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.

Brain Beliefs

Our brain is an amazing device that receives an incredibly wide variety of sensory inputs—far more than we could ever interpret—and then distills all that data into a useful representation of the world around us. Evolution has taught the brain which kinds of information are relevant for our survival, and which to ignore or discard. Previous hominid species who went extinct must have possessed brains that were not quite as accomplished at this abridging task; allowing us humans to dominate.

I've written before of the amazing ability of the brain to receive differing and even conflicting messages from our fragmentary visual system, and still manage to create a stable, reasonably accurate visual version of the world around us. Although the process may not be all that accurate, it is utilitarian, it does the job well, and it keeps us alive and functional; which is the primary thrust of evolution.

Here's another example of how our brain processes the data delivered to it—in the interest of keeping us alive and thriving. We hear a lot about living in the moment—of responding to what is happening right now, rather than focus on what happened in the past, or might occur in the future. “Be here now” is an admonition that makes sense; attempting to keep us attentive to the present, to respond intelligently to the moment, rather than drifting off to the past or future.

But it turns out that our brain cannot actually attend to the moment. So the wisdom of evolution has taught our brain instead to create a three-second average of the overabundance of information it has just received. What the brain responds to—what it believes is reality—is an averaging or smoothing of all the data that's come in, over the last three seconds. 

This is brilliant! If it was not the case, we'd be wildly oscillating between instantaneous peaks—causing us to overreact to them—followed by instantaneous valleys—causing us to underreact to them. In the process we’d miss something crucial. We'd be endlessly flipping back and forth between tumult and indolence—experiencing wild and chaotic oscillations.

Instead, my brain smooths out all that vacillation—giving me a steadier view of my world. As a result, I’m less reactive to the extremes and more responsive to that three-second average. It's more conducive to my survival. My brain allows me to pay attention to that average.

So my experience of the moment is not the wildly-fluctuating moment, but a calmer version of reality. Evolution has brought about a situation that gives rise to my brain responding not exactly to momentary reality, but to a filtered and steadied version that keeps our species going.

Big Bad Bird

I've written before on the pecking order that birds establish at our feeder. Certain species of birds dominate or intimidate other species, in order to get first dibs at the feeder. Most often, the hierarchy appears to be determined by the relative sizes of the birds—but not always. While the larger cardinal will invariably dominate the smaller titmouse or chickadee, the smaller goldfinch will easily chase off the larger titmouse.

How can the more petite finch intimidate the bigger titmouse? I doubt that the small finch is conscious of its more diminutive size, since I would guess that most birds have no comprehension of how large they are. If they can't recognize themselves in a mirror (which they adequately demonstrate by pecking at their own reflection in a window), how can they have knowledge of how large they are, relative to another bird? It's got to be more than size.

In the case of a goldfinch facing off a titmouse, even though the former is smaller, its bill is far stronger. The finch can crush a hard seed with its tough beak, while a titmouse must lodge the seed in its claws and bang away repeatedly with its weaker bill, until the seed yields its hard shell. If the two of them were to engage in a battle for pecking order, the smaller goldfinch could deliver a painful bite that the titmouse would long remember. I think that Nature has built into the titmouse an innate knowledge that it would be foolish to challenge the finch. So the safe thing for the titmouse is to defer to the finch, wait, and go for a seed after it has satisfied itself.

The term pecking order comes form the jostling that occurs between barnyard hens, as they establish their hierarchy. The chickens' process must be different from songbirds, however, because chickens are one species, are similar in size, and in beak force. Their pecking order seems to be determined by experience; by conflict. It can be a rather vicious process to watch, but once the chicken hierarchy is resolved, relative peace reigns. For them, it’s not a case of an instinctive response, as it is for songbirds. Chickens learn it; songbirds inherit it.

