A Country of Naturalists

Well, here we are in yet another election year full of vitriolic demarcations of right from left, seemingly with little overlap. Once again, the looming dangers of global warming, failing ecosystems, and our overall unsustainabilty are lost amidst the rhetorical din of jobs and economy (as if these were somehow distinct from the aforementioned perils). Meanwhile, the chasm between humans and nature deepens.

Watching the national debates unfold, I find little to be positive about. One exception worth underlining, however, is the very fact that such divergent views can co-occur. Most of us live as if there’s only one worldview—ours. But anyone doubting the existence of deeply contrary perspectives need only look at the current Republican-Democrat divide in the United States. And that’s within a single country.

As readers of this blog will be aware, my central concern is how we are to go about connecting humanity with nature, with the assumption that we cannot achieve anything approaching sustainability without a mindset that embeds us inside nature. Living in an indoor culture obsessed with the techno-gadgetry of computers, smartphones, and e-tablets, the notion of embedding humans within nature might seem an impossible dream. But such a mindset is not nearly as alien as it might first appear.

Take America, for example.

Traditionally, the indigenous peoples of this continent, and every other, were expert naturalists who formed deep bonds with their local places. Today, native peoples continue to speak of this close attachment, even co-identity, with their homelands [1]. In the words of Luther Standing Bear, an Oglala Sioux:

"The American Indian is of the soil, whether it be the region of forests, plains, pueblos, or mesas. He fits into the landscape, for the hand that fashioned the continent also fashioned the man for his surroundings. He once grew as naturally as the wild sunflowers, he belongs just as the buffalo belonged..."

Marlowe Sam, an Okanagan Indian, put it simply [2], “As Okanagan people, we are from the land; we are part of it.” Best we can tell, this kind of nature-centric worldview has dominated the human mind for most of our 200,000-year tenure.

European colonists in North America, although bearing a conqueror mindset, found that they too had to be students of nature to survive in the New World. In the bloody wake of indigenous decimation, new generations of naturalists set out to rediscover North America’s wonders. The 19^th Century in particular witnessed an explosion of fascination in natural history. Nuttal, Bartram, Clark, Agassiz and others steeped in the Linnaean tradition collected and classified legions of North American species. Birds, beetles, butterflies, seashells, and wildflowers were favorite targets, but Cope and Marsh expanded the scope to include fossils, competing to see who could recover the greatest number of ancient species from the western territories.

As difficult as it is to imagine today, even the Whitehouse was occupied by a series of naturalists. Early in the 19^th Century, Presidents Washington and Jefferson were both ardent naturalists. Jefferson even had a prehistoric giant ground sloth named in his honor. A century later, Theodore Roosevelt proudly brandished the naturalist label, translating his lifelong fascination with the outdoors into conservation of wilderness areas.

In the 1870s and 1880s, nature fever overtook the general public, resulting in hundreds of small natural history associations from coast to coast. Membership in these societies surged as people relocated from countryside to towns and cities. This public passion for nature translated into the construction of natural history museums, both here and overseas, to house the growing collections and put them on public display. The Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard University, the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia, the American Museum of Natural History in New York, and the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco are all products of this period. By the close of the 1900s, most Americans could describe themselves as naturalists [3].

The nature craze continued early in the 20^th Century with more clubs, more museums, and more learning. Indeed an education was considered incomplete if one lacked a general knowledge of local plants and animals. The chief guide for outdoor adventuring became Anna Botsford Comstock’s 1911 Handbook of Nature Study [4]. The Old and New Testaments may have held sway on Sundays, but Comstock’s Handbook revealed the wonders of God’s creations the remaining days of the week. With abundant illustrations and vivid descriptions linking animals to habitats, she introduced a generation of school children to fireflies, toads, dandelions, clouds, rocks, and robins. Comstock’s firm belief was that experiential education in nature should form the bedrock of education. And, while certainly not all reached adulthood as naturalists, the practice of natural history was highly valued, both as an amateur pastime and a professional vocation.

Following WWII, nature study took an abrupt and precipitous decline. Amongst the contributing factors was the mounting exodus from countryside to cityscape, further separating people from nature, as well as the reinvention of biology as a strictly empirical science focused on genes and molecules rather than whole organisms [5]. Field observations, the bread and butter of natural historians, were replaced by replicable experiments carried out in sterile laboratories. By the 1960s, natural history had become a quaint hobby for amateurs. With landmark exceptions such as Harvard biologist E. O. Wilson, “naturalist” was no longer a label adopted by most self-respecting biologists.

Nevertheless, there’s still plenty of reason for hope. For example, you may be surprised to learn that annual attendance at North American nature institutions—museums, botanical gardens, aquariums, zoos, and science centers—exceeds that of professional sporting events. And plenty of people still flock to beaches and parks on weekends, as well as to natural wonders on vacation. It’s been only two generations, well within the lifetime of my mountain-and-forest-loving mother, since the bulk of people in this country shared a significant link with nature. Viewed in this way, our present mode of thinking can be considered a recent aberration set against a lengthy history of uniting people with their local environs. Connectedness with nature lays dormant within us, waiting to be reawakened. We’re closer than you might think to rebuilding a country of naturalists. But to get there, we’ll need to reverse current trends, getting people (and especially children) back outside experiencing and learning about local nature.

References

1.    Nelson, M. K. (ed.). 2008. Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future. Bear & Company, Rochester; Abram, D. 1996. The Spell of the Sensuous. Vintage Books, New York.

