Cautious Optimism

I had a birthday last month, a special one, not because it was a notable milestone but because I still had a pulse. The average life expectancy for a man in the US is 75.8 years, which is to say 50 percent of us will never see our 76th year.  Because I’ve made it to 72 there’s a reasonable chance of hanging on another decade.  We’ll see.  I’ll keep buying green bananas, but long term investments are out.

Living more than seven decades is a privilege denied to many, which is blatantly unfair.  Some of us take that long to recognize how wrong we’ve been, to let go of notions long accepted.  An aging man who claims no regrets is delusional or has a poor memory. 

Thirty-five years ago, astrophysicist Carl Sagan addressed the 5th Emerging Issues Forum at NCSU, reminding attendees that the US military had spent 10 trillion dollars fighting the Cold War. At that time, 10 trillion dollars was enough to buy everything in the country except the land— every home, automobile, dishwasher, screwdriver, diamond, yacht, and airline. Everything. The expense was justified given a threat of Russian invasion. The likelihood was unknown but the possibility, however remote, was real. 

Sagan compared that response to our reaction to climate change, a certain rather than perceived threat, and having global consequences more disastrous than a Russian invasion.  We’ve made headway— at least we’re talking about a warming planet— and we’ve developed technologies that are very promising. But we continue to pour oil on the fire. “Drill, baby, drill,” is what we hear. Any mention of “climate change” has been stricken from government documents. Scientists who monitor polar ice have been sacked. We have an aggressive cancer of the brain and the doctor is saying, “This isn’t real. I’ll scratch it from your chart and we won’t monitor or mention it again.”

As an extended birthday treat we spent a few days in northern Ontario in an off-grid cabin out of cell range. It’s wild country, where the boreal forest extends to the horizon in every direction and loons sing and moose roam and deep blue lakes speckle the landscape. While there we had a pack of wolves serenade us from a couple hundred yards of the cabin. I can’t be certain it was their rendition of Happy Birthday, but that’s what I heard. 

It’s interesting to get a world news perspective from a different country.  Canada does not look favorably on the US these days with its threats of tariffs and political posturing implying dominance. I couldn’t help wondering if Lee and I were scorned for being from the states. Nothing we experienced suggested it was so— the Canadians we encountered were as welcoming as ever— but the thought was there, and it was maddening. 

Beyond good luck and self care, a growing body of research indicates that optimistic people live 11 to 15 percent longer than their cynical counterparts. It’s another statistic in a world of gloom.  

There’s a clear distinction between contentment and optimism.  Friends and family, a bountiful garden, a good dog, a warm sun, a great meal— all can be satisfying but do little to fuel our optimism. If we’re aware of the rapid decline in biodiversity, the alarming rise in extinction rates, rampant microplastic contamination, dying coral reefs, melting glaciers, rising seas, the loss of productive soils— how can we be genuinely excited for the future?  

Artificial Intelligence is a life-altering technology that’s here to stay. In its simplest form it uses a library of data to simulate collective knowledge of the world. So I turned to a machine to ask, “In terms of environmental health, can the human race be optimistic?”  It answered, “Cautious optimism is possible— but only if significant action is taken… We have a narrow and rapidly closing window— roughly until 2030– to take major action and avoid the most catastrophic impacts of climate change and environmental decline.”

“The greatest threat to our planet is the belief that someone else will save it.” —Robert Swan

“Cautious optimism” requires a total commitment from every nation in the industrialized world. The  government of the country best positioned to lead the way (that would be us) denies a problem at all, and chooses instead to focus on military strength, immigration, and tax cuts for the ultra rich.  

“The time to answer the greatest challenge of our existence on this planet is now. (We) can make history or be vilified by it.” —Leonardo DiCaprio

The world spins and years scream by.  We get one life and if we’re lucky it’s a long one. We can use our time well— work hard and always do our best— but that doesn’t mean we’re doing it right. 

“The earth is what we all have in common.”  —Wendell Berry. 

A Gift and a Responsibility

On a morning in late April more than 30 painted turtles were perched on a floating log in the pond, soaking up the sun and 70 degree warmth. What is it that breaks the spell of hibernation and spurs them to leave the cold mud of the pond bottom?  How can they possibly know the conditions above the water line?  They spend months buried in ooze, “breathing” through their butts, not eating, growing stiff from lactic acid that accompanies long stretches of low metabolism. Then, prompted by some timeless cue, they haul themselves from the mud, climb onto a floating log, stretch out their necks, and bask in the ecstasy of an April sun. 

We found three newly hatched turtles this spring no bigger than nickels. They were a couple hundred feet from water, on a treacherous journey challenged by obstacles and predators.  Last summer we found several females laying eggs in hard-packed rocky soils, two hundred feet or more from water. They could have laid their eggs closer, in sun-warmed sandy loam, but didn’t.  I don’t have to understand. Their decisions have proven effective for millions of years. 

