Independence Day 2012

We learn from an early age that this is a day to celebrate our declaration of independence from Britain.  We commemorate a time 236 years ago, when great leaders penned their signatures to a document that contained a wonderful statement on human rights:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

So as we celebrate with barbeques, patriotic music, and fireworks (except in the over 20 states where these are banned this year because of the extremely dry conditions and fear of fires), let us pause to consider this statement and its implications.  According to a blog post published by the Huffington Post today[1]:

Independence Day has always been a time for reflection in the United States. The opportunity for the nation to collectively consider whether it has lived up to the ideals embodied in the Declaration of Independence. 

 
Below are a few random thoughts that I had, thoughts that are not meant to be unpatriotic, but may be interpreted that way by some.  They are meant to reflect on what our nation has become despite all our struggles for freedom, independence, democracy, and a betterment of the human condition.

Till paths be wrought through
wilds of thought[2]

We are a country that has, over the centuries, been a destination for those seeking freedom from religious persecution or political asylum, or just a better life.  It is our heritage.  So why do we now struggle with immigration policy issues?  Why does the religion, family heritage, race, or gender of candidates come up in presidential elections?  Why are there still racial tensions?  Do we truly believe that all “are created equal”?  I think not.

A few weeks ago, a friend posted a blog entitled “National Aboriginal Day – The Elder Project”[3]  It begins as follows:

On a Sunday in August, 1876, Reverend D. J. Burrell stood in front of his congregation in Chicago, not long after the battle of the Little Bighorn, and said:

"Who shall be held responsible for this event so dark and sorrowful? The history of our dealings with these Indian tribes from the very beginning is a record of fraud, and perjury, and uninterrupted injustice. We have made treaties, binding ourselves to the most solemn promises in the name of God, intending at that very time to hold these treaties light as air whenever our convenience should require them to be broken. We have driven them each year further from their original homes and hunting-grounds. We have treated them as having absolutely no rights at all. We have made beggars of them."

Our historical record on treatment of Native Americans (or African Americans or immigrants from Latin America) certainly doesn’t reflect the intent in the statement within our Declaration. 

 
Another perspective of Little Bighorn, was recently written by Chris Hedges[4]; I suggest you read it.  He speaks of the resistance led by Crazy Horse, and how this history is pertinent today.
 

Their land was stolen, their communities were decimated, their women and children were gunned down and the environment was ravaged.  There was no legal recourse.  There was no justice.  There never is for the oppressed.

And less you think, “Well that was a long time ago, it wouldn’t happen now”, I invite you to read the recent series published by Environmental Health News entitled Pollution, Poverty, People of Color[5], especially Part 5 entitled “Sacred water, new mine: A Michigan tribe battles a global corporation” – a story about a place near and dear to me as I grew up close by.

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!

Tame that wilderness.  Exploit its resources.  Tame the “savages”.  Assimilate them into our schools and churches.  It is what those in power have always done since civilization began, what they continue to do.  Today, those in power are the 1% and the corporations have been given rights once reserved for the individual (i.e. as in humans).

IN every Stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every Act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.

Over the past year, the Occupy Movement has focused our attention on the unequal distribution of wealth in this country.  When one has wealth, and relatively few do, there is inequitable access to power and control, security, and the pursuit of things that should make us happy.  While we are one of the wealthiest countries in the world (#1 by GDP unless you concern the European Union as a “country”), we are certainly not the happiest, despite our pursuit of it.  According to the World Happiness Report:

 

U.S. GNP per capita has risen by a factor of three since 1960, while measures of average happiness have remained essentially unchanged over the half-century.[6]

In the report A Short Guide to Gross National Happiness Index^[7], His Majesty the King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck , King of Bhutan, is reported to have said

 

Our nation’s vision can only be fulfilled if the scope of our dreams and aspirations are matched by the reality of our commitment to nurturing our future citizens.

Investing in our youth.  Hmmmm….As states cut back on education funding, forcing school districts to send out pink slips to teachers and eliminate “nonessential” things from the curriculum ranging from the arts to science labs—the very things that bring beauty and creativity into our lives.  The very things that might even lead to the development of future innovators who could help solve some of the global challenges that we are passing on to them.  At a minimum, shouldn’t we invest in the future of our youth, so that they have a chance for a future in which they can pursue happiness rather than figure out a way to fight their way out of poverty, crime, and a decimated environment?

