directly toward the female egg, fertility suffers. In addition, traces of PCBs and phthalates are being found in both dog and human semen. These artificial chemicals have been linked to birth defects. Whether or not they contribute to decreased sperm activity has yet to be determined.

A comprehensive evaluation of human sperm viability has so far not been carefully and consistently measured, due to the fact that the issue is so complex for humans. Dogs are simpler, so recent studies spanning a 26-year period at Nottingham University in the UK have meticulously measured the decrease in dog fertility. It is significant.

So what is the cause of the carefully documented canine reduction in fertility? No smoking sperm gun has as yet been discovered, but the likely contributors—in light of the measured PCBs and phthalates—points to the presence of toxins and chemicals in dogs' environments as the likely causes.

Dogs are our best friends. We share much of the same living space, and we are exposed to the same chemicals they are. Thus our canine buddies may be in the same sinking fertility boat that we are. Human male fertility has been measured and is definitely on the decline, although it has yet to be adequately quantified. So it raises the question: Are we—humans and dogs—headed together towards a fertility problem? Stay tuned.

In summarizing this pair of dog duet posts: The mammalian eyes of dogs and humans—although both have evolved from those tiny mammals scurrying in the dark to avoid dinosaurs—still retain the rods and cones of those long ago times—though in different proportions. We also share a declining sperm quality. In interesting ways “man's best friend” seems to be headed down a similar evolutionary path with us. Maybe we're closer than we think; maybe more than just good buddies.

Parasitized Tomato Hornworm

The braconid wasp paracitizes the tomato hornworm, by the mother laying eggs on the worm's body. As the wasp baby pupates in these tiny tubes, it drills into the worm and eats its insides. In the lower photo the worm has collapsed into a sort of a dried-out sack. A nasty end for the worm, but we are grateful to the wasp for guarding our garden. Click to enlarge.

A Dog Duet—Part 1

I recently read two reports (sort of a duet) about a couple of current circumstances of dogs, that say something about both the qualities of canines as well as the closeness of humans and dogs—in ways that go well beyond the typical owner-pet relationship. I would argue that the old saw—that a dog is man's best friend—has a lot of truth to it. But these two reports go well beyond just the friendship concept. They tell us that there are deeper similarities; that in some ways humans and dogs share a couple of fascinating and relevant physiological qualities. Maybe we're more than best friends. Maybe we're even some kind of distant relative?

The first report described the fact that dogs are color-blind—far more than humans, but still in a physiologically similar way. Yet dogs are not really color blind; it's more that they cannot perceive the rich panoply of colors that we humans enjoy. How so? The eyes of both humans and dogs (as well as most animals) contain two kinds of light sensory receptors: cones and rods. Cones have evolved to provide visual acuity and also to respond to color, but they need rather bright light conditions to do so. Rods evolved to provide vision at low light levels and to detect motion; they do not respond to color. While human eyes contain a high proportion of cones (we see color), dogs' eyes have far fewer. Thus we see sharply, as well as perceive all the vivid hues of the artist's palette. Dogs—with more rods—have poor visual acuity but can see better than we do at night; especially being able to note motion, as their prey try to run away.

All mammals evolved to have both rods and cones in their eyes. Back when mammals were new to Earth's animal kingdom (100-200 million years ago), they were just little critters who were dominated by the much larger and more successful dinosaurs. Mammals were forced to skitter around mostly in the dark, to avoid being eaten or stepped on by the reigning dinosaurs. Needing to see well under low light levels, mammal eyes evolved lots of rods.

Think about what you see, when nighttime comes on. You can't see color—only shades of gray. There's not enough light to trigger your eye's cones, so the rods—being “color-blind”—take over. For various reasons, dog's eyes, unlike ours, have a preponderance of rods. Maybe their wolf ancestors continued their hunting activities at night. Humans, on the other hand, evolved to have a lot of cones in our eyes. We needed them—along with our ape cousins—to locate tasty and colorful fruit in our daytime foraging. Dogs mostly needed to see moving animals to chase in the dark. To compensate for their inability to distinguish colors, dogs evolved an exquisite sense of smell. With that wonderful nose they could better sniff out their food.

