Virtually all of the wild critters I encounter around here have their eyes located on either side of their head—birds, reptiles, fish, deer, mice, rabbits… even our dog. We humans are once again the oddball, with eyes in the front of our heads. While this brings us binocular vision, all the others have panoramic vision. I got to wondering about the advantages and disadvantages of each.
It seems that evolution saw to it that creatures who live in daylight do need eyes (a good starting point), but some of us evolved to have our eyes point in the same direction, while others have side-pointing eyes. Why? Evolution rewards advantageous developments (which often spontaneously occur and then get passed on, while the disadvantageous ones die out). Thus, for panoramic vision, the advantage is being able to see pretty much in all directions at once. Small animals need to evade numerous predators, and need to see them coming from any direction. So nature gave them eyes on either side of their head. In contrast, large animals are usually the predators, so they need to be able to have good depth perception—so they got forward-looking binocular vision. That’s their advantage. It allows them to pursue little critters and know when and how to pounce, so as not to miss.
Recent research has shed more light on the issue. It seems that large animals who evolved in cluttered environments—like primates in the jungle (that’s us)—have forward-facing eyes that can see “through” the clutter. Hold a finger up a foot or so in front of your face. You are able to look past or “through” the finger, without any important object in the distance being blocked. Our eyes, spaced a few inches apart, give us binocular vision; which may be limited in its field of view, but any dangling leaves in our face don’t bother us. We can still see our prey (or foe).
Critters who evolved in open environments, however, don’t need binocular vision—nothing is in their face. They get an advantage with panoramic vision. What’s more, small animals (insects and mice) have their eyes much closer together than we do. Even a fat blade of grass—let alone a leaf—gets in their way. (Place your whole hand in front of your face—like a leaf to a mouse. Can you see things behind it? Watch out! You’ve just missed seeing an attacker.)
So now I can understand the advantage my bird friends have, with eyes on each side of their head. It’s hard to sneak up on them. But I bet that if I tossed one of them a ball, he’d do a poor job of catching it.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Lowly Geese
A few nights ago I was in the outdoor tub, soaking and relaxing. I heard the overhead honk of Canada geese. We love to hear them when they are migrating (north in March and south in October), when they fly at high altitudes, in groups of a couple dozen and more. Their flying V is amazing to watch. A flock can be heard for half a minute or more before they come into sight; many of the geese honking constantly and encouragingly. If we are indoors when we hear them coming, we run outside and look up, to watch the V fly on by.
I have come to think that their honks are intended either to urge the leader on, knowing that it takes much more energy to fly point, or to scold those who allow themselves to fall a little out of the slip stream of the perfect V shape.
But we also hear them, every other week or so, all year long. (Some Canada geese are year-round residents.) There is a pond close by, from which they fly, and back to which they fly, in the mornings and evenings. We will hear a small number of them honking—quite close and low—as they circle and head in for a landing on the pond.
I thought, as I was sitting in the tub, that I was hearing a couple of them making that last swoop down for the night, to settle on the pond. I looked up, hoping to watch them cross the clearing above me. In the next instant I was startled by a V of some 15-20 geese, flying very low and immediately overhead. The V was perfectly shaped, as if each goose knew its exact position in the aerodynamically-efficient line. If I had been able to take a picture, I could have drawn a straight line with a ruler on the photo, down each side of the V, exactly intersecting the nose of each goose. As they flew directly overhead, they halted their honking for a moment. They were so low that I could hear their wings flapping—all in perfect synchronicity. A "whish, whish, whish", and then they were gone. I sat there stunned—trying to soak in what I just saw and heard.
I have come to think that their honks are intended either to urge the leader on, knowing that it takes much more energy to fly point, or to scold those who allow themselves to fall a little out of the slip stream of the perfect V shape.
But we also hear them, every other week or so, all year long. (Some Canada geese are year-round residents.) There is a pond close by, from which they fly, and back to which they fly, in the mornings and evenings. We will hear a small number of them honking—quite close and low—as they circle and head in for a landing on the pond.