2.   Sam, M. 2008. Ethics from the land: Traditional protocols and the maintenance of peace. Pp. 39-41 in M. K. Nelson (ed.), Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future. Bear & Company, Rochester.

3.   Cain, V. 2012. Professor Carter’s Collection. Common-Place, 12(2): 1-20. (http://www.common-place.org/vol-12/no-02/cain/)

4.   Comstock, A. B. 1911. Handbook of Nature Study. Comstock Publishing, New York.

5.    Pyle, R. M. 2001. The Rise and Fall of Natural History. Orion Magazine, 20(4):16-23.

Image Credits

All images from National Geographic: http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/

Natural Wonders, Old and New

It was a week of amazing spectacles, all courtesy of Mother Nature.

I returned home to California a couple of days ago after a brief, but eventful stint hunting dinosaurs (the extinct kind) in the wilds of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. As I write, some of the crew is still out there in those southern Utah badlands, but I thought I’d offer Whirlpool of Life readers a few highlights from our spring expedition.

Ring of Fire: Annular Eclipse, 2012

The week began in spectacular fashion, with no less than an eclipse of our nearby stellar neighbor. After flying from San Francisco to Las Vegas, I drove my rental 4X4 about four and half hours to the north-central part of Grand Staircase near the small town of Cannonville. Passing through Bryce Canyon, I saw dozens of people setting up telescopes and cameras by the side of the road. No time to waste.

After fixing a surprise flat tire, I made my way out to the meeting spot—a beautiful double sandstone arch known as Grosvenor Arch. There I met with rocket engineer and paleontology volunteer Phil Policelli, with whom I viewed an annular eclipse. Most people are familiar with total eclipses, in which the moon blocks out the entire disk of the sun, turning day to night. An annular eclipse occurs when the lunar disk blocks only the center of the sun, leaving a glowing ring—the annulus, or “ring of fire”—around the silhouette of the moon. Safe viewing requires proper tinted glasses, which thankfully Phil had on hand. It was a magical event, as the sunny afternoon turned briefly to twilight.  

Loading the nets with gear for the helicopter airlift.

Other crewmembers came in later that evening. We camped overnight at Grosvenor Arch and arose the next morning to begin preparations for the helicopter airlift. A “heli-tac” crew arrived and began setting out nets to carry our gear. We weighed the various items—including water barrels, plaster, kitchen items, food, jackhammer, and personal gear—and spread them out among the nets. In total, seven helicopter trips to the remote campsite would be required.

The Kaiparowits Formation, aerial view

I was fortunate enough to ride onboard the first trip. What would normally take almost two hours of challenging off-road driving plus another hour of hiking was navigated in a mere five minutes by helicopter. Fortunately, we had a little trouble locating the campsite, forcing us to make a few stunning circles over the rugged, gray-banded terrain.

Most expedition members—including crews from the Natural History Museum of Utah, the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, and the Monument—hiked into camp. Over the course of the week, in addition to prospecting for new sites, we concentrated efforts on five quarries, four of which were discovered and opened last year. One site preserves remains of a crested duck-billed hadrosaur, or lambeosaur. Another features fossils of the horned dinosaur Kosmoceratops. Yet another is producing bones of an as-yet unnamed giant crocodile. And the fourth is yielding beautifully preserved leaf fossils.

A fifth quarry, found during the week by Monument Paleontologist Alan Titus when he headed over a hill to relieve himself, was another duck-billed hadrosaur—this one a juvenile with abundant skin impressions. (The site may have been found independently last year by University of Utah student Katherine [Kat] Clayton and rediscovered by Titus, an invertebrate specialist who has become an ace dinosaur finder.) Alan and I spent three windy, but highly enjoyable days at the site, uncovering much of the skeleton. When I departed, we had not yet determined if the skull was present, but the bones are trending the right direction into the hill, so our fingers are crossed.

Monument Paleontologist Alan Titus with juvenile hadrosaur skeleton

We had cached some equipment and supplies over-winter at the lambeosaur quarry, and were surprised to find the cache ripped apart. A brief inspection revealed that a black bear was the culprit—perhaps a rowdy young male coming down from higher elevations in search of food. Despite more than a decade working in the area, for us this event was a Grand Staircase first. I’m afraid that that, other than some water, the bear did not find much to his liking. Together with the torn plastic water bottles, there was a (previously full) plastic gas container, now bearing multiple tooth punctures. And a bag of plaster was ripped open and dragged around the site, leaving an erratic alabaster trail. The event had occurred recently, as evidenced by the fresh plaster. And the bear left a calling card in the form of a large pile of feces.

The week also yielded some ancient feces, or “coprolites.” Small coprolites, usually attributed to crocodiles, are relatively common finds in the Kaiparowits Formation, but we had not found any clear evidence of dinosaur dung. It was Denver Museum paleobotanist Ian Miller who made the discovery. While out prospecting one day, Ian called me over to look at something strange—a large, isolated mass of convoluted black rock unlike anything else in the area. Ian speculated that it might be dinosaur coprolite and, having seen examples many years before in Montana, I realized that he was likely correct. We could see plenty of organic debris inside the irregular chunks of rock, and even some tunnel-like openings that may be dung beetle burrows. We will pass some samples onto the “Queen of Coprolites”, Karen Chin, at the University of Colorado, to nail down the identification. If we’re correct, Ian has discovered one of the largest known piles of dino poop!