O beautiful for glory-tale
Of liberating strife
When once and twice,
for man's avail
Men lavished precious life!

Other key factors that have been identified in contributing to happiness include psychological wellbeing, personal health, a healthy, diverse, and resilient environment, and time to enjoy it.  Yet we debate the constitutionality and benefits of “Obamacare” (which is really the Affordable Care Act), and there is a loud cry to reduce environmental regulations that companies should abide by—because it “hurts jobs and the economy”.

In the above mentioned piece by Chris Hedges, he writes:

 

ExxonMobil, BP and the coal and natural gas companies—like the colonial buffalo hunters who left thousands of carcasses rotting in the sun after stripping away the hides, and in some cases carrying away only the tongues—will never impose rational limits on themselves.  They will exploit, like the hustlers before them who eliminated the animals that sustained the native peoples of the Great Plains, until there is nothing left to exploit.  Collective suicide is never factored into quarterly profit reports.  Forget all those virtuous words they taught you in school about our system of government.  The real words to describe American power are “plunder,” “fraud,” “criminality,” deceit,” “murder” and repression.”

 Ouch.  Heresy!  How unpatriotic of Mr. Hedges.  How true his words.

Till selfish gain no longer stain
The banner of the free!

We fought to be free of British control, yet we continue to invade other countries.  Is this for the protection of our shorelines, from sea to shining sea?  To preserve our amber waves of genetically modified grains?  Or perhaps to preserve our interests in places that have vast natural resources like oil reserves and rare minerals that are needed for our electronics,  for our addictions to fossil fuels and the need for more “stuff”.

 

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

Unbeknownst to many Americans is the belief that a new form of colonialism exists in the world, whether it takes the form of “nation building” or carbon offset programs like REDD sanctioned by the United Nations and World Bank.  You can read more about what REDD is all about at a U.N. site[8], but suffice it to say that indigenous groups from around the planet have a very different view on this policy than say, the countries of the Global North.[9]

I mentioned above that over 20 states have banned fireworks this year due to the extreme drought conditions and fears of more fires such as have been raging in the West.  It doesn’t seem like a piece on Independence Day is the place to bring up climate change (despite the fires, excessive heat and broken records, the recent flooding in Minnesota, Florida, and India, etc., etc.).  But indeed, instead of being outside in my garden or taking a hike, I sit inside typing this because of the blistering heat and humidity.  The forecast is for the hottest 4^th of July in many parts of the country – ever. 

In this piece, I have reflected a bit on the exploitation of land and people and our less-than-stellar treatment of Native peoples.  Our country’s refusal to confront the growing problems associated with climate change shows that we continue our long history of negatively impacting people who live close to the land (and sea) and our tradition of altering natural environments.  But it appears that we are now also seeing the beginnings of what climate change will do to this wonderful nation, all 100% of us.  Not in 2100 as the models predict, but now.

In the text of the Declaration of Independence, the authors list a long “Train of Abuses and Usurpations” of the King of Great Britain, one of which reads:

HE has plundered our Seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our Towns,

and destroyed the Lives of our People.

Could not this great country now be charged with the same atrocities?

America! America!
God shed his grace on thee.

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[1] Alexander Tsesis at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alexander-tsesis/post_3585_b_1646883.html.

[2] Several passages of less known verses of America the Beautiful are included in this rambling.

[3] From http://growmercy.org/2012/06/21/national-aboriginal-daythe-elder-project/.  See also http://growmercy.org/2012/06/27/aboriginals-the-breaking-of-hearts-a-canadian-problem/ or the films “Rabbit-Proof Fence” or “The Mission”.

[4] http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/time_to_get_crazy_20120702/

[5] http://www.environmentalhealthnews.org/ehs/news/2012/pollution-poverty-people-of-color-series-summary

[6] Helliwell, J., et al., eds. (2012) (http://www.earth.columbia.edu/sitefiles/file/Sachs%20Writing/2012/World%20Happiness%20Report.pdf, p. 5.