I thought, as I was sitting in the tub, that I was hearing a couple of them making that last swoop down for the night, to settle on the pond. I looked up, hoping to watch them cross the clearing above me. In the next instant I was startled by a V of some 15-20 geese, flying very low and immediately overhead. The V was perfectly shaped, as if each goose knew its exact position in the aerodynamically-efficient line. If I had been able to take a picture, I could have drawn a straight line with a ruler on the photo, down each side of the V, exactly intersecting the nose of each goose. As they flew directly overhead, they halted their honking for a moment. They were so low that I could hear their wings flapping—all in perfect synchronicity. A "whish, whish, whish", and then they were gone. I sat there stunned—trying to soak in what I just saw and heard.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
My Hermitage
When I inform people that I live as a hermit, I sometimes get the feeling that their image of what I do isn’t a good match with the reality of my life. I think they see me as much more withdrawn from society, more isolated than I am. While I do seek solitude, I haven’t mainly disconnected from the world at all. Even Thoreau—while hermiting on Walden Pond—visited, and was visited by, folks quite often.
In Western cultures hermits are often viewed as misanthropes, as outsiders, as oddballs, as withdrawn personalities. (I will confess to a mild case of some of these qualities.) This perception stems, to some extent, from early Christian church leaders. After waiting several decades for what they believed would be Jesus’ imminent return—while living under voluntary poverty conditions—church leaders concluded that the Messiah was not coming back anytime soon. Their next step was to decide that being wealthy was OK after all.
Some early Christians disagreed, however. They believed that very simple living led to a more devout life, so they continued their ascetic ways. They became outcasts, and retreated into solitude, in the barren wilderness. We now call the them Desert Mothers and Fathers. The powerful church leaders branded them as hostile misfits, bad-mouthed them, and established an ongoing suspicion of hermits, in Christian eyes. In the far East, it’s been quite another matter: elderly people often retreat into hermitage, after family obligations are discharged. It’s an honored tradition.
I find resonance with the hermit tradition: that ones lives largely in solitude, in order to seek insights and understanding that one cannot get, as a full-time member of society. Today’s society (or the one of Jesus’ time, for that matter) is caught up in activities that lead to mental and physical ills. There’s a craziness that abounds in the fast lane of urban life—a craziness that swoops one up and distorts one’s ability to think clearly. A hermit finds mental health in nature, away from society’s delusions.
So yes, I’ve retreated from my culture, to the sacredness of the woods. It’s taught me that there is so much more to learn about my world than just the narrow slice of humanity’s focus. The flora, fauna, and silence have much to teach me.
And I’m not at all disconnected from the human world. For example, even in the most remote corner of today’s world, one can access the internet. I browse, I research, I email, I keep up with human happenings. I like to stay in touch with numerous people, but I treasure being able to shut humanity’s craziness out and wander through the woods at my leisure.
In Western cultures hermits are often viewed as misanthropes, as outsiders, as oddballs, as withdrawn personalities. (I will confess to a mild case of some of these qualities.) This perception stems, to some extent, from early Christian church leaders. After waiting several decades for what they believed would be Jesus’ imminent return—while living under voluntary poverty conditions—church leaders concluded that the Messiah was not coming back anytime soon. Their next step was to decide that being wealthy was OK after all.
Some early Christians disagreed, however. They believed that very simple living led to a more devout life, so they continued their ascetic ways. They became outcasts, and retreated into solitude, in the barren wilderness. We now call the them Desert Mothers and Fathers. The powerful church leaders branded them as hostile misfits, bad-mouthed them, and established an ongoing suspicion of hermits, in Christian eyes. In the far East, it’s been quite another matter: elderly people often retreat into hermitage, after family obligations are discharged. It’s an honored tradition.
I find resonance with the hermit tradition: that ones lives largely in solitude, in order to seek insights and understanding that one cannot get, as a full-time member of society. Today’s society (or the one of Jesus’ time, for that matter) is caught up in activities that lead to mental and physical ills. There’s a craziness that abounds in the fast lane of urban life—a craziness that swoops one up and distorts one’s ability to think clearly. A hermit finds mental health in nature, away from society’s delusions.