[As an interesting aside to dogs' and humans' eye differences, when a human is photographed with a flash, a phenomenon called “red-eye” is often observed. It is due to the light of the camera's flash being reflected off blood vessels at the back of the eye. Dogs' eyes have something called a “tapetum,” which is a mirror-like structure at the back of their eyes. When a dog is photographed with a flash, the light reflects off the tapetum and appears blue. We get red-eye, they get blue-eye.]

More on dogs and humans next time...

Praying Mantis

This little lady was in one of our spirea bushes. She sure picked a good place to be camouflaged. Click to enlarge.

Personality or Predicament?

Psychologists have argued for years now about how to interpret why people act as they do. When we observe Joe behaving in a certain way, do we attribute it to his personality or to his current predicament? Is it nature or nurture? Was Joe's action due to his inherent, peculiar character or did the particular situation he was in cause his response?

While psychologists love to bicker over the real cause, most of us ordinary folks lean towards thinking that what Joe did was due to his personality. After all, we may know, for example, that he is considered to be an extrovert (not an introvert), or he's a pretty agreeable guy (not argumentative), or he's shown himself to be conscientious (not slapdash), or we know him to be a positive dude (not negative), or to be open-minded (not intolerant). We have come to know Joe over time and attribute one or more of these possible traits to him, as we see him consistently behave in a certain (and even predictable) manner.

But wait—some psychologists will contend that Joe may, for example seem to be an agreeable guy most of the time, but didn't someone see him being quite belligerent yesterday? Maybe he was stressed out and his boss was being unreasonable, and Joe uncharacteristically flashed out. Yeah, he may be an easy-going guy most of the time, but the situation he finds himself in can control what he does.

So is it personality or predicament? There seems to be scientific evidence that both play a role—one being more important at a given time than the other. Some folks will argue that one's personality is something that can be consistently observed over time; that a person's response is even quite predictable. In the short term, however, the situation may be quite variable and thus very unpredictable. For example, Joe may most of the time be the kind of guy who always shows up on time—or even early. We can count on him to be there when the show starts. But that may be just when the situation is normal. If he had a flat tire, he could be late.

Another interesting aspect of the personality-or-predicament debate is, if personality is important, how consistent over long periods of time will that person be? If Joe has long been seen to be a conscientious guy, can we expect that behavior to persevere? Can Joe change his personality? Might he become a little careless, in his golden years? That could be considered to be a turn for the worse. Is that what happens, or do people tend to become more positive in their traits, over time?

There is a school of psychology that contends that personality is important, and that we in fact do change for the better over time. Even if we disagree whether personality is more important than the situation, we'd like to believe that we can improve with age. Shouldn't the acquisition of a modicum of wisdom over the years nudge us in the direction of change for the better? Don't we want to believe that we become more agreeable, conscientious, and resilient with age?

Whatever the case—whether personality or predicament governs our behavior—I think we can say that both are important. We are not automatons that predictably respond in a certain way. I'm a believer in free will—that we can change how we respond. We go way beyond the instinctive response that most other animals have. We are in charge, and we can change—despite how a certain situation might evoke certain feelings in us. 

Blanket Flowers

I'm growing blanket flowers for the first time this year. They're so beautiful that it'll happen again next year. Notice the beetles on the one blossom. Each blossom is about 2 inches (5 centimeters) across. Click to enlarge.

Churlish Churchgoing Children?

Religion has long been humanity's principle source of moral guidance... at least that's what most people have maintained. The conviction is that we humans easily stray from the moral path, or never find it in the first place, without following the precepts of some religious teachings. And indeed, many people have derived comfort and purpose in life from their religions.