On rare occasions I have observed a lower-order bird challenge a superior one, at the feeder. Aha, I think, it’s going against its inherited tendency! Something interesting is happening here. Is the normally less-dominant bird ignorant of its place in the pecking order? Is it foolishly taking a chance? Maybe it just accomplished a feat that required unusual bravery and is high on its audacious stunt? In these cases, sometimes the challenger wins, but I suspect that it will later come to its senses and once again defer to its evolutionary overlord, at its next trip to the feeder. Evolution does prevail, in the long run. The pecking order is perennial.

Human Brainpower Bested

Sometimes I think we humans suffer from deep feelings of inferiority, because we so often tout reasons for our being best, or belonging to the better group. It's as if we are trying to convince ourselves of being superior, by expressing that my religion is better than yours, my team is number one, my kid is at the top of her class, and other such bolstered beliefs.

We especially fall into this game of snobbish notions when we compare humans to animals. Several hundred years ago it was an unquestioned conviction that we were absolutely superior to animals. We had utter faith in the divinely-created hierarchy, that placed God at the top, angels and other celestial beings next, humans next, and all the animals at the bottom. The major source of our supremacy was believed to be our brain—clearly larger and more complex than any other critter. And look around you... don't we dominate the planet? Is that not proof that we are number one?

That sense of superiority has been hard to deflate, but science has gradually been chipping away at our edifice of arrogance. Recent research is discovering many ways in which features of some animal brains, in fact, best ours. Here are a few examples.

Neurogenesis is the process of growth of new neurons, and thus compensates for the loss of neurons as a critter ages. Only in recent years have neuroscientists shown that we human oldsters do indeed create new neurons—though we get increasingly slower at doing so as we age. Yet we're bested by several animals, including some species of fish, who perform neurogenesis about 100 times faster than we do.

Secondly, we pride ourselves on our good memories, but chimps do much better at remembering. So do some species of birds and squirrels, who stash thousands of seeds in times of plenty, and then remember the locations, months later.

Thirdly, our sense of smell—a key brain function—is quite inferior to many animals, because that part of our brain (the olfactory bulb) devoted to smell is relatively small. A bear's olfactory bulb is five times the size of ours—even with a brain that is one-third the size of ours. The super smellers—sharks--devote one-third of their entire brain just to detecting smells.

Fourthly, our brain weighs about 2.5 pounds (1.2 kg). That is quite large, compared to our ape cousins, but a dolphin's brain weights 3.5 pounds (1.5 kg). And we are dwarfed by elephants and whales, whose brain weighs 11 pounds (5 kg). Now, brain size is not the sole governing factor... the brain-to-body mass ratio is a better measure, but even there we are overshadowed by our ocean-dwelling cousins.

Fifthly, without our GPS software on our smart phones, we are lost. Many folks today cannot even make use of a map.  Birds—especially pigeons—possess brain cells that are sensitive to the Earth's magnetic field. Rain or shine, sunny or nocturnally, they know their geographical location.

There are several other examples of how animal brains surpass ours, but that’s a good overall view. We may be the smartest (when is the last time you read about a pigeon winning at Jeopardy!?), but we trail animals in many brain functions. It might be useful for us to cultivate a little humility and recognize those brain functions where we are bested by the beasts.

Cave Creations

Archaeologists and spelunkers have discovered many examples of ancient cave art created by our human precursors, deep in the inky blackness of caverns. These drawings were done on the walls of the caves, tens of thousands of years ago.

Those who are privileged to look upon these drawings are profoundly impressed and emotionally moved by their quality. The artists obviously revered the animals they drew, and rendered stunning likenesses that are deeply stirring. They knew their subjects well—which is attested to by the realism of their work. Some of these primeval masters even used the undulating contours of the cave walls to accentuate the bulge of a deer's chest, or the muscular projection of a bear's shoulder.

It is amazing that they could have accomplished their creations, deep within the pitch-black recesses of these caves. They entered spaces that were in total darkness, bringing in some form of light (most likely oil lamps), in order to illuminate their rocky palettes. The work had to have been a sacred task, which was also quite dangerous.