So yes, I’ve retreated from my culture, to the sacredness of the woods. It’s taught me that there is so much more to learn about my world than just the narrow slice of humanity’s focus. The flora, fauna, and silence have much to teach me.
And I’m not at all disconnected from the human world. For example, even in the most remote corner of today’s world, one can access the internet. I browse, I research, I email, I keep up with human happenings. I like to stay in touch with numerous people, but I treasure being able to shut humanity’s craziness out and wander through the woods at my leisure.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Incessant Singers
I once regarded the whip-poor-will as a noisy pest—back when I was a city-bound person coming out to the country to camp for long weekends. I felt at the time that I was attempting to trade city clamor for a pastoral weekend, and did not enjoy this bird’s annoying call—which can be repeated many dozens of times, without pause. Now, however, I consider his call a blessing, when it emanates from the blackness of the forest on summer nights. What changed me?
An early factor in my conversion was reading years ago that a “whip-poor-will consumes more mosquitoes in a single night’s feeding than a purple martin in a lifetime.” How can you not love such a voracious appetite?
The whip-poor-will is a species among the family of night jars—many of whom have calls that give them their name. It’s scientific name is Caprimulgus vociferus. I love the second word—it says so much about his call. The first word is Latin for goatsucker; because mythology has it that the whip-poor-will sucks milk from the teats of cows and goats. In fact, although they have a very small bill, their mouth does open to a huge gap—the easier to scoop up insects on the fly.
The whip-poor-will is a solitary bird. It’s shy and very cryptically colored. It roosts and nests on the ground, but remains still and almost invisible, as it blends into leaf litter. Not long ago I was lounging in the outdoor tub at twilight. After awhile, I heard a rustling nearby. I stared in the sound’s direction, seeing nothing but leaves. Suddenly the whip-poor-will burst into flight—a pile of leaves taking off!
A few times while I’m in the tub, as I stare into the woods, I’ve spotted the dark form of a whip-poor-will flutter silently to a perch. It is just a black shadow in the growing dusk—a hint of an animate object. If my eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, I’ve been able to watch the bird, as it repeatedly darts out and circles back to the same perch—leaving the night air with one less flying insect.
So now I love the whip-poor-will’s song. Its clarion call fills the nighttime woods with music. When one is perched really close, we can even hear a guttural “chuck” sound, just prior to each call. Sing on, sweet whip-poor-will! May you find all our mosquitoes tonight.
An early factor in my conversion was reading years ago that a “whip-poor-will consumes more mosquitoes in a single night’s feeding than a purple martin in a lifetime.” How can you not love such a voracious appetite?
The whip-poor-will is a species among the family of night jars—many of whom have calls that give them their name. It’s scientific name is Caprimulgus vociferus. I love the second word—it says so much about his call. The first word is Latin for goatsucker; because mythology has it that the whip-poor-will sucks milk from the teats of cows and goats. In fact, although they have a very small bill, their mouth does open to a huge gap—the easier to scoop up insects on the fly.
The whip-poor-will is a solitary bird. It’s shy and very cryptically colored. It roosts and nests on the ground, but remains still and almost invisible, as it blends into leaf litter. Not long ago I was lounging in the outdoor tub at twilight. After awhile, I heard a rustling nearby. I stared in the sound’s direction, seeing nothing but leaves. Suddenly the whip-poor-will burst into flight—a pile of leaves taking off!
A few times while I’m in the tub, as I stare into the woods, I’ve spotted the dark form of a whip-poor-will flutter silently to a perch. It is just a black shadow in the growing dusk—a hint of an animate object. If my eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, I’ve been able to watch the bird, as it repeatedly darts out and circles back to the same perch—leaving the night air with one less flying insect.
So now I love the whip-poor-will’s song. Its clarion call fills the nighttime woods with music. When one is perched really close, we can even hear a guttural “chuck” sound, just prior to each call. Sing on, sweet whip-poor-will! May you find all our mosquitoes tonight.
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