Newly Hatched

This is a newly-hatched sparrow. It awaits the hatching of its two siblings. The eggs are tiny... about 3/8 inch (1 cm). Unfortunately, only one of the remaining eggs opened. Click to enlarge.

From Egalitarianism to Inequality: the Rise of Religion—Part 2 of Big History

Last time I described how humans transitioned from egalitarian hunter-gatherer bands to more complex settled villages in which ownership of property brought a division of labor and a fear of invaders who might confiscate the fruits of that labor. Concurrent with these changes, communities became hierarchical for the first time.

Religion also came into being about that time, largely because it found a home in the new cultures. Specifically, religion satisfied three new needs of society: (1) hierarchy, (2) a sense of community, through solidarity and sacrifice, and (3) a sense of superiority that bolstered the courage of its adherents.

First, consider hierarchical needs. While an egalitarian perspective is mostly horizontal—all people are pretty much on an equal level—religious thought is vertical, from above to below. The gods are superior to us (above us), so we'd best submit to them and follow their orders. Accordingly, human societies became increasingly hierarchical—as leaders assumed authority and power. In fact, those leaders were often priests who claimed to be designated by the gods to rule. Especially when the gods were not available, our ancestors were expected to obey the gods' appointed representatives.

The second need religion met was a sense of community. Religion unites its followers through the worship of a common god (or shared pantheon). This was crucial, because it was necessary to create bonds beyond the kinship of the earlier small, hunter-gatherer bands. Religion literally creates an artificial, expanded family. Unity is further strengthened, as followers connect through a sense of “them” and “us.” We follow the true god(s); they follow lesser god(s).

The third need that religion brought to our settled ancestors was a sense of superiority. If our god(s) is indeed greater and stronger, we become invincible. We therefore will fight harder and longer, and prevail in conflicts that either protect our property or seize others'. Our god is on our side.

The military is a good example of hierarchy that the newly-settled life brought. Standing armies were soon required to protect property. Furthermore, there is no egalitarianism in the military; there is no democracy. Obedience to the vertical chain of command above you is absolutely necessary.

Next time: the rise of writing, states, and state religion…

From Roaming to Residency—Part 1 of Big History

[I recently took an online course from the University of Amsterdam, titled “Big History, from the Big Bang to Today.” In this and the next three postings I will summarize a section of that course; looking at (1) the origin of humans settling down, (2) the rise of religion, (3) the creation of writing, and (4) the emergence of states.]

For something in excess of 95% of our existence as the species Homo sapiens we were hunter-gatherers. We lived in small bands of about a couple dozen individuals. Everybody was closely connected to everyone else—they had to be, in order to survive in a world in which they were far from the apex species. 

They had few possessions, which fit appropriately with a lifestyle that saw them roaming from one place to another, as seasonal changes brought variations in food supplies. When resources periodically dwindled, a hunter-gatherer band would migrate to new environs—quite likely to return when food and water once again were at hand. This is how our ancestors lived, for 200-300 thousand years.

Just some 12-15 thousand years ago humans began to cultivate crops and practice animal husbandry. As they gradually settled into sedentary communities, they morphed from roamers to residents. This transition brought about a profound change in human groups, as they grew in size from small bands into larger and more complex societies.

They needed to remain near their food sources, to protect them and their livestock from intruders. In their new residential lifestyle, with more reliable food sources, their group sizes continued to grow. Hamlets and villages of several dozen people were formed around their cultivated plots. They also began to acquire more possessions.

As the size of groups continued to grow, people no longer were as closely connected as before. Societies morphed from simple to complex—calling for new ways to establish order and trust within them. Another change was an increasing growth of specialization. Whereas before, each person was a generalist—either a hunter or a gatherer—there were now a growing number of specialty vocations: planters, harvesters, craftsmen, animal tenders, social leaders, etc. It was natural for a chain of command to develop, as some individuals took on leadership positions. Eventually, leadership evolved into seeking positions of power. 

