Saturday, October 30, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Stay-at-home Cardinals
In an earlier posting I described how our local pair of cardinals succeeded in fostering three broods this summer—an uncommon occurrence. To succeed in raising three broods is a good sign that mom and pop are healthy. I watched the fledglings from the first two broods disperse shortly after they left the nest. Their parents were about to start a follow-up brood and didn’t have time to coddle the previous batch, who by then knew how to fly and maybe even fend for themselves. It’s a tough world in the avian kingdom—babies don’t get pampered at all and thus the mortality rate for them is quite high, in those first few critical weeks after fledging. They fly off to locate new territory, but are very vulnerable to predators or starvation, until they learn some critical skills.
This third and final batch of offspring from our resident cardinal parents has hung around much longer than their older siblings. It’s a month or more since they fledged and they’re still loitering at the feeder. They are also beginning to molt and change into their winter colors. All cardinal young are drab colored—much like mom. As the fall ensues, they begin to replace some feathers through the molting process, and begin to acquire their adult plumage, which will not be completed until the next spring, following a couple more molts.
Two of the last three juveniles appear to be males, as their plumage is gradually getting a brighter red. I’m guessing that the third sibling is female, as she’s staying pretty drab colored, like mom. I’ve never seen the youngsters hang around this long, so I’m closely watching them, to see what will happen next.
Dispersal of the young is something that must occur for all species. Why? First, the parents may have claimed the only productive territory in the immediate vicinity, so the kids must leave in order to find their own habitat. Second, all animal species have adapted behaviors that discourage inbreeding, to keep the species healthy and robust. The way that happens is either the parents abandon the kids (if the parents do not have a home territory to defend) or the juveniles disperse. That way, family members are far less likely to breed with each other. In fact, for most songbirds, the young females tend to fly off farther than their brothers, which helps to reduce possible sister-brother inbreeding. The techniques Mother Nature has evolved are amazing!
It’s been very difficult for ornithologists to follow the dispersal habits of songbirds, because they leave the immediate area for parts unknown. How far must one try to track them? Recent technology has developed an ultra-light radio transmitter that is beginning to reveal how young songbirds disperse, so some of the mysteries will soon be solved.
So I will keep watching my cardinal family. A key question: Why has the last batch of kids stayed home thus far? I think I see dad trying to shoo them off at times, but I’m not sure that’s what’s really happening; maybe he’s just in a bad mood. Will the kids hang around all winter? The feeder sure seems to be a magnet for them. Are they still here because they’ve tried to find their own territory, but have been rebuffed by their older siblings or other unrelated cardinals?
If they stay, they might decide to help mom and dad raise more broods next summer. By doing so, youngsters can either help family genes move into the future (the main objective of any species) and/or learn nesting skills that will help them to be more successful parents the following year. I guess I’ll have to keep a close eye on this cardinal family—they’ve obviously got more to teach me.
This third and final batch of offspring from our resident cardinal parents has hung around much longer than their older siblings. It’s a month or more since they fledged and they’re still loitering at the feeder. They are also beginning to molt and change into their winter colors. All cardinal young are drab colored—much like mom. As the fall ensues, they begin to replace some feathers through the molting process, and begin to acquire their adult plumage, which will not be completed until the next spring, following a couple more molts.
Two of the last three juveniles appear to be males, as their plumage is gradually getting a brighter red. I’m guessing that the third sibling is female, as she’s staying pretty drab colored, like mom. I’ve never seen the youngsters hang around this long, so I’m closely watching them, to see what will happen next.
Dispersal of the young is something that must occur for all species. Why? First, the parents may have claimed the only productive territory in the immediate vicinity, so the kids must leave in order to find their own habitat. Second, all animal species have adapted behaviors that discourage inbreeding, to keep the species healthy and robust. The way that happens is either the parents abandon the kids (if the parents do not have a home territory to defend) or the juveniles disperse. That way, family members are far less likely to breed with each other. In fact, for most songbirds, the young females tend to fly off farther than their brothers, which helps to reduce possible sister-brother inbreeding. The techniques Mother Nature has evolved are amazing!
It’s been very difficult for ornithologists to follow the dispersal habits of songbirds, because they leave the immediate area for parts unknown. How far must one try to track them? Recent technology has developed an ultra-light radio transmitter that is beginning to reveal how young songbirds disperse, so some of the mysteries will soon be solved.
So I will keep watching my cardinal family. A key question: Why has the last batch of kids stayed home thus far? I think I see dad trying to shoo them off at times, but I’m not sure that’s what’s really happening; maybe he’s just in a bad mood. Will the kids hang around all winter? The feeder sure seems to be a magnet for them. Are they still here because they’ve tried to find their own territory, but have been rebuffed by their older siblings or other unrelated cardinals?