Under Ian’s capable direction, we’re also getting a refined sense of the plants that lived alongside these dinosaurs, crocodiles, turtles and other creatures about 76 million years ago. This week, Ian’s crew collected hundreds of leaves from a single quarry, which will join thousands of others in the collections of the Denver Museum. Many of these leaves show evidence of insect damage, and we plan to undertake a study of these specimens to find out what kinds of insects were present. At another location, Ian and his Denver colleague, vertebrate paleontologist Joe Sertich, showed me a fossilized forest floor revealed in a river cutbank. Remarkably, ferns and other plants can be seen still standing vertically, preserved where they were buried by flooding sediments millions of years ago. We look forward to working up this site in the future.

Graduate student Joshua Lively with new turtle discovery

Back at the lambeosaur quarry, additional work yielded more bones of this giant crested hadrosaur. No skull yet, but we are hopeful here as well. In addition, while removing some of the overlying rock, University of Utah graduate student Jelle Wiersma uncovered a huge turtle shell, measuring about 80 cm in length. Turtle expert Josh Lively was on hand to make the excited identification—an unnamed species of the genus Neurankylus.

All in all it was an amazing week, and we were blessed for the most part with sunny skies. The persistent high winds, although a nuisance at times, kept the gnats down—an even greater blessing. Other natural wonders included assorted wildflowers, spectacular night skies, and an afternoon visit to camp from a young rattlesnake.

Badlands view from camp

Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument was the last major region of the lower 48 states to be mapped, and for good reason.  Today, this roughhewn and cliff strewn landscape is one of the last largely unexplored boneyards from the Age of Dinosaurs. We are fortunate to be among the first to unearth its many wonders. To date, more than two dozen new dinosaurs have been recovered from these rocks, along with fishes, amphibians, turtles, lizards, crocodiles, mammals, birds, plants, and other organisms [1]. I'll provide more updates in future posts.

      References

1)   Sampson, S. D. 2012. Dinosaurs of the Lost Continent. Scientific American, March, 2012: 40-47.


Images
Annular eclipse image: http://article.wn.com/view/2012/05/21/Solar_Eclipse_2012_Annular_Eclipse_Makes_Ring_of_Fire/ 
All other images by the author.

Wilding the Mind

I am very fortunate to live in the San Francisco Bay region of northern California. When not traveling, I head out several times a week and hike up into the hilly Marin Headlands, an extensive protected area that few would hesitate to call “nature.” The evergreen shrubs and patchy grasslands afford spectacular coastal vistas and erupt into a kaleidoscope of wildflowers come springtime. The plentiful animal spottings include red-tailed hawks, coyote, alligator lizards, quail, mule deer, rough-skinned newts, gray fox, monarch butterflies, ravens, and even the rare gray whale spout. Occasionally I’m startled by the last-second exit of a slithering garter snake or a bounding rabbit. Bobcats, in contrast, not infrequently sit a few feet off the trail, observing me in that classic disinterested feline manner as I stroll past.

 

Here, the greatest threats to human life and limb are tics and poison oak, or perhaps a sprained ankle. I’m told that mountain lions still visit the headlands once in a blue moon, but in six years I have yet to glimpse one. (Oh how I would love to see a mountain lion.) Encounters with other humans, although more common than deer sightings, are sufficiently infrequent that I feel I have escaped the anthropocentric world, at least for awhile. In short, my bipedal excursions into the hills come close to epitomizing the idyllic image of a nature outing—a gorgeous setting that replenishes body, mind, and spirit.

Yet, were I to have hiked in this same place 150 years ago—a span of only two human lifetimes—the experience would have been vastly different. It’s for good reason that California’s state animal is the grizzly bear. For thousands of years, local indigenous peoples lived (and occasionally died) under the daily threat of grizzlies. Bears were still a dominant force when Europeans arrived. In 1602, the Spanish maritime explorer Sebastián Vizcaíno elected not to land at certain points along the California coast because of the sheer numbers of these giant carnivores. As European settlements expanded in the ensuing centuries, the golden bears stood fast, killing livestock and wreaking havoc with the settlers. Somewhat ironically, given their name, gold was the bears’ ultimate undoing. Within 75 years of the discovery of this precious metal in California—a single human lifetime—the state’s grizzlies were wiped out, the final one in 1922. The last known human Californian to die in a grizzly attack was lumber mill owner William Waddell, in 1875. A creek in Big Basin Redwoods State Park still bears his name.

Often as I hike the trails near my home, I imagine how I would feel if there were a real chance of running into a grizzly—or wolves, which also lived here. Would I react differently to those rustling bushes? Would I pay greater attention to my surroundings? Would my sense of calm and relaxation be marred by that ever-present possibility of becoming an animal’s next meal? I’m quite certain that the answer would be yes for all of the above. Having spent a significant amount of time searching for fossils in the wilds of sub-Saharan Africa, sometimes in places where big carnivores like lions, leopards, and hyenas still roam, I can attest to the spectrum of emotions experienced when one is a potential link in the food chain. Living in cities devoid of big carnivores, we forget that people throughout almost all of human history have dealt with animal threats.