Being wedded to their lands, the early agriculturists found their property became attractive targets for others. Hamlets and towns became fortified, for protection of their property. In the previous hunter-gatherer culture, there was less to fight over, and a small band would be more inclined to move elsewhere when threatened with aggression. For agriculturists, however, their societies transformed into a condition of ongoing warfare to protect their property—interrupted by occasional periods of peace. Conflict had become the default human condition.

Next time: this transition from roamers to residents will be considered from the standpoint of the rise of religion and hierarchy in human societies…

Oriental Poppy

How does Mother Nature choose such gorgeous complementary colors for flowers? Click to enlarge.

High Tech Defects

I have written before about my preference for simple tools that last. They may be crude, humble, and require some degree of training to use them properly, but they usually are durable and are devices that you can depend on, year after year.

However, the lure of acquiring a new, high-tech gadget becomes irresistible at times. The latest fancy tool can often do a simple tool’s job much faster and with an ease that is enticing. A gasoline-powered hydraulic wood splitter can quickly render a pile of recalcitrant logs into a heap of slender splits that make fire starting a breeze. A motorized garden rototiller can quickly churn over a plot of land and render it ready for planting. Both of these devices are incredibly efficient and accomplish their task in a fraction of the time it requires me to split wood by hand or turn over the garden beds with a shovel.

Yet, as I've lamented before on this blog, these complicated high-tech tools have an exasperating way of breaking down—causing one to face an expensive repair or to buy a replacement. Too often the broken machine must be consigned to the landfill. When I surrender to the siren song of a new tool, I often soon regret giving in and participating in this game.

So here's yet another tale of my yielding to the purchase of a neat high-tech tool, and later coming to regret it. Every four days my wife and I luxuriate in the healing waters of an outdoor wood-fired bathtub. It's a simple, primitive process that is rejuvenating to body and soul. The challenge of properly preparing the bath is to get the water temperature close to an ideal of about 101^o F (38^o C). A couple of degrees higher and we quickly overheat. A couple of degrees lower and it's just a bath—not a healing ritual. That perfect 101degree temperature allows me to soak in the healing waters for an hour or two.

I've used an old-fashioned thermometer over the years to achieve that ideal temperature. It works, but it's become increasingly difficult for these aging eyes to read the numbers—especially in the low-light levels of a winter's evening. Thus, I was lured into buying an infrared digital electronic thermometer a couple of years ago. Oh, it was nice! (Notice the use of the past tense “was.”) The readout was illuminated, so I could see it in the dark. It offered large numbers for my aging eyes, and it was easy to use; just point and click the trigger. 

I even had fun pointing it toward many other objects and measuring their temperature. Beep, my dog's ear was 85^o F (29^o C). On a cold winter evening I could measure the ground temperature that, beep, was 30^o F (-1^o C). Beep, the stove pipe was 240^o F (116^o C). Fascinating! I kept looking for targets to beep.

Then one night my high-tech infrared toy failed. Instead of heating the water to 101^o F, it got up to more like 112^o (44^o C). My poor wife nearly scalded her legs, before she leaped back out from the cauldron. So now we are back to the old primitive analog thermometer. I need my glasses and a flashlight to read it, but it is dependable... and has endured for a couple of decades.

Annoying Noises

Sitting in my outdoor tub on fall nights, after the summer's insects have either died out or are hibernating for the winter, it can get very quiet—especially on those nights when there is no wind. As I sink into my reverie at those quieting times, I find that my hearing extends farther and farther into the distance. We live in a very remote area, so there are minimal traffic sounds—maybe an occasional car chugging up a distant hill, but then it all settles blessedly back into silence.

On these occasions I enjoy picking up on sounds of wildlife, far off in the woods. Whippoorwills call out in the summer night air, various insects sing out in late summer, owls add their periodic hoot, distant foxes and coyotes yip at the moon. All of their sounds are often accompanied by the gurgling creek. On some nights my peace can be disturbed by a far off barking dog, but that intrusion is thankfully infrequent.