There are three broods of goslings on the pond, a total of fourteen. They have merged into one group and are guarded by a single pair of adults.  I don’t see the advantage. Broods that stick with their birth parents maximize the ratio of adults to young which would logically improve their odds of survival. But they do what they do and my suggestions on the matter have no influence. 

The birds are back— the orioles and catbirds and thrushes. Bluebirds have claimed nest boxes now coveted by house wrens and English sparrows. Everywhere is competition— for nest sites, for mates, for food, for space. There is no shortage of strife and conflict.  What appears as perfect harmony is fraught with unrest. It’s not all peaceful and pretty. 

We’re not so different from them. We’re prone to compete and defend, and can delight in the first warm days of spring. We do what we do, but our actions are less driven by instinct and more by subjectivity or impulse or pure greediness. 

We have the ability to reason and empathize but can still be cruel, hateful, and overtly stupid. We can have a solid understanding of science yet hold firm to practices and lifestyles that are not sustainable.  We can know our activities are chiseling away at global biodiversity yet be recklessly slow to change our ways. 

The soil in the garden is soft and warm on bare feet. I’m in the zone, planting sweet onions— 30 per row, five-inch centers.  With luck, in July we’ll have onions the size of softballs, mild and sweet. They will accompany potatoes and greens, tomatoes and sweet corn, carrots and fresh herbs.  We’ll nurse them along, enjoying fresh harvests, then fire up the canner and dehydrator when the time is right. A deep satisfaction resides in a pantry of homegrown goodness. 

There are no prerequisites for the barefoot gardener, no basic biology or agronomy. He can be unaware of the connections between birds and insects and crop yields and still enjoy a great garden. He can rely on fungicides, synthetic fertilizers, and insecticides without understanding their wide ranging toxicity, or knowing that organic methods have comparable, often superior results with fewer inputs and massive environmental benefits.

Some reconciling is in order. Just a few lifetimes ago the land our house and garden occupies was deep forest.  The entire state was forest or prairie or wetland. If the land had not been cleared we would not be here doing what we do. If not for infrastructure, housing, a willing and adequate workforce, medical and research institutions, and advanced learning, our society would look much different. 

We strong-armed our way across the country, taking land by force, and began a massive transformation. They were innocent times, driven by hard working immigrants seeking opportunity.  

But enough already. Perpetual growth as we know it is not an option. 

We got an inch of rain yesterday and this  morning we’re in search of yellow sponge mushrooms. The birds are active— the white eyed vireo, the indigo bunting, the parula warbler. We wind our way through a gauntlet of invasive Amur honeysuckles, cursing their existence and the threats they pose to woodlands, then realize we’re not so different from them. We both alter habitats and claim land as our own. But honeysuckles don’t understand science. Neither do turtles or geese. We do, or should, and how we use our knowledge and empathy, our reasoning and judgement, is both a gift and a responsibility. 

 

A Bigoted Beekeeper

In early April we had nights of solid freezing and daytime highs in the 40's with persistent cloud cover and pesky winds. The radishes, peas, kohlrabi, and spinach managed to sprout but were stifled by the cold and paused for better days. We covered them with blankets at night to keep their spirits up.

On April 5th we drove to Lafayette to join a protest. It was one of more than a thousand held across the country attracting 5.2 million participants. The intent was to send a message to Washington that we weren't going to sit idly by during a constitutional crisis or be silent while our democracy slips away.

I met a gal my age who was part of the march and struggling to walk. She said she should’ve brought her cane but she was self conscious about using it in public. In 71 years she’d never been to a protest. She preferred to stick to herself, try to get along with the neighbors even when she disagreed with them politically. “Things are different now,” she said, choking up. “I can’t just sit at home any longer thinking everything will be alright.”  

There's power in a public gathering, when a diverse demographic comes together and you realize you’re not alone in your convictions. There’s comfort when a thousand people, almost twice what organizers expected, show up in a red town like Lafayette, Indiana, and the PA system proves inadequate so rather than listen to speakers we just kept marching. Passing cars honked in support, and there were chants and songs and camaraderie among perfect strangers. At one point I felt a little lump rise in my throat.

Last November there were more people who voted against Donald J Trump than for him, which is to say those who opposed him were, and still are, the majority. It may not seem so, as unpopular executive orders fly from the Oval Office like so many bats; as the greatest democracy in history teeters on survival; as the world looks on in disbelief. 

I’m not the best beekeeper but I like to keep a colony or two. I was watching them fly in and out of the hive the other day, returning with pollen sacs loaded and bellies full of nectar, and I realized a similarity between the bees and the majority of Americans. 