That's why the results of a study published in November 2015 in the journal Current Biology are very surprising. The paper, coauthored by seven researchers form universities around the world, is titled “The Negative Association between Religiousness and Children's Altruism Across the World.” What this broad study discovered, after the researchers evaluated some 1200 kids (ages 5-12) from six countries, is that those kids who were religious were less likely to be concerned about the welfare of others than were nonreligious children. In other words, the prosocial behavior of religious kids was consistently found to be less than for kids raised in a secular household. That's remarkable!

The study evaluated kids who fell into three main religious categories: Muslim, Christian, and nonreligious. Besides having fewer altruistic feelings, the religious kids also were more punitive minded and more judgmental than kids raised in secular households—especially the older kids (those near 12). Another surprising result is that the religious parents who were interviewed during this study felt that their children were more empathetic than nonreligious kids—quite opposite to the study's findings.

These results are indeed surprising. Some religious people will no doubt claim the study is invalid. Atheists will, in contrast, site the results as verifying their current beliefs. Such is the behavior of a polarized world. This one study's findings are unlikely to change people's minds.

Several of the questions raised by this study, however, are important to ponder, I think. Is religion vital for moral development, as many religious people have long believed? Can people become ethical when they are raised outside a religious tradition? How can we explain the results of this study? Why is it that nonreligious kids were found to be more prosocial? Does religion really have a corner on morality? Do these results suggest further studies that may shed more light on the issue? (Such controversial results always do.)

The authors did not attempt to interpret their findings—that would go beyond the scientific bounds of their work. Their intent was not to explain why these findings occurred. (We might look to philosophy for that.) Despite the fact that some people would take issue with their results, the study followed rigorous scientific protocol and they did interview a wide spectrum of children. More insights may come in the future. The findings certainly go against the grain of society's long-held beliefs. I think it is simply useful to hear about these unexpected and contrary results and to open our minds to the possibilities they may imply.

Giant Silkworms

As best I can tell, this is a giant silkworm that will morph into one of several types of moths, here in Virginia. I found it this morning, as if sleeping off an earlier big meal. Click to enlarge.

Wood Thrush Summer

We recently passed our 32^nd anniversary of living out here in this blessed wilderness. By now we've pretty well come to understand what this place has to offer, and look forward each year to what stand-out experiences nature will be providing. Each season brings its exceptional offerings and phenomena, and it's fun to pause from our daily tasks and devote some time and attention to those exceptions. Questions we pose ourselves: What has made this summer special and different? What has been particularly bountiful in the vegetable garden? What events will we experience and remember for years to come? Is this a one-time event, or is it similar to an exceptional experience that occurred a decade ago? How do we assimilate all this?

These are simple pleasures—but they are pleasures, because we have the time and inclination to pay attention to them and enjoy them. On the evenings when I soak in the outdoor tub, I often let my mind wander over and savor this year's recent special events. Not all are joyous, of course. The gnats may have been especially pesky, or several weeks may have passed now without a decent rain, but that's all part of the flow; and we have learned a key lesson in life: the unpleasant experiences soon fade from memory, as the fine ones persist.

As I was soaking in the tub recently, in this mental mode of appreciating what Mother Nature offers, I was being regaled by wood thrush songs. I've written in this blog a few times about the fact that no avian singer around here tops the wood thrush, as to its spectacular singing voice. They have a song that constantly changes, is incredibly melodic, and literally stops you in your tracks (or hot tub reveries)—forcing you to pay homage to its call.

I've also written about how the wood thrush population is in decline in the Americas, and that we've noted fewer and fewer of them out in the woods each summer. Habitat destruction in both the United States (its summer home) and Latin America (its winter abode) threatens their existence.

After the last few years of many fewer wood thrush songs, this summer has been very special. It's literally a wood thrush summer! Not only do we hear several of them calling out, but they are much closer to the clearing this year. (The wood thrush prefers dense forest, so it's a treat when they approach the clearing.) When they are near, we can clearly discern each part of their intricate call—especially that third part: a high-pitched melodic trill that is amazing.