[7] Ura, K., et al. (2012) A Short Guide to Gross National Happiness Index, available at http://www.grossnationalhappiness.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Short-GNH-Index-final1.pdf.

[8] http://www.un-redd.org/

[9] For example, see a summary of this issues and concerns at http://ccmin.aippnet.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=14&Itemid=27.

Guilty on 45 counts and still counting

Guilty on 45 counts, the headlines greet me early this morning.

I feel sad for the boys, young men, and their families.  Ten, eleven, maybe more.  Even an adopted son, as we found out once the jury went into deliberation.

I feel sad that an institution thought that reputation – of coaches, a team, a place of learning – was more important than helping the next victim or a very troubled adult.

I feel sad that, on the same day, a high-priest, a cardinal’s aide, was found guilty of child endangerment – “imperiling children by helping cover up sexual abuse”, the paper said.

Last night, a friend poised the question on Facebook: “What does massacre mean?” 

This was a questioning of the repeated, worn use of the term “ongoing massacre” for the events in Syria.  He noted the tens of thousands killed around the world each month from everything ranging from conflict to alcohol-related deaths. 

I responded that “It saddens me to think that a human life seems to hold little value for too many.”

His ending line still haunts me this sunny morning: 

Words not only define us they determine our ability to think, care and react - or become immune.

Immunity to the violence, whether caused directly by the hands of men, or indirectly from our unwillingness to act.  Butchery caused by war, hatred, greed, malnutrition or water-borne disease.  Even killing in the “name of God”.

Do the details or reasons matter?  There is suffering regardless of the means by which death or abuse is inflicted.  We are no longer surprised by what we read about in the news.  Some even anticipate in some perverse way the headlines that shock.  Imperviousness characterizes our souls, our consciences.

I know that violence has been a curse of the human race for a very long time, at least since we first transitioned from our nomadic ways to the first settlements as we domesticated other animals and the earliest crops. 

Domesticate.  Interesting, that we perhaps have done better taming livestock and companion animals than ourselves.

Perhaps I am sad because, despite all of our wisdom, extraordinary technological advances, and self-proclamations that we are “above” savages and the other animals of the kingdom due to our superior mental abilities and capacity for empathy, we are numb to the violence that surrounds us.  And too many of us still retain the capacity to be barbarous.

On birding south Jersey

This past weekend, I spent two full days (and I mean full) birding with my oldest son in south Jersey.  Full as in: getting up at 2:30 a.m. to drive first to Cumberland County to search for any late migrants and for breeding forest birds by dawn, scanning shorebirds in the afternoon, staying out after sundown to catch nighthawks at Sunset Beach in Cape May (I said no to an even later night jaunt to listen to the calls of rails, Chuck-will-widows, and Whip-poor-wills), catching a few hours of sleep and a shower, only to start out at dawn again the next day, getting back home about midnight, some five hundred plus miles of scouting later.   This has become somewhat of a spring ritual for us, a way to celebrate Mother’s Day (sometimes a bit late) and commemorate the end of our long and busy respective school years.  (Wouldn’t sleeping in late and reading a book over coffee be more customary?)  But at seventeen, I am not sure how much longer my son will be willing to put up with me (and my improving, but far from stellar birding skills) for this type of excursion.  So how can I say I would prefer to stay at home to lounge around or visit my neglected garden beds?  Besides, he says he likes the “wild look” and notes that our yard attracts more birds and butterflies in its current state of dishevelment.  Chaotic schedules, chaotic surroundings.  Life is good.

There is something slightly seductive about south Jersey for a plant lover and gardener.  There is a mix of southern and northern plant species, with sandy, salt-tolerant varieties thrown in.  Mountain laurels (which were in full bloom this weekend) interspersed with native hollies.  Bayberry shrubs and gorgeous shrub roses (I am not a purist about native plantings).  Strawberry fields (in their prime) and peach groves alternate with acres of tomato plants that have already planted.  Sweet and black gum trees, Phragmites and cattails.