Bees live in a community where they work cooperatively for the benefit of the whole. It’s a lively, busy place, where societal duties are understood and communications are solid. They focus on their roles and one another and are highly productive and efficient. 

Enter the beekeeper. On a pleasant, sunny day he makes a house call, opening and disassembling the hive. The occupants, accustomed to total darkness, are showered with vivid sunlight as individual frames are removed so brood and honey stores and overall health can be assessed. For some remarkable reason, the bees tolerate it, even though they outnumber the beekeeper by tens of thousands.

In exchange for the bees' hard earned honey and wax and pollination services, a good keeper will provide emergency food, administer medicines as necessary, and ensure housing is adequate. He watches over and cares for his bees, intent on their needs and his responsibility to them. 

But let the day be cloudy and blustery, let the beekeeper be too rambunctious in his actions, let him use too much or too little smoke in an attempt to disrupt communications, or spend too much time inspecting a colony, and he’ll incite a riot. The bees will turn on him and force a reckoning. 

Over 5 million bees took to the streets on April 5th. Their homes and communities, their rights and livelihoods and freedoms, are being threatened by an inept administration blowing too much smoke and causing worldwide turbulence. At the helm is a man elected by a minority of voters. He has stirred the hive. 

But Then There’s Annie

In March the first real warmth of the year swept through the Midwest and the dormant grass greened up before our eyes. The daffodils already in bloom were suddenly shouting for attention, and the crocus and Scilla appeared where moments earlier there were none. In the marsh, spring peepers felt the warmth and raised their voices to a fevered pitch. The first of the tree swallows appeared overhead and joined the orchestra of redwings and thrashers and phoebes already assembled. In another moment the maple flowers flung open and bees came to collect the sweetness and dapple pollen on receptive stigmas. On the woodland floor the wild garlic sprouted, and a fragrance rose from the duff and drifted in the warm air, and it was the smell of richness and an impending explosion of life. 

With spring comes a sensory overload and nowhere is it better observed than in wildness. Last week I ran across a couple maps comparing the landscape of Indiana in 1820 with 2001. In 1820 the state was 88% forested, 9% wetland, and 3% dry prairie. A mere 181 years later, about 75% of forests and wetlands had been converted to agriculture and urban development. It’s an incredible shift in land use, especially considering that bulldozers weren’t around until the 1920’s. It speaks to the fortitude and determination of our predecessors, their drive to carve out a life in a land of limitless resources and opportunity. And here we are today, occupying a dramatically different landscape, wrapped in comforts, conveniences, and gadgetries far beyond anyone living in 1820 could have dreamed. And here we are, at a point where natural resources once viewed limitless are clearly limited, yet we hold fast to an economic equation that consumes more resources each year than the earth can replenish. Every day we harvest and mine and process new raw materials, manufacture goods, and generate megatons of waste to satisfy a throw-away society while atmospheric carbon continues to climb. 

For the moment, if we overlook endless wars, a divided electorate, a governmental coup, a shameful distribution of wealth, a constitutional crisis, an attack on civil rights and personal privacy, a broken tax code and other societal grievances, humanity still faces a dire future. The ecological services that allow our existence are under imminent threat. We’re in a world of hurt, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and hopeless. But then there’s Annie. 

She’s forty-something, an entrepreneur, a doctor, a mother, a wife, a lover of music and art and animals, looking at the world with open eyes and with a smile as broad and reliable as the Mississippi. She knows what to expect, and it includes inevitable discomfort and hardship. She’s preparing, by connecting to like minds, by living simply, learning and practicing self sufficiency, by being poised for a time when bartering and resource sharing will again be commonplace. She doesn’t see a doomed future but a coming opportunity, where outdated and unsustainable practices and systems are retooled for the 21st century and beyond; a world that embraces a circular economy with near-zero waste, clean energy, and an emphasis on local production. Growth and prosperity are not lost in such a world, but nothing is manufactured or built that can’t be recycled or readily repaired or repurposed. 

The transition won’t be quick or smooth but Annie knows she’s not alone. Her views are shared by a groundswell of others, many who are actively preparing by developing skills, living minimally, and reevaluating long held norms. “It’s liberating,” the practitioners say, “good for the psyche and good for the soul.” 

Not everyone agrees with Annie, but everyone, knowingly or unknowingly, plays a role in how humanity will respond to the threat of ecological collapse. And everyone falls into one or more camps: 

Concerned, but trusting technology to come to the rescue. 

Apathetic, with more important things to think about. 

Complicit, for refusing to get involved and demand change. 

Skeptical, and not convinced the threat is real. 

Paranoid and paralyzed by a sense of helplessness. 

Destitute, and feeling unable to contribute in a meaningful way. 

Financially fit, and enjoying the comforts of money too much to change a thing. 

Old, and content to pass the problem onto the next generation. 