With so many thrushes calling at once—sometimes we've heard three or four in competition—they really provide a show! And it is a form of rivalry. I'm sure they do hear each other and try to best their rival. We can hear them pause, listen to their challenger, and respond. So what's the cause of these calls? Are they still vying for mates this late in the season? Is it just a song competition? We don't know. Sometimes it's as if they are egotistical opera stars—competing for the lead role at La Scala.

Is each wood thrush aware of how well he's doing, relative to his competition? Is each of them aware of how superior is his song, compared to the squawks and simple whistles of the titmouse? Is his aesthetic judgment anything like ours? Does he compare the complexity and beauty of his call to that of his rivals? Does he realize that he is the premier songster of this forest? I would guess that most of the beauty we perceive and the pleasure we derive are not necessarily shared by him.

He's probably just trying to become alpha bird—the most intimidating and admired thrush of the forest. I doubt that he has any comprehension of the joy he brings to our ears. I wish we could make him aware of our appreciation, but I doubt that he'd understand. Let's just call it grace.

Cricket Swim

I caught a cricket trying to take a bath in my outdoor tub. I rescued him before he drowned. Click to enlarge.

Horsefly Harassment

I have written before about horseflies and how I hate them. They are large—about an inch (2-3 cm) long. They fly extremely fast—suddenly appearing out of nowhere, to buzz around your head—making it essentially impossible to defend yourself. Their insidious tactic is to confuse you, so they may land on the back of your neck and bite. It hurts!

These nasty critters are aptly named. Not even a horse is safe from them. And I'm sure that I'm a far tastier prey than a horse—I have little hair on me (especially on my head) to poke its piercing probe through. And my skin must be a soft delicacy, compared to a tough old horse.

Horseflies bother me most when I'm trying to relax in the outdoor tub. As my mind calms, my body oozes out its tension, and I'm entering a meditative state, I'm suddenly yanked to a heightened condition of alertness by a dive-bombing horsefly. My calmed state of mind is immediately shattered. The bugger menacingly circles me a couple of times and then abruptly disappears. I sink back down into the soothing waters. A few minutes later he zooms back into my world, once again destroying my tranquility.

I may try to swat or fend him off, but to him it's like I'm responding in slow motion. From his perspective, it probably feels like he is toying with me; teasing this lumbering piece of human prey, before descending and biting. A few weeks ago a damnable horsefly drove me from my tub, far sooner than I wanted. I gave up that bath.

At those times when I'm being hunted and tormented by an aggressive horsefly, I swear I'd make a pact with the devil: if Satan could offer me a lethal horsefly shield—such that when one of them comes within ten feet of me, it'd instantly be zapped and perish—I might bargain away my soul. Well, OK, that is a little extreme, but how much would I pay for such a shield, if I could find one on Amazon? Would I trade my trusty old car for one? If I did, I could then get me a horse for my transportation needs, and we'd both be content in our little horsefly-free world.

Back to reality: Is there a better way to deal with nasty horseflies, besides selling my soul or fleeing in anger from my tub? Is there a better way than to get all riled up and flailing feebly and futilely from the tub? What if I were to calm down, submerge my body deep into the water, until only my nose poked above the surface? At least then I'd be more like a predator lying in wait for prey to come along—sort of like the spider patiently anticipating the arrival of a bug in its web. Let that damned horsefly land on my nose! I'd have it where I wanted it then! Swat! I'd probably just give myself a bloody nose and the fly would live to bug me another day.

Trolley Quandary—Part 2

Interestingly, a modern (as well as more realistic) version of the trolley quandary has recently come up. It features the issue of how to program the software of autonomous cars. The quandary: you are riding in such a car and an unavoidable accident is about to occur. Should the car's software be written in a utilitarian manner—that is, to choose a course of action that harms or kills the fewest people? What if those harmed might include you, the owner of the vehicle? Would you buy the car with that program, or would you want the car's autonomous program altered to protect you at all costs, regardless of who else might be harmed or killed?