Tonight, however, despite the quiet, I’m hearing a periodic and persistent sound of some kind. It's rather distant and rather subtle, so it's hard for me to discern whether it's a wild animal or a yelping dog. It could be a coyote. Maybe even an evening bird? I am thankful that it does not seem to be a machine—their unwelcome noise is a constant annoying drone for me. I hear this sound briefly, every few minutes.

If the source of tonight's sound is indeed coming from wildlife, I will find myself both interested and curious, so I try to tune into it and see if I can figure what critter may be calling out. Am I listening to an utterance from an animal that may be new to me, or a variation on a call from one that I've heard before? Maybe I can learn something new about Nature's critters that inhabit or visit these woods. If that’s the case, I'm tuned in and engrossed. 

But if the sound I'm hearing is coming from either human activity, or a persistent dog, I will feel irritated. Why do I greet wild animal sounds with curiosity and even pleasure, while I consider civilization's sounds to be annoying?

I moved out here in the country over three decades ago, with the objective of getting in close touch with Nature, and to distance myself from what I came to view as an abundance of urban insanity. I have reveled in this natural environment ever since. The plants and animals surrounding me out here have had millions of years to settle into an exquisite balance and beauty. I feel graced to have become immersed in their world and to become increasingly familiar and knowledgeable with its workings. All these critters and plants naturally belong here, and I feel privileged to share their world.

Humans, however, are the new kid on the rural block. We are largely a disturbance—we upset that balance. We make too much noise, pollute our surroundings, and use our power to dominate. We bring our dogs with us and either fence them or tie them outside. Left alone and bored, they bark incessantly. Sitting in my tub in tonight’s evening's hush, I am disturbed by that dog, while its “owner” likely sits indoors, planted in front of a blaring TV—oblivious to the unhappy dog's howls.

On this night, I eventually decide that I'm not hearing a coyote, but a monotonous, ceaseless dog. So I'll truncate my bath, hoping that the next tub soaking may be longer, accompanied by only Nature's songs.

Minuscule Meteorite?

I was reposing in the outdoor tub recently, deep into a meditative state, eyes shut, when there was a sudden PING!, as something impacted the metal stove pipe above me, and then bounced to the ground. The alarming event began with that metallic PING!, followed by a gentle “plop,” as the object fell to the ground, beside the tub.

Startled, I sat up and immediately began to puzzle over what was the cause of this abrupt sound that broke the gentle silence of the night. There are trees overhead, but it is the wrong time of year for them to drop seeds—besides, their seeds are not very hard or dense. This PING! was caused by something hard—like a stone or a piece of metal.

Could it have been a bird dropping some sort of a projectile in my direction? I doubt that, because if it were a bird, it would have dropped a nut or nut shell—which also would not have caused this metallic PING! And certainly a bird who dropped a poop bomb on me would have generated at best just a quiet “plop.” No, this thing was stony or metallic like.

After having pondered all the possibilities that I could dream up, I was forced—like Sherlock Holmes—to conclude it was likely caused by a minuscule meteorite. (The reader might remember that Holmes's investigative technique was to consider all possibilities, then rule them out, one by one, until the sole remaining prospect must be the answer.) Thus, I was forced to come the conclusion that my PING! was the tiny remains of a meteor that had entered Earth's atmosphere, having burned off most all of itself, except that tiny rock-like core that we call a meteorite.

Now, I realize that the chances of a meteorite landing on my stove's metal pipe are vanishingly small. But people have had them land nearby, or even drill a hole through the roof of their house! If this was a meteorite, and anything larger than a grain of sand, and had fallen a few feet father west, it would have drilled a hole through me! I am grateful.

Most meteors are tiny grains of rock, and never reach the ground as meteorites, before they burn up in the atmosphere. A precious few land as fist-sized rocks or even chunks of iron. Some 65 million years ago a monster meteorite (10-15 km or 6-10 miles in diameter) plunged to Earth and sent the dinosaurs to their doom. I should be thankful mine was so minuscule. But then again, could it have been a bird that shed a gallstone, as it flew over? Back to my Holmesian inquiry.