Young, and ill informed. 

Spiritually faithful, and willing to accept man’s destruction of earth as part of a divine plan. 

Indignant, and blaming the republicans. 

Indignant, and blaming the democrats. 

Indignant, and ready to defend personal stockpiles. 

There’s magic in the first warm days of spring, and it offers another chance to get things right. The plants and pollinators and songbirds have perfected their routines, while the most advanced animal on the planet lumbers on towards self destruction. We’re all contributing to a collective destiny and most of us are wearing blinders. Annie has a plan. It’s idealistic and faces formidable challenges but it’s viable and offers a genuine window of hope. 

You go, Annie. Lead the way. 

Opinions & Perceptions

On an otherwise typical morning in early March, cold took on a perceptible warmth.  I noticed it at dawn when stepping out for a few sticks of firewood.  Twenty eight degrees felt strangely pleasant, almost balmy.

The birds were singing– cardinals, redwings, mourning doves– and geese were squabbling for territories on the marsh.  At the base of an aged white pine, bright green daffodil spears poked through a mat of golden needles.

Maybe it was biofeedback, the flowers and birdsong giving the illusion it was warmer than it was.  I told myself not trusting a thermometer was akin to questioning a compass and a long awaited spring can play with a man’s head.  Perceptions are not always true.

A few weeks ago, Ouiser, our mongrel dog in training, showed up with a chicken which was alive but beyond the point of saving.  I did four things: 1) scolded the dog, 2) dispatched the chicken, 3) went to the neighbors and left a note of restitution, and 4) ordered a wireless fence collar for the dog.

After the collar arrived there were several days of training so Ouiser would get familiar with her boundaries. As she entered the “correction zone”, the collar would first beep and vibrate, then deliver a shock if the dog didn’t do an about face.  Just one corrective shock seemed to get the message across.  But then one morning she attempted to follow me through the correction zone, wailed pitifully as she was shocked, and sped off.  I  caught up with her on the stoop of the back door, curled in a ball.  She’d glance at me with eyes veiled in disbelief, and was oblivious to my efforts to console.  I don’t claim to know everything that goes on in a puppy’s mind but could guess she felt betrayed, that a trust had been broken and I was to blame.  For several days she’d have nothing to do with me, turning her face when I offered treats, tucking her tail when I approached.  It was brutal for both of us.

It reminded me of Jane Goodall describing a childhood experience with a dog which convinced her that animals could feel and express emotion.  She went on to study chimpanzees and found their emotional intelligence highly advanced.  Since then, emotion has been documented in several species, including rats, sheep, starlings, pigs, octopus, lobsters, and honeybees.

Do honeybees use emotion to form opinions or perceptions?  That would depend on the bee’s level of consciousness, which we don’t know.  But as humans we are highly skilled at forming sentiments based on information our senses or emotions provide, and our most guarded beliefs are often born of knee jerk reactions never given thoughtful consideration.  Perceptions and opinions don’t have to be true to become our reality.

Abundant birdsong in the spring woodland leads to the perception that birds in general are doing well, but the fact is their numbers have declined by nearly three billion since 1970.  The Cornell Bird Lab describes the loss staggering, and suggests “the very fabric of North America’s ecosystem is unraveling.”

Finding the seafood section at the market stocked to the brim says nothing about the alarming decline in ocean fisheries.

A consistently high yield in grain crops overlooks the long term consequences of ongoing erosion and degradation of soils.

Why are we slow to recognize the sacrifice and work ethic often shown by those living in poverty, or to associate their declining neighborhoods with the lower paying jobs they’re forced to take?

The only people who truly understand white privilege are not white people.

The hope and confidence we place in our God is no more real than the hope and confidence others place in theirs, and there are highly moral, loving, generous people among us who choose to acknowledge no god at all.

Why do we look at wealth inequality and climate change as issues too big for us to individually do anything about? 

Time is a great healer, and Ouiser is again including me in her tight circle of valued and trusted friends.  The shock collar has been replaced with a GPS gadget that monitors her escapades.  She’s twice ventured near the neighbor’s chickens.  When confronted and reprimanded a second time, she showed remorse, whether sincere or feigned, but she’s not been back since. 

I don’t have much experience at training dogs other than a black lab I used for hunting, but I grew up with a popular opinion that a thrashing or two was in the history of most every good dog. Dog trainers today strongly disagree. Consistent, short sessions, heavy on praise and reward for learned behaviors and an absence of painful or shouted corrections are the ticket.  I’m giving this approach a go, and damn if it isn’t working. Ouiser has become more calm and attentive, and my blood pressure is staying on an even keel. We’re both enjoying the process. 

We’re all the products of our sensory and emotional experiences.  The perceptions and opinions we take for gospel are often wrong, as is our stubborn refusal to allow them to change.