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.

While the Earth Warmed

Then came the spring after the people of The Great Nation had chosen a new leader— a felon, a conman, full of himself and full of lies. Many who voted for him were not privy to his intentions. They were ill informed, led astray by radical newscasts, talk show hosts, social blogs.  They knew nothing of the planned coup, the constitutional crisis to come. 

It was his second run as commander in chief and he was better prepared, surrounding himself with wealthy loyalists supportive of an authoritarian takeover. By way of dozens of executive orders and key agency appointees the commander began a dismantling of long held institutions while thumbing his nose at the rule of law. He spread fear among immigrants and gave an unelected man unprecedented power and access to the data of private citizens and government expenditures. He did it in the name of cutting waste and to fulfill a promise to make the nation great again. He did it to protect the interests of his rich loyalists and shower himself with wealth. 

With his minions at his beck and call he used a rapid fire strategy to spread unrest and confusion. It’s what Canadian journalist Naomi Kline calls “the shock doctrine.”  Keep the people off balance and on the verge of hysteria. Chaos is the perfect cover for passing unpopular policy. 

Environmental threats were none of his concern. He rolled back regulations and withdrew from the U.S. Paris Agreement; cut support for clean energy initiatives and increased fossil fuel production. He removed thousands from the payrolls of agencies tasked with monitoring climate change and its influence on weather extremes, wildfires, pestilence, and biodiversity loss. He gutted the EPA, rolling back safeguards that had controlled rampant pollution for decades.  

He couldn’t be bothered with data signaling a red alert due to rising ocean temperatures or melting polar ice; held no concern for threats to agriculture from drought and flood and temperature extremes, or the promise of inundated coastal cities and the mass migrations that would follow. He proclaimed the data corrupt, the whole concept a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese.  And he was a smart man, a stable genius by his own declaration. “It’ll start getting cooler,” he said, “You just watch.”

And with the shock doctrine in force and the populace frazzled and distracted, the actions a warming planet demanded were lost under a mountain of concerns over the economy and treason and autocracy and a constitutional crisis. 

When the wildfires next flared there were no resources to combat them, and thousands lost lives and belongings to floods and tsunamis because there had been no advance warnings from offices now empty.  Epidemics that might have been contained ran unchecked as short-staffed agencies were hamstrung and ineffective. 

The earth responded as it always has, as our understanding of physics and chemistry would dictate, without regard for current occupants. The beautifully functional planet maintained its orbit, accounted for changes in atmospheric composition, adjusted to higher temperatures. Most of what it did was long predicted by top climate scientists and should have come as no surprise. The opportunity to avoid catastrophic impacts had been kicked aside for decades. The commander of The Great Nation could not be solely blamed, but his blatant disregard was salt for an open wound that hastened the ill effects and underscored the folly of man and his quest for wealth and dominance.

When spring came that year the titmice sang from the understory and killdeer flew in loose, erratic flocks over the open cropland.  Frost left the soil and the determined green tips of crocus pushed bravely through the thatch. The days grew pleasant and the earth prepped for an explosion of  life. Sandhill cranes winged north as thousands were found dead along their route, and farmers at the breakfast cafe spoke quietly over morning coffee, concerned their livestock would be next. Kids were sent to school by parents worried about measles and respiratory infections and the next pandemic. Vacations were canceled as layoffs dominated the news. Dreams and ambitions were put in hold. 

Everywhere a palpable uncertainty and unrest fueled a growing resistance. Tensions between opposing forces mounted. 

And the earth warmed. 

Finding Our Bearings

Kentucky frontiersman Daniel Boone allegedly said he had never been lost but was once bewildered for three days. It’s hard to separate truth from fiction with pioneer icons, but no one would deny that Daniel could find his way around.  His forays were long, sometimes covering hundreds of miles across territory poorly mapped. Once, while he was away for a couple years, his wife took him for dead and gave birth to a daughter fathered by Daniel’s brother. But I’m getting off point. 

Birds are great navigators, even better than Daniel. Their migrations are well documented and some are incredible feats. The arctic tern takes the prize for the longest migration in the animal kingdom: 31000 miles round trip from its Arctic breeding grounds to wintering areas in the Antarctic. Closer to home, many midwestern songbirds winter along the Gulf of Mexico or destinations farther south. They manage the distance remarkably but are experiencing significant losses from the effects of climate change and land use practices. 