When our kind first arrived in the northern California area around 13,000 years ago—only 175 human lifetimes—they discovered a landscape more closely akin to the modern Serengeti than to present-day San Francisco. This was the tail end of the Pleistocene, the waning stages of the most recent Ice Age. The region was home to a bewildering array of impressive creatures: mammoths and mastodons, giant ground sloths and camels, broad-horned bison and condors, saber-toothed cats and dire wolves, American lions and short-faced bears. Of this mega-mammal menagerie, Arctodus, the short-faced bear, may have been the greatest terror. Weighing about 2,000 pounds and perhaps 13 feet tall when standing on its hind legs, this massive carnivore would have dwarfed a grizzly. And unlike modern bears, Arctodus was long-legged, built for speed. Imagine rounding the corner on a trail to find yourself face to face with such a creature!

California is not special in this regard. Wherever you live, you can be certain that an abundance of huge animals roamed in the not too distant past—a duration measured in centuries rather than millennia. Rarely do we consider the fact that we inhabit a biological anomaly, an impoverished shadow-realm in which big predators are few, prowling the fringes of our world. For all but a few short geologic intervals during the past 250 million years (following mass extinction events), oversized carnivores have been ever-present in the bulk of Earth’s ecosystems, both on land and in the oceans.

What happened to the wondrous Ice Age beasts in North America and elsewhere? We killed most of them. Yes, debate still ensues over the role of other factors, particularly climate change, but compelling evidence points squarely at us. Humanity originated in Africa about 200,000 years ago. In a major exodus that began about 60,000 years ago, we quickly spanned the globe, killing off most of the charismatic megafauna on every newfound landmass, whether island or continent. More recently, armed with boats and increasingly efficient hunting technologies, populations of whales and other sea-going giants have been depleted more than 90%. I don’t mean to imply that humans have never lived in harmony with their native ecosystems. They certainly have. But usually those ecosystems have first been depleted of their big-bodied inhabitants.

Nature in its full glory is messy and dangerous, equally worthy of joy and fear--and sometimes disgust. Parasites, maggots, and coyotes tearing apart week-old fawns are as much a part of the natural world as towering redwoods and soaring eagles. We humans came of age enmeshed in environments at once awe-inspiring and danger-filled. In the sanitized West, we have progressively lost both kinds of experiences, replacing them with a utilitarian substitute that views nature as the ultimate big box store full of commodities.

Today, a growing movement seeks to reinstate that ancient sense of nature as divine, spiritual, or sublime—a sacred ground of being to commune with. But in our earnestness to romanticize nature, we forget the fear factor that is equally a part of our wild heritage. What have we lost by rising to the top of the food chain and vanquishing the bulk of our competitors? What are we missing by living apart from most wild creatures? Given that virtually every ecosystem around the globe has been impacted by human activities, and generally not for the better, what kind of nature is still out there, and where can we find it? What kinds of experiences do we need to form a meaningful bond with nature?

I will explore answers to these questions in future posts. For now, I invite you to head outside and imagine a world in which you share the web of life with a bounty of other large creatures, some of them toothy and meat-loving. These days I regularly engender such thoughts as I wander through the headlands. I find that such machinations are slowly shifting my perspective, helping me see myself as embedded within nature rather than outside and above it.

Equally if not more important are periodic visits to wild places; places where humans are not in control, where nature is raw, untamed, maybe even dangerous. Nighttime walks are especially effective at awakening the senses and opening new windows of awareness. Such experiences will foster not only a sense of awe and wonder, but humility—a sense of something much deeper and more meaningful than our puny human-centered obsessions. Ultimately, the human-nature connection, and perhaps even the path to ecological sustainability, could depend on this periodic wilding of the mind.


Ok, time for another hike . . .

Image Credits (From top to bottom)

Images 1-3 come from the author

Image 4: www.thenaturalpatriot.org

Note: The above post was inspired in part by an excellent essay called “False Idyll,” written by J. B. MacKinnon and published in the May/June issue of Orion Magazine.

The Power of Story

A quick scan of today's online New York Times reveals the usual plethora of stories. Among them: News Corporation chief Rupert Murdoch seeks to deflect allegations that he bribed British officials; Pakistan test-fires a nuclear-capable missile; ethnic biases are now shifting in South Los Angeles; and a Dartmouth frat receives a 3-term probation punishment for hazing.


Why do hundreds of millions of people each day follow the news, read fiction, watch television, and line up to sit in darkened movie theaters? In a word, stories. Carefully crafted tales enliven our senses and capture our imaginations. Full of wonder and mystery, they transport us to far-flung places and remote times, allowing us to see through the eyes of another. That featured Other may be human or animal, real or fantasy. At their best, stories are priceless word-jewels with the power to create, sustain, and transform worlds.

In my last post, I argued that nature connection must be founded on “the 3 Es”: ecology, evolution, and experience—that is, a sense of how one’s place works and how that place came to be, informed by abundant, outdoor multisensory experience. Today, I would like to focus on the second E, evolution, which I use in the broadest sense of change over time; in short, the history of everything, from cosmos to culture. And it is the story within history, so to speak, that I’m most concerned with.

My confidence in the 3 Es approach is based in part on studies of hunter-gatherer cultures—for example, the Ache of Paraguay, the Hadza of Tanzania, the Hiwi of Colombia and Venezuela, and the San of southern Africa. Over 95% of humanity’s tenure has occurred in the guise of hunter-gatherers intimately tied to their natal habitats. In addition to being steeped in local communities—cultures, foods, and social relations—people in these foraging societies have possessed detailed knowledge of resident plants and animals. They have understood local rhythms—what month of the year a certain migrating bird arrived or a particular plant could be harvested. Much of this knowledge has borne the mark of scientific investigation, involving careful observation, experimentation, and hypothesis testing. Most importantly for this discussion, these peoples (and those in many other indigenous societies) report a deep sense of connection with the nonhuman world.