The weather is perfect, clear blue skies and a forecast for temperatures in the 70s.  We pull out the worn DeLorme map for New Jersey, block 68, and examine notes from previous trips.  Shaws Mill Pond and Ackley Road are our first destinations.  Most of the migrating warblers seem to have already headed north, but we are treated to great views of a Prothonotary and Yellow-throated—two species we don’t typically see farther north.  There are lots of Orchard Orioles, Summer Tanagers, Great-crested Flycatchers and many others.  We head east to scrubby habitat and field edges to find Chats and Blue-Grosbeaks and then south to the Heislerville Fish and Wildlife Management Area.

At this point, I must confess that while I am a pretty good forest-habitat birder, I am lousy at water/shore/coastal birds.  Well, I know the wading birds—the various heron, egret, and ibis species.  I can separate terns from gulls, sandpipers from plovers.  I know cormorants, mergansers, the American Oystercatcher, Ruddy Turnstones, and can recognize the sound of a Clapper Rail.  And I can distinguish Laughing from Herring and Greater Black-backed Gulls.  So I am not totally inept, but these birds have characteristic features that certainly help.  The capacity for finer scale identification of shorebirds, however, has always eluded me.  O.K., I also know the Piping Plover, but anyone who has ever seen one of these cuties is unlikely to forget their charming face.  

Piping Plover (Photo by Corey Husic)

So for this trip, my son decided it was time that we focused on this deficiency in my birding skills.  It was time, he thought, to have me move to the level where I could discern the subtle differences between Semipalmated, Least, White-rumped, and Spotted Sandpipers, and to be able to identify Yellowlegs (lesser and greater), Willets, Whimbrels, and Sanderlings on land, in water, or in flight.  HA! I teach for a living and am well aware of different learning styles and abilities -- the importance of working hard and practicing skills that don’t come naturally.  But do my students find the science I teach as difficult as birding at this level?  How can I identify molecular structures by the hundreds and remember complex details of metabolic pathways, but not be able to tell a Dunlin from a Dowitcher?

I am lucky to have a patient and skilled teacher.  (How many parents can say that about their children?)  This is the kid who forces me to stand in the woods at home in the midst of spring migration and identify—by sound—everything I hear.  It is one thing to learn bird songs by listening to taped recordings, but quite another to pick out song after song, species by species in a dawn chorus interspersed by flight calls and chips of birds descending into the treetops after a long overnight flight.  But I have learned a lot from him over the years.

Standing at the edge of the impoundments at Heislerville, we saw large groups of shorebirds standing in the water and mud.  To me, one brownish bird running along looks pretty much like any other.  Well except for leg color and bill length and whether that bill is curved or straight, long or short.  OMG, this is soooo hard!  And I don’t understand why they call these shorebirds, since we most often seem to do this birding on buggy salt marshes (i.e. places where no one would lay out in the sun).  I am so not going to ever learn these birds.  Do I even care?  I was convinced that this lesson in shorebird identification was a pretty hopeless endeavor.

After returning home from the trip, I realize that many birders blog about their birding experiences at the impoundment, and it isn’t just the crazy folks posting scouting reports for the World Series of Birding (which occurred last weekend).  For example of one of these blogs and to get a sense of the scenary, see: http://dawnandjeffsblog.blogspot.com/2009/05/birding-impoundment-heislervillenj.html.  Nuts. Fanatics. 

As we were leaving via the dirt road that goes around one of the bodies of water, I spotted an adult Bald Eagle -- always a nice bird, and much easier to identify than the peeps.  And then, a first!  A Diamondback Terrapin.  Not a bird, but a reptile (so related evolutionarily speaking) and very cool nevertheless.  Terrapin is a word of Algonquian origin, torope.

William Penn speaking of Native American speech noted, "I know not a language spoken in Europe that hath words of more sweetness or greatness, in accent or emphasis, than theirs."

I knew that terrapins were in the region and that much attention goes into their protection.  But despite many trips to southern Jersey, I had never seen one “in the wild” – as wild as New Jersey can be considered.   The swirled patterns on the shells reminded me of the psychology visual perception tests, the optical illusion drawings that somehow reveal the workings of your neural networks.   The O’s on the terrapin’s belly were almost comical. This individual was a plump, large, and very greenish specimen.  It appeared to be trying to lay eggs – in the middle of the road.  No one ever said they are smart.  But their habitat is disappearing, and they experience many other threats thanks to human activities.  We waited until she (?) moved to the edge before driving on and we wished her luck.