This is a problem that is currently causing a real ethical dilemma in the autonomous car world. Recently, in late June, a Tesla Model S car, on autopilot, failed to see a truck enter an intersection in Florida. The car kept going and killed the rider/driver of the car. Now this is a real trolley problem. What should be done about the car's software program, to avoid future such accidents? [Update: another Tesla car crashed, in somewhat similar circumstances.]

The issue for Tesla seems to be that they are releasing the car's software for beta-testing by the public. Beta-testing is a common practice used by high tech companies, which has customers flush out software bugs—such as in smart phones. It's a way of allowing those companies to rush new technology into people's hands, and then improve and debug the product, using customer feedback. These companies admit that failure of their product is part of the game; you don't progress at a fast pace without failure, they say. There is a good argument that, while this practice may be acceptable for smartphones, it can be dangerous for cars—where safety is a prime issue. Major car companies traditionally thoroughly test safety items before releasing them. Is Tesla playing with customers' lives?

Once again, I find the autonomous car software problem not to be all that likely. Sure, a death happened, but was it a different problem than the trolley car, that could be solved a different way? You may posit a simple scenario for the autonomous car (such as which way to direct the car in an impending crash), as in the case of the trolley car problem, but in the end it's just a thought experiment. It's an abstract situation that may never really occur. Furthermore, the unfolding of the actual accident may not present just those two contrasting alternatives. In a real accident, there may well be many other options that cannot be foreseen, or tiny events that could completely alter the situation. I find it impossible to imagine that anyone could program the car's software to adequately cover all possibilities.

However realistic or unrealistic the trolley car quandary or the autonomous car situations are, I see a more general issue that needs to be addressed. We have had countless technical innovations introduced into society—most of them sold to us through the advantages they offer us. They save time or money; they solve society's problems or offer wondrous advantages. We have often rushed to make these technical “solutions” reality; sometimes to later experience a greater harm.

For example, DDT was once offered as a miracle solution to mosquito diseases. It then nearly wiped out several bird species. Oil and coal offered humanity wondrous kinds of energy sources; now they threaten to warm the climate to dangerous levels. The atom bomb was developed to end World War Two; now we have nuclear proliferation that threatens to make many species extinct—maybe including us. And how about the innocent intent of Dr. Frankenstein? He created a creature who subsequently wreaked havoc.

In our rush to introduce new technology, we usually don't pause to ponder the potential downsides. We throw caution to the winds, in the name of the advancement of science and an easier lifestyle. Science and technology are often billed as amoral disciplines—unconcerned either with ethics or the questions of right and wrong, and thus we can go forward with no concern to the downside of their applications. Their use, however, often leads to moral quandaries. We could benefit from more caution, from pausing and considering the potential moral ramifications of unbridled technology.

Cicada Coming Out Party

The other night we came home to spot this cicada on the handrail. It had recently emerged from its exoskeleton, and was still clinging to it, waiting in the dark to fully dry out. Note the wings have dried and how gorgeous they are! Click to enlarge.

Trolley Quandary—Part 1

There is a classical thought experiment that has been wrestled with by practitioners in the fields of ethics, psychology, and cognitive science; often termed the “trolley problem.” It was conceived of the the mid 20^th century as a way to explore how people would respond to a hypothetical ethical situation, in which they were faced with the imminent death of either one person or five people—positing that the observer had the ability to choose between one or five deaths, but must choose one or the other. In the hypothetical scenario you can't choose neither... it's either one death or five.

The scenario is often described thusly: a trolley car is barreling down train tracks. You are standing next to a lever that can divert the trolley off to a sidetrack. If the trolley keeps on its present course, you can see that five people (who are either disabled or tied to the tracks) will be run over. If you flip the lever, however, the trolley will be diverted to the sidetrack, where only one person is tied down and will be killed. What do you do? Do you passively watch five people get run over, or take action to save them (flipping the switch), which kills only one person?