Insects like monarch butterflies and some of the dragonflies handle similar distances and can require several generations to complete the task. Each new cohort is born with an internal map and the wherewithal to read it. Grey whales travel 12000 miles from the Baja to Alaska and Russia. Sea lions navigate from California to Alaska twice a year— once to have young and mate, once again to molt. 

But distance is one thing, precision another. A honey bee flies up to three miles to forage then returns to a hive entrance that may be mere inches from an adjoining hive. A rabbit in the middle of a grass field knows precisely where to find its nest. The ant on the rotting log, the butterfly on the monarda, the albatross gliding across open ocean— all know exactly where they are and where they’re going.  Their sense of place and direction is sharp and innate. 

Humans share the sense, supposedly, and when I think about Daniel Boone, early explorers, or indigenous peoples, I know it must be true.  But put me in an unfamiliar big box store and I’m pretty helpless to point north, or take me on a cloudy day hike off trail and I’ll try to walk circles while arguing with my compass. 

It’s a sense not equally shared, and many westward immigrants would have never made their destination without gifted navigators at the lead. Science tells us our directional capabilities are generated in brain cells known as head direction neurons. Evolution doesn’t encourage nonessential traits and our map apps are not exercising our neurons. Take away our cell phones and we may think we’re more lost than ever, but our ability to find our way still exists for now.  

There is no shortage of metaphors for being lost— lost in thought, in the maze, in the crowd, in the weeds, in the fog— and no shortage of evidence that our country is in dire need of finding its bearings at the moment. 

The people of 1930’s Germany were not happy with the inflation in their country so they elected a man who promised to fix it. He completely dismantled their government in fifty three days and became a dictator. It’s likely that Germans, like most people, saw government as necessary but preferred it stay at arm’s length.  Their country needed improvement and they'd put a man in charge so now they could focus on paying bills, pursuing ambitions, and living their lives. By the time they were fully aware of what was taking place it was too late to speak out. 

German history is a lesson for those whose minds are not lost, who can navigate a barrage of disinformation while staying the course, who can experience  bewilderment but never lose direction or hope.  We’re living in a time that can’t be wasted in complacency or ignorance. We have an innate sense of choosing the right direction. We need to use it. 

 

Plant Talk

I’m in a rut with our national security and institutions and democracy under siege. I take some consolation from political commentator Robert Reich who writes that what we're going through might “awaken Americans to the truth about what… we must do to get back on track toward social justice, democracy, and widespread prosperity.” But I need a distraction, so I surf the web looking for a rabbit hole and stumble across a piece on communication among plants. I go down the hole. 

Mycelium, the vegetative part of fungi, appears as a mass of branching, thread-like filaments winding through the soil. When we head to the woods in search of morels we’re actually looking for the fruiting bodies of morel mycelium— the vast majority of the fungi is below ground, breaking down organic matter and linking plants by attaching to their roots. These connections allow plants to share nutrients and communicate by way of chemical messaging while providing the fungi with necessary carbohydrates. It’s a win-win. 

If an acorn sprouts in a fencerow and the young seedling finds itself under a thick growth of brambles starved for sunlight, the mother oak detects the struggle and uses mycelium to send sugars and nutrients to her offspring, fueling its growth until it can gather sunlight on its own. There are similar  responses when plants are attacked by pests or disease or are physically damaged.  News spreads quickly through the network and the whole community may pitch in, even unrelated plants.  

Fungi thrive in woodlands but live in soils everywhere— in our potted plants, yards and gardens, pastures and croplands. Their function in helping plants communicate is bolstered by soil microbes which are likewise capable of transferring nutrients and messages.  Both fungi and microbes are often damaged or destroyed by pesticides and poor land use.

There’s talk above ground as well, by way of airborne compounds which alert plants of potential threats.  It’s a real thing, caught on film. That sweet smell of new mown grass alerts other grass plants of impending danger. They respond by moving sugars and other compounds to their roots to speed up recovery after being sliced.  Equally impressive, some plants can hear the buzzing of a nearby bee and will increase the sugars in its nectar in response. These are all things to haunt us when we’re next pulling weeds or digging potatoes or mowing grass. They are also things that offer a powerful teaching about community, cooperation, and the hidden networks sustaining life; things that stand in stark contrast to the disjointed and often divisive nature of human society. 