If they stay, they might decide to help mom and dad raise more broods next summer. By doing so, youngsters can either help family genes move into the future (the main objective of any species) and/or learn nesting skills that will help them to be more successful parents the following year. I guess I’ll have to keep a close eye on this cardinal family—they’ve obviously got more to teach me.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Let It Go to Have It
The older I get, the more I seem to encounter paradoxes—those statements that at first glance seem to be absurd, but upon further reflection reveal a deeper truth. When I was younger and more rushed, I rarely paused long enough to explore a possible paradoxical statement for its truth. In addition, I bought into the tendency in the western world to think along dualistic lines: when two apparently opposing ideas are expressed in the same context, one must be true and the other false. It’s either black or white; no shades of gray are allowed, let alone consider both polarities.
Life is replete, however, with nuances, subtleties, and contradictions—if we take the time to appreciate them. And the epitome of an apparently incongruous situation is a paradox. I have come to enjoy paradoxes, because they invite me to open up my thinking and find hidden layers of meaning in things—layers I would have missed had I quickly seized on a shallower meaning, grabbed one alternative, and then rushed on to the next encounter.
One such paradoxical statement came to me recently, as I was soaking in the outdoor tub: “Let it go to have it; give it up to get it.” At first glance that does sound absurd. If I give something up I no longer have it, do I? If I let it go, it’s gone, isn’t it? If we are referring to material things, such a statement is indeed illogical.
But how about when we’re talking of nonmaterial things like truth and love? These are things that we can never own or hold onto. If I try to capture or own truth or love, they will inevitably slip away from me, or I’ll perpetually find them just beyond my grasp.
Things of real value are also (another paradox here) free. What’s more, they are everywhere. We are surrounded by them. All we need do is recognize their availability and invite them in for a visit. If I let truth go—in the sense of abandoning any attempt to corral it for myself—I’ll discover that it’ll become a part of me. If I give up love—in the sense of showing care and compassion for others—I’ll become bathed in it.
The Tao Te Ching (the spiritual teachings of Taoism) is a paradoxical book. Written some 2500 years ago in China, it’s a small, straightforward text—yet a little puzzling and even somewhat inaccessible to 21st century Americans. Stephen Mitchell has a version, however, that is beautifully understandable. A few excerpts from Mitchell’s Tao Te Ching that express the paradox of “let it go to have it” are:
* “Therefore the Master… lets things arise and she lets them come;/ Things disappear and she lets them go./ She has but doesn’t possess,/ Acts but doesn’t expect.”
* “…the ancient masters said,/ ‘If you want to be given everything, give up everything’…”
* “The mark of a moderate man/ Is freedom from his own ideas…/Nothing is impossible for him,/ Because he has let go…”
* “Rushing into action, you fail./ Trying to grasp things, you lose them./ Therefore the Master… has nothing,/ Thus has nothing to lose.”
Life is replete, however, with nuances, subtleties, and contradictions—if we take the time to appreciate them. And the epitome of an apparently incongruous situation is a paradox. I have come to enjoy paradoxes, because they invite me to open up my thinking and find hidden layers of meaning in things—layers I would have missed had I quickly seized on a shallower meaning, grabbed one alternative, and then rushed on to the next encounter.
One such paradoxical statement came to me recently, as I was soaking in the outdoor tub: “Let it go to have it; give it up to get it.” At first glance that does sound absurd. If I give something up I no longer have it, do I? If I let it go, it’s gone, isn’t it? If we are referring to material things, such a statement is indeed illogical.
But how about when we’re talking of nonmaterial things like truth and love? These are things that we can never own or hold onto. If I try to capture or own truth or love, they will inevitably slip away from me, or I’ll perpetually find them just beyond my grasp.
Things of real value are also (another paradox here) free. What’s more, they are everywhere. We are surrounded by them. All we need do is recognize their availability and invite them in for a visit. If I let truth go—in the sense of abandoning any attempt to corral it for myself—I’ll discover that it’ll become a part of me. If I give up love—in the sense of showing care and compassion for others—I’ll become bathed in it.
The Tao Te Ching (the spiritual teachings of Taoism) is a paradoxical book. Written some 2500 years ago in China, it’s a small, straightforward text—yet a little puzzling and even somewhat inaccessible to 21st century Americans. Stephen Mitchell has a version, however, that is beautifully understandable. A few excerpts from Mitchell’s Tao Te Ching that express the paradox of “let it go to have it” are:
* “Therefore the Master… lets things arise and she lets them come;/ Things disappear and she lets them go./ She has but doesn’t possess,/ Acts but doesn’t expect.”