Diamondback Terrapin (Photo by Corey Husic)

Next, we were off to the tidal wetlands at Jake’s Landing to try to catch glimpses of the secretive Marsh Wrens, Saltmarsh Sparrows, and Clapper Rails.  We managed to see all of them, along with more terrapins.  Next it was some beaches along the bay that separates Delaware from Cape May County.  The target?  Red Knots.  These were scattered in with other migrating shorebirds resting and feeding before making their way further north to breed.  The Red Knots represented a lifer species for me.

When I first moved out east, I initially worked in Philadelphia.  There I learned that Brigantine, Ocean City, and Wildwood were regular summer vacation destinations for folks from the city.  It seemed as if people from different neighborhoods in Philly selected different beachside towns where, year after year, they rented a condo or (party) house.  (In winter, retreats were to go skiing in the Poconos, where I now live.)  Not too many talked about the bayside or places like Heislerville or Jake’s Landing.  Being from the upper Midwest, a Lake Superior kind of girl, this tradition of trekking to the ocean was a foreign concept.  I have probably been to Jersey shore destinations more in off-season than between Memorial and Labor Days.  I am not the type to lie for hours on the beach, and while I love to swim, I prefer freshwater lakes or pools.  I realize that I can scan for birds (or dolphins) along the shore for a much longer time before getting bored than I can reading a cheap summer novel on a beach towel. 

By late afternoon, we reached Cape May Point, the lookout by St. Peter’s-by-the-Sea Episcopal Church to be exact.  The birders fondly refer to the spot as St. Pete Dunne’s corner.

According to the tourist information, this is a tiny gingerbread-adorned church that was part of the Philadelphia Centennial in Fairmount Park in 1876 and moved to Cape May three years later.[1]  This sleepy little corner of the county was established as a Presbyterian retreat known as Sea Grove in 1875 as part of a nation-wide temperance movement.  John Wanamaker (another Philadelphia tradition was to visit the city’s first department store named after this man – an extravagant building known as much for its organ and bronze eagle as it was for its wares) was a member of Sea Grove Association, the group that purchased the original plot of about 266 acres for $5!  I can’t imagine what it is worth in real estate dollars today (although someday it may all be underwater if you ascribe to the theory of climate change-induced sea level rise). 

For peacefulness and wildlife and sunset viewing, it is priceless. 

Northern Gannets.  A late season raft of Black Scoters.  My son spotted a Parasitic Jaeger on the horizon, but I was not as lucky.  Bottle-nosed Dolphins—lots of them—dancing in and out of the water in front of us for a long time, showing us not just their fins, but sometimes their faces as well.  By this point on our trip, we realized that we had seen more mammals than migrating warblers.  And by this point of my narrative, it is probably obvious that my priorities and interests are a bit different than those of many other south Jersey visitors.  This would be confirmed by the fact that we went to Sunset Beach on Cape May Point after sunset to try to catch the aforementioned nighthawks.  It was after this, however, that my sensible mom-ness kicked in, and I suggested that a few hours of sleep made more sense than driving back up to the salt marshes to hear rails and nightjars.  Groans were the response from my son, although he reluctantly admitted that I was right by the time we reached the hotel in Cape May Courthouse.

No birding trip to Cape May is complete without stops at Higbees Beach, the “Meadows”, and Cape May Point State Park.  We beat the crowds to Higbees, probably because we left the hotel about 4:45 a.m.  Before the dawn chorus, while still at the hotel, my son caught the sound of the Chuck-will-widow he wanted to track down just a few hours before, so my suggestion of some rest seemed all the more reasonable this early morning. Things were pretty quiet bird wise (were we too early?), so we headed to breakfast at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House (one Philadelphia beach-goer tradition that I do partake in) before heading to the refuge and the park.  At one beach stop while still in town, we spotted a birding group led by none other than Pete Dunne.  And we watched a pair of nesting Piping Plovers being mercilessly tormented by a pair of Fish Crows.  Bullying is not just an activity of middle school children.