The trolley quandary has been described in several alternative scenarios—maybe some of them more likely than others. It has been a common thought experiment that illustrates the essence of the concept of utilitarianism—an ethical philosophy that seeks to maximize the well-being (or minimize the harm) of all creatures involved in a situation. It is sort of a numerical approach that tallies up suffering and happiness and chooses the path of least suffering... or maximum happiness. In the trolley car dilemma it is clear that a utilitarian wouldn't hesitate to pull the lever—thus sacrificing one person to save five. The mathematics is simple and straightforward—the choice is clear. One or five.

I find myself objecting to this thought experiment, however, because it seems to me to be a rather far-fetched scenario. It's unlikely I'd ever find myself in such a situation, and if I were, I doubt that the details of the dilemma would be as clean as described. I rebel at the narrow and even unrealistic choices presented. So much for my hangup with the scenario.

Psychologists and philosophers have a ready answer to my objection, by positing any number of more likely scenarios—each of which just presents the same dilemma: I must choose to sacrifice either one or five lives. Which would it be? What would I do? Quit prevaricating and choose!

For argument's sake, here's another scenario that may be a little more realistic: I'm a transplant surgeon who has five patients who will soon die, if they don't get an organ transplant. Along comes a bum, an itinerant hobo who happens to be a perfect match for all five patients. Would it be ethical for me to sacrifice that neer-do-well guy, in order to save the five patients?

More trolley quandary next time...

Garden Flox

These beauties are at their zenith now. The plants are three feet (one meter) tall. They come back, year after year. What more could one ask for? Click to enlarge.

Fidgety Fowls

I am sitting in my outdoor tub, soaking in the hot water—my attention momentarily turned outwards, to the natural world surrounding me. What attracts my observations at the moment is not the breeze wafting through the trees, or the insects calling forth, but a single bird singing from the woods up on the hill. It's a wood thrush—who I tend to regard as the top songster around here.

I hear him call out several times from a location up the slope a ways. Then he pauses, sings again, and I soon realize he's flitted to a new perch a hundred feet or so away from his initial singing post. After a few more songs offered from there, he moves again to yet another location and bursts out in song again.

I aurally follow this fidgety fowl, as he flits and sings a few more times, with no apparent (to me) pattern to his movements. Then I hear another wood thrush singing from time to time, from a more removed place deeper in the woods. Is this a rival?

So what's going on here? Why does the closer bird call half a dozen songs from each location, before flying to a new perch? I can't discern any method to his position changes. Is it random? Does he have a game plan that escapes me?

And what's the purpose of his singing this evening? Is it a mating call? Is he defining and defending his territory? Is it just an urge to sing from various perches, to see how glorious his call can be?

If he is mounting a defense of his domain, do the various singing posts he occupies define the boundaries of his realm? Is he letting the opposition—maybe that farther-off thrush—know where his frontiers lie? Maybe he's looking to expand his territory, and is testing the response of any rivals, to see how successful his feints might be. “If I cross over my boundary a bit, will the other guy take offense? Can I fake him out and claim an expanded stake?”

But maybe he's really seeking a mate. If he changes position from time to time, maybe his song will travel a little deeper into the woods from a specific perch—just enough to reach a receptive female. Maybe his song flies through the trees much more melodiously from one specific perch... more than that perch over there.

But he also may be alert to possible threats—that sharp-shinned hawk was spotted earlier today and the thrush can't afford to remain in any one location for more than a few quick calls, lest the hawk zero in on him.

How I wish I could interview this bird and pose some of these questions to him. He could enlighten me. He could clear up the mystery. That's not going to happen any time soon, so I guess I'm relegated to a solitary soaking in the tub, as I speculate on what this wood thrush is up to. So I do have other than a hedonistic purpose for spending all this time soaking in the tub: I'm conducting experiments in the natural world. This is science—not self-indulgent soaking!