There are people who claim they can literally hear plants speaking, though there isn’t the science to back them up.  But neither does science explain this: In the Amazon lives a primitive tribe known for developing a powerful hallucinogenic brew using two unrelated plants. In a land of 80,000 different vascular plants, how did the tribesmen discover which two to use?  According to Harvard anthropologist Wade Davis, it’s a stretch to say it was solely trial and error.  The tribe explains matter of factly that the plants talk to them. And when asked how they establish plant taxonomy, they say that on nights of the full moon, plants sing in different keys. It falls short of a full explanation, but opens the door to more questions about plants and our ability to listen and understand. 

I leave the rabbit hole with a thought, that in spite of all we know, we don’t know jack. Maybe one day we’ll learn that plants are conscious, or that consciousness exists in the very fabric of the universe and pervades everything.  Leading physicists and philosophers are batting that question around right now. It’s heavy stuff, life altering, and compared to the drone of daily news, genuinely refreshing. 

Groundhog Day Reflections

Groundhog Day dawned with a cloud cover that hovered overhead like a suspended gray comforter.  It lingered the entire day so there was never a shadow cast by a groundhog or anything else.  Accordingly, rather than an early spring, we can expect six more weeks of winter, which puts us about mid-March. Sounds spot on. 

For those who have had enough of winter, Feb 2nd is a consolation.  Groundhog Day marks the midpoint between the shortest day of the year and the spring solstice.  The days are getting longer, the northern hemisphere is warming and there are changes afoot.  Great horned owls are incubating eggs, cardinals are singing  at daybreak with a growing enthusiasm, roots of maple are primed to pump sweet sap to its outermost limbs. On the frozen marsh stands a lone wood duck, a drake, eyeing a nest box mounted on a pole nearby.  He knows.

Our days might be gray and drab but an orchestra is tuning up for a grand annual performance with a repertoire refined over millions of years.  Every component plays a critical role and is blended in perfect harmony. Anything absent or off key rattles the entire ensemble. 

As we await the opening curtain we are lambasted with news that rattles our world: our well established institutions, our privacy and personal information, our national security, has all been compromised. Our constitution and democracy and form of government is being upended. It’s big news, and some of the damage already done cannot be undone. 

We were in Indy today and pulled into a fast food joint for lunch. It was a chain restaurant, one of those we detest for serving food-like products discovered in food science laboratories and brought to market via destructive agricultural practices, but their jalapeno burger is to die for.  The young man at the drive up window wore a huge smile and looked me square in the eye, thanked me and called me “brother.” Maybe I caught him at just the right moment and circumstances beyond his employment were responsible for his bubbly happiness, but I think not. And it just so happened I was at the window with a head full of national news and was bathing in discontent when this kid’s exuberance caught me off guard.  I pulled away but was ready to take a lap and order more poison food just so I could talk to the guy again.  

I thought about him on the way home while listening to a podcast about another young man, a 31-year-old rancher in the Texas panhandle.  He’d lost his herd of more than 700 cattle in the Smokehouse Creek fire late last year.  He’d adopted the latest regenerative ag practices and was making great strides in converting 4000 overgrazed, long abused acres into productive native grass pastureland. He was doing everything right. The fire had taken away almost everything he had and left him with the overwhelming tasks of rebuilding miles of fencing, cleaning up hundreds of charred carcasses, and navigating a nightmare of insurance logistics. He took it on while still taking time to support his local community and lending a hand to neighbors, some who were worse off than him.  His spirit remained intact, his determination unscathed. 

These two guys live in different worlds. There’s no comparing the challenges of running a ranch to manning a drive-up window, but I see in both an enthusiasm and optimism for life which cynicism has taken from my own. In their separate ways they demonstrate a resolve to find something good in every day and pass it on, and their actions are contagious. 

So this grumpy old man is feeling a bit inspired. There are people, a majority, many of them young with heads squarely attached, holding onto a belief that a happy and prosperous life is still possible in the greatest democracy on earth; that freedom is not yet lost and justice can still prevail; that we can do what it takes to keep the orchestra of spring finely tuned and blowing our socks off with its annual performance. 

It can all be true if we insist.