* “…the ancient masters said,/ ‘If you want to be given everything, give up everything’…”
* “The mark of a moderate man/ Is freedom from his own ideas…/Nothing is impossible for him,/ Because he has let go…”
* “Rushing into action, you fail./ Trying to grasp things, you lose them./ Therefore the Master… has nothing,/ Thus has nothing to lose.”
Monday, October 18, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Gossiping Finches
Goldfinches are fun to watch and to listen to. Over the summer the males flaunt such a bright yellow hue that your eye cannot help but follow one when it flies by. They are very cute, and their antics—when a group of them forms—are comical. But they also are fun to listen to, as they gossip softly among themselves.
Most of our birds call out in a solitary voice—shouting their song to the four winds in an elaborate display of bravado and testosterone. They are either warning potential rivals to stay away or cockily showing off their vocal talents. Goldfinches, however, are more likely to gather in a group and gently gossip. Both males and females participate in this arboreal klatch. You hear a calm, melodic chattering back and forth—what my bird book calls “soft contact notes.”
It’s easy to overlook their discussions, as they are quiet and sweet. A crow’s raucous call is far more likely to grab your attention. I paused the other day, as I became aware of a gathering of gossiping finches in the woods. They are a small bird, and against the fall yellow leaves I was unable to spot them, so I tuned into their chattering.
At first their jabbering sounded random and arbitrary, but as I listened I could discern an ebb and flow to the chatter—almost a kind of message, or a call-and-response process. It seemed as if they were not mindlessly yakking, but even listening to each other and responding. It was as if I were transported to Greece and overheard a group of folks carrying on a conversation on a street corner, where I could follow the tone but not the meaning. I even began to imagine what their finchy conversations might be about, but stopped myself from going there. One can go a little overboard in the anthropocentric projection game.
After a few minutes it seemed as if three voices came to dominate the conversation. I think I was able to distinguish three distinctive styles of “soft contact notes.” Then, still unable to spot the finches, I heard one of the three voices move off deeper into the woods and fade away. The other two voices soon did the same, slowly decaying into the forest. Did I really hear what I think I did? Was I really able to discern individual birds and were these finches continuing to call as they flew off?
I consulted one of my bird books and read that finches are one of the few species of birds that emit flight calls, and that these calls are “distinctive enough that one can identify individuals.” They have a “wide repertoire of songs that are learned, rather than innate.” So I was hearing three individual birds who then flew off, continuing to sing! There’s a thrill I get when I am able to distinguish individual animals, rather than have them all look and sound the same. It brings them closer to me.
Most of our birds call out in a solitary voice—shouting their song to the four winds in an elaborate display of bravado and testosterone. They are either warning potential rivals to stay away or cockily showing off their vocal talents. Goldfinches, however, are more likely to gather in a group and gently gossip. Both males and females participate in this arboreal klatch. You hear a calm, melodic chattering back and forth—what my bird book calls “soft contact notes.”
It’s easy to overlook their discussions, as they are quiet and sweet. A crow’s raucous call is far more likely to grab your attention. I paused the other day, as I became aware of a gathering of gossiping finches in the woods. They are a small bird, and against the fall yellow leaves I was unable to spot them, so I tuned into their chattering.
At first their jabbering sounded random and arbitrary, but as I listened I could discern an ebb and flow to the chatter—almost a kind of message, or a call-and-response process. It seemed as if they were not mindlessly yakking, but even listening to each other and responding. It was as if I were transported to Greece and overheard a group of folks carrying on a conversation on a street corner, where I could follow the tone but not the meaning. I even began to imagine what their finchy conversations might be about, but stopped myself from going there. One can go a little overboard in the anthropocentric projection game.
After a few minutes it seemed as if three voices came to dominate the conversation. I think I was able to distinguish three distinctive styles of “soft contact notes.” Then, still unable to spot the finches, I heard one of the three voices move off deeper into the woods and fade away. The other two voices soon did the same, slowly decaying into the forest. Did I really hear what I think I did? Was I really able to discern individual birds and were these finches continuing to call as they flew off?
I consulted one of my bird books and read that finches are one of the few species of birds that emit flight calls, and that these calls are “distinctive enough that one can identify individuals.” They have a “wide repertoire of songs that are learned, rather than innate.” So I was hearing three individual birds who then flew off, continuing to sing! There’s a thrill I get when I am able to distinguish individual animals, rather than have them all look and sound the same. It brings them closer to me.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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