Our final birding destination on this expedition was the Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge in Oceanville, not far from Brigantine and Atlantic City.  After hours of being in wind gusts, tick-infested fields, and salt marshes, I looked in the mirror during a pit stop at one of the many Wawa convenience stores and realized that I wasn’t looking very glamorous in my T-shirt, windbreaker, field pants, with my hair tucked up in my favorite cap from Bozeman.  The south Philly girls wouldn’t be caught looking like this. 

I am fascinated by the juxtaposition of this federal wildlife refuge with a backdrop of the Atlantic City “skyline”.  Two very different types of wild places –one of human overindulgences and one of minimal amenities, for humans at least.  But for the birds, it is a haven.  Thousands of migrating birds end up here for at least part of the year.  An eight mile driving loop can take three hours if you want to hit the jackpot with respect to different species.  It was here that I had my second lifer of the trip – a Gull-billed Tern.

Atlantic City as viewed from the Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge
(Photo by Corey Husic)

My thoughts turned to the themes of online articles I had recently virtually clipped for later reading – that long list of URLs sitting in my forgotten email (we did this trek unplugged):  climate change, fracking, threatened cultures, livelihoods, and species due to environmental change and human behaviors.  But here was Atlantic City—the emblem of excess and human vices—adjacent to the pristine and raw and briny landscape that makes up the refuge.  A city with a row of wind turbines, spinning as gracefully as the flapping wings of the countless droves of birds swirling and diving.  And just for a moment, I had a bit of hope, that man, even at his worse, can co-exist with nature, and that nature just might endure our abuses.

Atlantic City (Photo by Corey Husic)

So it is day two and we are in the waning hours of our excursion.  I was getting constant quizzes from my son about what I was seeing in the scope, which subtle differences I was noting in an assemblage of shorebirds, what I heard as one flock flew away in a swirling mass...  To my surprise (and probably to the even greater amazement of my patient instructor), I was starting to get the hang of identifying even the different sandpipers.  I have no idea if I will remember all of what I learned this weekend the next time I head to the shore, but I do know that learning will come easier and quicker the next time.  Most importantly, the stresses of the past few weeks long forgotten, we were having lots of fun.  The tally:  over 120 species, too many Wheat Thins and Swedish Fish eaten, and some good stories for the future.  Life is indeed good.

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[1] http://www.capemaycountychamber.com/municipality/cape-may-point.htm

Environmental Literacy, Wild Places, and Play as Elements of a Liberal Education

In preparation for an upcoming campus workshop discussing a "liberal education", I was asked to write a short piece to promote dialog.  Typically, faculty will write a piece from the perspective of their discipline.  As I sat to write this today, my ideas went in a very different direction than I originally planned.  I welcome your thoughts on this.

As I sit down to contemplate a short piece for the 2012 CAT/LinC May Workshop, I first check today’s news and see that Maurice Sendak, author of the classic children's book Where the Wild Things Are, has passed away.  This book was published in 1963, and although I was a child of the appropriate age to have had this read to me, I didn’t know of it until I was reading storybooks to my own children decades later.   Initially, many librarians feared needlessly that “wild things who roar their terrible roars and gnash their terrible teeth” would disturb children -- an interesting thought today given the popularity of books (or the movies derived from them) like the Harry Potter series and The Hunger Games.  But what should be disturbing to us as educators at a liberal arts institution are three seemingly disparate issues:  a) how little our students seem to read unless forced to; b) the limited amount of creative free play (especially outdoors) that our students experienced during their childhood; and c) that we now have books being published with titles like Where the Wild Things Were (emphasis added).[1]

Over the past few years, working with environmental science majors and in for preparation of my fall 2011 FYS course, I have been exploring the theme of “what forms of communication are needed to create awareness of environmental issues of the 21^st Century?”  Of all of the challenges facing the planet and humanity, many have to do with the environment; global climate change, decreasing availability of clean and safe fresh water, diminishing supplies of natural resources, clean energy alternatives, air quality, and biodiversity and habitat losses are just a few examples.  Since our college mission includes a statement about preparing “men and women for …. leadership and service for the common good”, I firmly believe that the liberal arts education students receive should not only make them aware of these environmental concerns (regardless of their major pursuit), but also immerse them in experiences that (as cliché as it may sound) prepare them to take an active role in developing some of solutions to problems that threaten the common good and perhaps our very existence.