In our digital world deluged with shards of information, it’s easily forgotten that, as a species, we were literally raised on rich and vibrant stories. Oral storytelling was the primary means of sharing information for all but the past few thousand years, an eyeblink of humanity’s tenure. For our oral ancestors, stories were lyrical encyclopedias, repositories of practical knowledge and wisdom accumulated over centuries, even millennia. Spoken narratives were the cultural equivalent of genes, containers of information necessary for perpetuating the group. It should come as no surprise, then, that stories still have an almost magical effect on us. And whereas cyberspace is placeless, seemingly everywhere and nowhere, oral culture is inherently local.

The oral stories of indigenous peoples tend to embody all 3 Es, fostering a connection with local nature. They tell us where we come from and what it all means; in other words, evolution. Passed from generation to generation, myths and tales offer instructions on how to live in a given place: when, where, what, and how much to hunt; how to express gratitude for a successful hunt; which plants to seek and which to avoid; where to find water in times of persistent drought; in other words, ecology. And traditional storytellers convey their narratives not just with voice but with their entire bodies, typically outdoors in a multisensory milieu, often around a campfire. In other words, these stories offer meaningful experiences.

For most of human history, s­tories helped us not only to live, but to dwell, both in place and time (1). Through storytellers we learned of our kinship with other creatures and Earth itself. We saw how the ripples of our actions have cascading effects far into the future. For the world’s oral cultures, stories were the primary means of connecting with the land. Local plants and animals become protagonists and antagonists. Virtually every creature and place on the landscape—a chirping bird, gurgling stream, or gentle breeze—became sensate and was given voice. Once a story was learned, chance encounters with animal neighbors, or merely walking by a local landmark, brought to mind the associated narrative and its practical lessons (2). In this way, stories breathed life into people’s surroundings and provided deep meaning.

Most powerful of all stories are cosmologies, cultural narratives that explain the origin and ordering of the world. Throughout human history, virtually all cultures have been rooted to their native places by such narratives—from Raven bringing forth the light in Haida culture to the Genesis story of Christianity. Although the lives of present-day indigenous peoples and most followers of religious traditions are imbued by one cosmology or another, most of us living in Western societies today represent an historical anomaly, existing largely without one. This lack of an origin story contributes to the dearth of greater meaning and purpose experienced by many of us, feeding the dysfunctional human-nature relationship at the heart of the sustainability crisis.

Yet an astonishing and beautiful account of our deep time evolutionary history has recently emerged within science. Evolution, it turns out, is much more than Darwin and natural selection, encompassing no less than the history of the Universe. Variously called the Epic of Evolution, the Great Story, Big History, or (my preference) the Immense Story, this grand narrative has potential to unite humanity and root us in deep time.

But wait. If, as advocated for the 3 Es approach, ecology and evolution must be united to generate a sense of connection, how are we to weave the Immense Story—populated by billions of galaxies, stars, and planets—together with the delicate web of streams, rocks, spiders, and trees in our local places? After all, the former deals with the grandest scales of time and space, whereas the latter is concerned with the intimate nearby. Oddly enough, this question makes sense only to Westerners. For most indigenous peoples the world over, no dividing line exists between the cosmic and the local; all are part of the same community, the same story. Their cosmological sagas feature a variety of local denizens—the trickster raven, the wise mountain, the changeling butterfly. We would do well to emulate this approach.

Fortunately, potential protagonists abound. Look no further than a sunset or a clear night sky to tell of our close bond to the stars. A local mountain, desert, or slab of limestone makes an exceptional entry point into the story of Earth and the solar system. A stately oak or vegetable garden can help convey the saga of bacteria harnessing solar energy, whereas that croaking frog in early evening is a modern day reminder of our water-to-land legacy. A crow or robin serves as a great vehicle for telling the story of dinosaurs to birds. And an arrowhead or basket would make an ideal trigger for sharing the human chapter of the evolutionary epic.

The key is that all major innovations of the cosmic evolutionary epic—stars, planets, bacteria, plants, animals, and human culture—are still present in one form or another in every place. Each telling of the Immense Story, or parts of it, can be tailored not only to local nature, but to the age and knowledge base of the audience. Indeed anyone can construct their own version of the story, choosing local characters and themes most meaningful to them.

The story of everything can be told anywhere.

Carl Sagan had it right. We are star-stuff, made of matter forged within stellar furnaces. But the real story—the Immense Story—goes much deeper. We’re also Earth-stuff, composed of the same matter that comprises our planet’s crust. And we’re Life-stuff too, every one of our human cells the product of ancient bacterial mergers. You and all other animals exist today because of a deep time cascade of ever-more complex mergings, each one dependent on its predecessor: atoms combining to form heavier elements; heavy elements bonding to make chemical compounds; compounds meshing in symphonic harmony to create bacterial cells; cells lacking nuclei coalescing into nucleated cells; and nucleated cells uniting into multicellular life. This repetitive pattern of emergent unfolding is well defined. Sea stars could not have preceded bacteria, nor could there have been water prior to oxygen. 