Why did they retreat so far back into these caves? Were they looking to create art that would last thousands of years? That's not very likely—given their understanding of time. Was it because they could safely compose their works and expect them not to be defaced? Why would they create such magnificent drawings, that would be seen only by a tiny select few? These were not creations that were for display—but for very private purposes—even sacred intentions.

I find it fascinating that these cave artists never created drawings of humans—except in the form of primitive stick figures. While they drew beautiful and vivid portrayals of animals that create strong emotions in the viewer, they seem to have ignored humans, other than applying hand stencils. What a strong contrast to today's obsession that sees people constantly taking selfie photos, wherever they go. While contemporary humans seem enraptured by their own images, the ancient cave artists featured the animals of their world.

This seems to say something interesting about our modern priorities. Will future humans, some 40,000 years from now, excavate specimens of our world and ponder why we chose to be so narcissistic? Of course, this assumes that our ephemeral creations would last that long—an unlikely premise. More likely, those future archaeologists will be discovering our plastic trash.

Individual Inquiry

I have written before (February 2012) about how Thomas Merton—the American Trappist monk—employed a kind of personal dialectical process in his search for a deeper understanding of what it means to lead a spiritual life. Merton was exploring this technique in the mid-20^th century. His use of this approach was a bit unusual, because the dialectical method usually refers to when two or more disagreeing parties discuss their positions, in a cooperative search for a greater truth.

I find that using a personal dialectical activity can be an excellent way to work my way through philosophical questions, such as: What's most important to me? What's the meaning of life? How do I find happiness? What is my true nature?

Briefly, the personal dialectical process is: (1) Come up with your best answer to the question (called a thesis); (2) sit with your response for a while and ponder it; (3) play the devil's advocate with yourself and criticize your thesis; probe its weaknesses; seek opposing thoughts and ideas, and then offer a contradictory point of view (the antithesis); (4) sit with and ponder the two apparently incompatible responses of thesis and antithesis. Is there any common ground? Is there a truth which is deeper than either?; and finally, (5) formulate a new hypothesis that is better than the original and contains aspects of both opposing views (called the synthesis).

This use of the dialectical process as a type of individual or personal inquiry is not easy to employ. It calls for a high degree of honesty, as well as the ability to let go your treasured beliefs and open up to contending beliefs. That is especially hard to do in today's polarized atmosphere, which urges us to think that there is only one truth: that of one side or the other. We live in our silos, while viewing those who inhabit other silos as completely foolish and wrong. The gap between them is wide and seemingly absolute. Thus we come to believe that there is no common ground; no third or novel possibility. 

On the contrary, the dialectical process demands that we find a way to listen to the opposition—not to convince them that they're wrong and to see it our way—but to discover with them a new truth more valid than either of us previously would have conceived.

The personal dialectical process also calls for us to sincerely engage in it, not by creating a counter argument that is dishonest and a sham. When we do this, we come up with a phony thought that we can easily refute and destroy, in a disingenuous attempt to validate our initial thesis. This is not a way to grow, but a way to harden our initial belief. 

I think that my career as a scientist helps me to see the value of the dialectical process—whether it is between two opposing points of view of disagreeing individuals or is used as a personal growth technique. In fact, I find the scientific process to be quite similar: (1) it ponders a question, (2) it offers an answer in the form of a theory or hypothesis, (3) it puts it to test, either by experiment or by engaging with others who have different interpretations, (4) it engages in debate, and then (5) comes up with a new hypothesis, or synthesis.

This concept of stepping back and looking for gaps or weaknesses in your theory was expressed very well by an Islamic scientist (Ibn al-Hytham) over a millennium ago, when he wrote “The duty of a man who investigates the writings of scientists, if learning is the truth of his goal, is to make himself the enemy of all that he reads... attack it from every side. He should also suspect himself as he performs his critical examination of it, so that he may avoid falling into either prejudice or leniency.” That was 600 years before the European Renaissance!

The work of one's personal growth—either spiritually, as in Merton's case, or scientifically or philosophically, in order to arrive at a deeper truth—is demanding. But when did enlightenment ever come easily?