Oftentimes, when we are confronted with great challenges, scholars and leaders look to the past to see what we can learn from history -- lessons that might help us find inspiration and solutions.  When I ask students if they have read Thoreau, Muir, Leopold, or even Carson, most say no.  Perhaps worse yet, many don’t even know who these individuals were or what role they played in the early conservation and environmental movements.  When I assign excerpts of classic environmental literature for students to read, they find them difficult to read and for the most part, see them as boring and irrelevant.  Bill McKibben proposes in his introduction to the anthology “American Earth: Environmental Writing Since Thoreau”[2] that “environmental writing is America's most distinctive contribution to the world's literature”.  However, he also suggests that important pieces of writing may no longer be sufficient in helping to address environmental issues as they once were, due, in part, to the enormity of the problems confronting us now.  But is there nothing to be learned from earlier visionaries and from earlier battles they helped win (in part through their writing) on the conservation and environmental fronts? 

From my work, I know that the current generation of environmental writers, activists, policy makers, and conservationists are all more than a little familiar with these classic writings and the significant wisdom passed on through the generations by the authors.  Passages are included in contemporary environmental science textbooks.  Edward O. Wilson, a prominent scientist and author, starts his book The Future of Life[3] with a letter to Thoreau (a sad lament, actually) and gives a nod to Leopold with his call for a “global land ethic.”  The new documentary entitled Green Fire: Aldo Leopold and a Land Ethic for our Time[4] suggests that Leopold’s Land Ethic is more relevant now than ever.  Scientists are pouring through the old tattered journals of Thoreau, Leopold, and others to gather baseline data on the timing of flower blooms, leaf budding, and migration to better understand the impact of a changing climate on our ecosystems.[5]  The author of our common reading for next year has been hailed as the “next Rachel Carson”.[6]  It seems a shame that the new generation of college student finds this classic literature irrelevant.

If you have never read “Thinking like a Mountain”, then the significance of the green fire will be lost.  If you have also grown up sans time in nature, then ponderings about the serenity of life at Walden Pond, the beauty of the Sierra Nevadas, the possible loss of goose music, or a completely silent spring are concepts that will indeed seem foreign to you.  At a time when scholars are learning more about the strong connection between nature and well-being, fewer children are spending time outdoors, and an increasing number of people are disconnected from the sources of their food, water, and other forms of sustenance.  Richard Louv writes extensively about the impact of “Nature Deficit Disorder” on our children.[7]  Increasingly, the peer-reviewed literature in psychology and education are showing the negative ramifications of the loss of recess and unstructured free play on learning, ADHD, and creativity.  I don’t have the space here to review all of this research, but can assure you that both the bibliography and body of evidence are extensive.

Reading, time frolicking outdoors, and free play have all been shown to be important factors in developing imagination, creativity, and social skills as well as leading to improvements in attention span and learning.  If these once hallowed elements of childhood are vanishing, where will innovation of the future come from and how will our youth develop much needed problem solving skills?  As our wild things disappear, unnoticed by everyone who is inside, safe and plugged into the latest technology, who will have a deep enough understanding of and respect for nature so that they will push for conservation and clean air, water, and land?  In 1942, Leopold wrote an essay called “The Role of Wildlife in a Liberal Education”.[8] What we need today is not just an essay, but a practice in which immersion in wild places and environmental literature is an essential element of a liberal education.

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing's going to get better. It's not.

– The Once-ler from The Lorax

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[1] Stolzenburg, W., Where the Wild Things Were.  Life, Death, and Ecological Wreckage in a Land of Vanishing Predators. Bloomsbury USA, (New York, 2008).

[2] From, Library of America (2008)

[3] Vintage Books (New York, 2002)

[4] Documentary produced in partnership between the Aldo Leopold Foundation, the Center for Humans and Nature, and the US Forest Service (2011).

[5] For example, see Miller-Rushing, A.J. and Primack, R.B. (2008) “Global Warming and Flowering Times in Thoreau’s Concord:  A Community Perspective”, Ecology, 89:332–341 and Primack, R.B. and Miller-Rushing, A.J. (2012) “Uncovering, Collecting, and Analyzing Records to Investigate the Ecological Impacts of Climate Change: A Template from Thoreau's Concord” Bioscience 62: 170-181.