Although certainly a creation story, the evolutionary epic is not a true cultural cosmology. Instead this science-based saga imparts a framework to be molded into a spectrum of cosmologies, each one informed by specific historical, cultural, spiritual, and ecological contexts. Indeed the Immense Story allows for an endless medley of interpretations and beliefs, with and without God(s). Thomas Berry and Brian Swimme have argued persuasively that this story must become a central element in re-defining the human-nature relationship (3). Yet, decades later, the Immense Story remains all but absent from Western culture, ignored by scientists, philosophers, educators, environmentalists, and spiritual practitioners alike. How can it be that we, who have access to by far the most rigorous and comprehensive story of the cosmos, do not use it to inform the arc of our lives?

The bottom line here is that connecting kids to nature isn’t only about getting them outside. We need to re-nature our minds as well as our environments. Once in awhile, put aside the storybooks and renew the sensuous art of storytelling using your whole body together with your voice. Ground some of these stories in local nature. Where did those fir trees come from, and why are they so tall? Who are the denizens of the local pond, and how long have they been there? Why did coyotes and rabbits survive the last Ice Age while mammoths and saber-toothed cats disappeared? Your local natural history museums or nature center will likely be happy to provide the necessary information.

Learn the basics of the Immense Story, and tell it to the children in your life—preferably around a campfire (“A very long, long, long, long time ago . . .”). Bring the Immense Story alive by rooting it in the natural history of local characters—for example plants, animals, streams, and hills. If the whole story seems too daunting, break it up into shorter narratives (4).

Educators, think about ways to insert the Immense Story into the core of the curriculum, combining it with ecology to scaffold learning. The all-encompassing epic of evolution makes a wonderful context for teaching science, starting with the big idea and hooking on new concepts as they’re encountered. Consider having students spend part of the school year working as a team to explore the geological, biological, and cultural history of the local town or region and then write their own story. Perhaps let them decide to how to convey that narrative, maybe in the form of a play, video, website, or walking guide for the community.

It’s time to restory the places we call home and, in doing so, forge meaningful connections with those places.

References

1.     Sanders, S. R. 1997. Most Human Art. Georgia Review/Utne Reader. September/October, 1997.

2.     Abram, D. 2011. Storytelling and Wonder: On the Rejuvenation of Oral Culture. http://www.wildethics.org/essays/storytelling_and_wonder.html

3.     Berry, T. 1990. The Dream of the Earth. Sierra Club Books, San Francisco; Swimme, B. and T. Berry. 1992. The Universe Story: From the Primordial Flaring Forth to Ecozoic Era. Harper Collins, New York.

4.     A series of books by Jennifer Morgan tell the Immense Story in kid-friendly fashion. The first is: Born with a Bang: The Universe Tells Our Cosmic Story (Dawn Publications, 2002)

Image Credits (from top to bottom)

1, 2, 4. Derived from National Geographic: http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/

3. Derived from NASA

5. www.noteandpoint.com

The 3 Es of Nature Connection

In just the past couple of weeks, the children-in-nature crisis has been featured in the New York Times, the LA Times, and on the BBC wireservice. Driven by the heroic work of Richard Louv, the Children & Nature Network, and many others, high profile media coverage is getting the word out. Childhood in this country is dysfunctional, even broken—and so too is our society. Rampant obesity, attention deficit disorder, and diabetes; depression, skyrocketing school dropout, and ever-diminishing environmental conditions; these and other interlinked problems threaten both our children and the places they live. At stake, some say, is the persistence of humanity. Drunk on technology with the pedal to the metal, we race toward the precipice with our heads down, texting.

Although connecting children with nature is certainly no panacea for the world’s ills, it may be the closest thing we’ve got. The freefalling biosphere is not, first and foremost, an external crisis of environment, but an internal crisis of mind. Our dominant worldview sees nature as resources to be exploited rather than relatives worthy of respect. Sustainability—humanity living in a mutually enhancing relationship with the rest of nature—demands that we adopt a strong sense of compassion for the nonhuman world. As biologist Stephen J. Gould once claimed, “We cannot win this battle to save species and environments without forging an emotional bond between ourselves and nature—for we will not fight to save what we do not love.”(1)

Yet a fundamental question remains. How exactly do people form a meaningful, lifelong connection with nature? Critical subsidiary questions include: What kinds of knowledge and experience are most effective in building this connection? How does the process change as children grow? What is the role of adult mentors, and digital technologies? How can we engage kids, with their ever-shrinking attention spans, in the slow pace of nature? What kinds of nature—from television documentaries to city parks to wilderness trips—are most effective in fostering lasting connections?

Although the science of nature connection is in its infancy, a clear signal is emerging. A bond with the natural world does not explode into one’s consciousness in an “Aha!” moment or a sudden wash of emotion. Nor is it the product of learning a list of facts, like the rules of algebra or grammar. Instead, a meaningful connection with nature arises organically over many years, the result of a spiraling loop of positive feedback that interweaves affective experience with intellectual understanding.

Traditionally, the strong place-bond experienced by hunter-gatherers and many other indigenous peoples has been rooted in an immersion within local nature. So how are we 21^st Century urbanites—separated from local landscapes by concrete, air-conditioning, and packaged foods—supposed to establish a deep sense of attachment with the natural world?

After years of research, consternation, and direct parental experience, I have come to the conclusion that the process of nature connection should be grounded in a trio of key ingredients: experience, ecology, and evolution—the “3 Es.” That is, a meaningful bond with nature requires abundant, multisensory experience outdoors together with a deep understanding of how that place works (ecology) and how it came to be (evolution). I invoke the latter pair of E-words words advisedly, knowing that both are burdened with connotational baggage. So let me explain briefly.

Ecology is used here in its most expansive sense—the study of relationships between organisms and environments. To be ecologically literate, or “ecoliterate”(2), means to understand something of how your place works. Where do your food, water, and energy come from? Where do your garbage and sewage end up? What are some of the plants and animals native to your region, and how do they interact? What are the major weather patterns, and how do they shift throughout the year? What does the local ecosystem need to thrive?

Similarly, evolution, regarded broadly as change over time, encompasses nothing less than the “Immense Story,” the cosmic, biological, and cultural epic stretching from the Big Bang to this very moment. To be evolution literate, or “evoliterate”(3), means to know something of the story of your place and your role within that story. How did the land form? What kinds of plants and animals lived here in past ages, and which are locally represented by fossils? Of the plants living in your area today, which are considered native, as opposed to invasive newcomers? Who were the first indigenous peoples to call this place home, and how did they make a living? When did Europeans arrive, and what kinds of commerce was this place built upon? As Thomas Berry eloquently told us for decades (4), we need a story. (An earlier blog post of this topic can be found here.)

Whereas ecology is concerned with the workings of a place at a given snapshot in time, evolution provides the story of that place through time.

The final E-word, experience, rounds out the trio. A meaningful connection with nature is forged first and foremost on experiences, from abundant unstructured time in the backyard to weekends in the park and occasional visits to wild places. We need intimate contact with the denizens and landscapes of our local places. Yet education too must be experiential, in and out of the classroom. Scientific ideas are far more memorable and meaningful when we perceive and reflect upon them directly with multiple senses. A deep understanding of nature must be absorbed through our eyes, ears, nose, and pores, as well as our minds. Above all, we need to engage children in natural settings. Aided by storytelling and other dynamic communication approaches, experiential learning offers the most effective means of communicating big scientific ideas like those embodied by ecology and evolution.

Education’s traditional emphasis on the “3 Rs” of Reading, (W)riting, and (A)rithmetic has provided students with essential tools useful in a range of situations. Yet if children are isolated from nonhuman nature by four-walled classrooms and homes, they miss the meaning and beauty of changing seasons, of birdsong and rainstorms. They ignore the ugliness of the built environment, and remain blind to deteriorating environments. For most of us, education has little relevance to our day-to-day lives beyond the self-serving hope that we will one day become wealthy, or at least earn enough for “the good life.”

Together with the 3 Rs, then, education should include liberal doses of the 3 Es. Rather than tools, think of ecology, evolution, and experience as a robust scaffold for building knowledge. The horizontal bars in this metaphor are ecological connections, how the place works. The vertical bars are the unified evolutionary story of local nature and culture. And the scaffold’s nodes, the intersections where horizontal and vertical bars meet, can be envisioned as firsthand experiences. Experience is the X-factor, the secret ingredient that synthesizes ecology and evolution, making this knowledge immediate, alive, and engaging. United, the 3 Es provide a grand context for understanding the world, a framework of big ideas upon which additional knowledge can be added for a lifetime. To be connected to nature, then, is to expand one’s awareness and become native to place.

But how are we to bring about this place-based revolution? What can we do as individuals to transform the children-in-nature movement from a grassroots effort to a tsunami of cultural change? Plenty.

Parents and educators can begin the process of taking back the outdoors, making it a commitment to give kids abundant time in nature. The growing numbers of family nature clubs can aid in this transition. Educators can connect kids with local nature by embedding the 3 Es in the core of the curriculum. We desperately need more research from neuroscientists, psychologists and educators on how best to foster nature connection. Those with extra funds can support these efforts, and those with influence can forge productive connections. All of us, from parents to city planners, can work toward augmenting the green spaces in our lives—adding native plants to backyards, schoolyards, and city parks. We can all learn more about the places we live, including the stories that give our homes deeper meaning. Sound like a pipe dream? Maybe, but some dreams come true, and this one has necessity at its back.

References

1. Gould, S. J. 1993. Unenchanted evening. Eight Little Piggies: Reflections in Natural History. Norton, New York. (quotation, p. 40)

2.Stone, M. K. and Z. Barlow (eds.). 2005. Ecological Literacy: Educating our Children for a Sustainable World. University of California Press, Berkeley.

3. Sampson, S. D. 2006. Evoliteracy. Pp. 216-231 in J. Brockman (ed.), Intelligent Thought: Science Versus the Intelligent Design Movement. Knopf, New York.

4. Berry, T. 1999. The Great Work: Our Way into the Future. Bell Tower, New York.

Image Credits (top to bottom)

Images 1 & 4. Scott Sampson

Image 2. Trailspace.com

Image 3. National Geographic Photography: http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/

A Bootfull of Pollywogs

Sunshine and springtime were rare bedfellows where I grew up. One day when I was four, my mother took me into the forest a few blocks from home. She had heard that the “Frog Pond," as it was known, was brimming with tadpoles. Cinching the deal that fateful day were scattered, caressing rays of sun.

After the short forest walk, I ran excitedly to the water’s edge and squatted down, staring intently. It took me a few moments to grasp the fact that each of the frenetic black blobs was a distinct life form. Wearing tall, black rubber boots, I stepped tentatively into the pond, captivated by the larval swarm. Bending over, I scooped up several with my hands to get a closer look. Bulging eyes, blob-like bodies, and long, slimy, transparent tails working madly against my fingers.

Captivated, I inched my way out further until, suddenly, the water overtopped one of my boots. I gasped at the chill now engulfing my foot. (Many years later, my mother told me that she started to object but thought better of it.) I hesitated briefly, imagining the tadpoles now darting around inside my boot, and then took another willful step into the muck. The second boot was now flooded.

I was in it now, sharing this pond-universe with thousands of frogs-to-be. Stepping gingerly so as to avoid any inadvertent amphibicide, I eventually found myself at the pond’s center, the water slightly above waist level. The sense of wonder and the smile across my face grew in tandem as I picked up handful after handful of squirming tadpoles. Immersed in that miniature sea of pollywogs, I felt, perhaps for the first time in my life, a deep and ecstatic sense of oneness with the world.

Through the late 1960s and 1970s, I escaped into that forest on the west side of Vancouver, British Columbia whenever possible, usually in the company of my friend Tim (TJ). Our local elementary school backed up against the forest, and the administrators established an “Adventure Playground” amidst a stand of hemlock, cedar, and Douglas fir abutting one of the playing fields. At recess and lunch, we would sprint for this natural wonderland, where a giant overturned cedar stump became cave, castle, and space ship.

As teenagers, the boundaries of our forest excursions expanded exponentially as we discovered the full, 2000-acre extent of the “University Endowment Lands,” more recently dubbed "Pacific Spirit Regional Park." (For us, it was simply “the woods.”) Canine companions joined us for this phase. I had a German shepherd named Rocky and Tim had Raisin, a poodle-Siberian husky mix that resembled a four-legged ball of steel wool. (When asked about the breed, TJ would offer the same straight-faced reply: “Purebred Pooberian.”)

Vision is the least intimate of human senses. In the forest, Tim and I were embraced by the sweet, almost citrusy fragrance of Douglas fir; the thick, moist air of late fall that turned breath visible; the deep qworking of ravens perched high on cedar boughs; and the tangy sumptuousness of fresh-picked huckleberries. This multisensory milieu offered a safe place, a cocoon within the world, for adolescent males to talk out their social angst and ponder the future. Needless to say, the dogs loved it too, relishing the endless array of textures and scents. As we explored more and more trails—with names like Sasamat, Hemlock, and Salish—we had no idea that this place was imprinting on our hearts and minds, that our pores were soaking up every moment.

Often we avoided trails entirely, preferring to bushwhack through the dense coastal foliage, clambering over rotting logs and navigating rock-strewn streams thick with skunk cabbage, nettles, salal, and ferns. On these meandering excursions, the forest took on a wild and unpredictable flavor, with amazing discoveries possible at any moment: teeming ant colonies; deep and murky ponds shaped like Japanese soaking tubs; raucous, foul-smelling bird rookeries; and humongous stumps, old growth ghosts. Hours later, humans and canines alike emerged from the forest filthy, exhausted, and exhilarated.

After a big winter snowfall (also a rare occurrence), the forest was transformed yet again. Blinding whiteness blanketed every branch, twig, and needle. A deep, cathedral-like silence settled over our refuge. With light hearts, we crunched through the heavy snow, stopping occasionally to lounge in the bare zone beneath one of the bigger trees.

In our mid teenage years, testosterone overdoses manifested in the forest as a risky game dubbed “Deelo Wars.” A deelo (etymology uncertain) was any piece of wood that you could heft at someone else. In essence the strategy amounted to abandoning the cover of tree or bush just long enough to fling large sticks at several of your closest friends. Of course, they were busy doing the same—every man for himself. All of us sustained a few direct hits, but I’m happy to report that no serious injuries resulted. (And no, I don’t recommend trying this at home!)

I departed Vancouver in the mid 1980s to attend graduate school in Toronto, eventually earning a Ph.D. and becoming a dinosaur paleontologist. Tim, meanwhile, headed off to become an airline pilot. In the decades since, I’ve been fortunate enough to search for fossils in such far-flung locales as Zimbabwe, Mexico, and Madagascar. Cumulatively, I’ve spent years living in tents in remote places that most people refer to as “badlands.” While hunting ancient dinosaurs, I’ve had face-to-face encounters with an assortment of living creatures, among them bear, elephant, hyena, cobra, moose, and crocodile. But the senses with which I have experienced these places and their inhabitants were attuned in that second growth temperate forest on Vancouver’s west side. Together with family camping trips, those countless treks in the Endowment Lands fostered in me a persistent passion for nature, undoubtedly influencing my career path. In recent years I’ve come to realize that I cannot help but take that Pacific Northwest forest with me wherever I go. It is an indelible part of who I am, more like a lens on the world than a collection of memories.

I become afraid when I think about the present generation of children growing up largely without such experiences. Kids today spend about 90% less time outdoors than their parents did. Absorbed in the virtual reality of glowing screens, youngsters are missing the natural wonders around their homes—yes, even in urban settings. For the health of children, and the health of the places they live, we need to re-engage children with nature and give them abundant, direct, multisensory, hands-on experience.

Many more kids need to feel the sensation of a bootfull of pollywogs.

Images: All images are of Pacific Spirit Regional Park. Image Credits (top to bottom):

1. justlist-it.com

2. panoramio.com

3 & 4. digitallery.blogspot.com