[6] Sandra Steingraber is a Ph.D. biologist, poet, and creative nonfiction author.  Her book Living Downstream (De Capo Press, 1997, 2010) is one of a series of books she has written about the interplay between the environment and human health.

[7] Louv, R. Last Child in the Woods, Algonquin Books (2008).

[8] In Flander, S.L., ed., The River of Mother of God and Other Essays, University of Wisconsin Press (1992).

The place between spring and the winter that wasn’t

Escaping the morning deliberations about the presidential primaries, I head out for a brisk early morning walk.  There is a light film of frost on the car windows, but given the forecast of 60⁰C for today, those ice crystals won’t last long.  I find this Wednesday to be much more super than the alleged Super Tuesday of yesterday.  A day characterized by a flawless blue sky and a sun that is rising higher and earlier than of late.  Having a prominent view of the Kittatinny Ridge—a part of the Appalachians—helps us judge the angle of the rising sun, although, in the deep of astronomical winter, it obscures our sunlight such that our photoperiod is even less than experienced in the flat farming areas over yonder.  This year, only day length provided clues that it was actually winter.

Ah, but now the perfect azure sky is sprinkled with flocks of geese—both Canada and Snow— trying to form perfect “V’s” but never quite succeeding.  10, 20, 30, 100, 200, 300 – oh there is another flock and I lose count.  Countless flocks are heard, but many cannot be seen with the glare of the rising sun.  The birds are flying very high, so this is not the early morning ascent from the ponds in search of food in a dormant corn field as has been the case for the past few months.  These birds are heading north; they are on a mission.   Countless flocks containing an even greater countless number of members.  Just how do geese choose which club to join?

As I head into the woods, I hear the drumming of a woodpecker, most likely one of our resident Pileateds.  There are turkeys gobbling down along the south slope.  Directly overhead, a pair of raspy croaking ravens gives me a look; it is unusual that they fly so low, barely missing the treetops.  I hear the song of the solitary White-throated Sparrow; he, too, will soon be following the path of the Canada geese.  Everywhere it seems, I hear the incessant calls of titmice, each individual testing a different pitch.  It is as if they have to practice until they once again remember their proper “Peter, Peter, Peter”, the song that will attract the perfect mate in the not too distant future.

As I return from the woods, I spy the thirty plus robins that have returned to our lawn – seemingly from nowhere this morning.  They peck at the ground which surprisingly is not frozen as it normally is this time of year.  I wonder how far down the worms are hiding.  Did they anticipate this morning’s onslaught of hungry red-breasted predators?  The mourning doves too have returned – not my favorite bird for reasons I can’t quite explain.  I don’t particularly like their cooing, although I am outnumbered on that sentiment in this family.  I gather the bird feeders to fill, and by the time I return from the barn, a White-breasted Nuthatch is running impatiently up and down the tree trunk waiting for me to return the feeder, full, of course.  A Downy Woodpecker is pecking at the deck railing; he too wants some seed until the insects come out for the day.

Although not quite a spring dawn chorus yet (that comes with the return of the neotropical migrants), it is a noisy morning today – a bit like orchestra members tuning and warming up before a performance.  It is in stark contrast to the bird quiet of winter – interrupted from time to time with crows and blue jays mostly.  Several people noted this year that the number of birds at their feeders was lower than usual, perhaps because it was mild and the winter feeder visitors instead found sufficient food in the cover of the woods.  The fruit on the invasive shrubs was excessive last fall, and oddly enough, we saw insects around during much of the winter.  This winter, if you can call it that, was not normal.

According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA for short), the period between November 2011 and January 2012 was ranked 112 – just five shy of number 117 in terms of the warmest for the lower 48 in the years of collected records.  In Pennsylvania, we came in at 114 of 117.  In the area where I live, December, January, and February ranged from 4.8 to 5.5⁰F above the average for the 1981 and 2010 time period.  (And remember, those decades were warmer than the previous ones.)  Snow cover extent during January, NOAA tells us, was the third smallest in a 46 year period, 329,000 square miles below average.  That is an area bigger than Texas, about three times bigger than New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania combined, and about the size of 8 of the 10 states that had primaries on Super Tuesday (excluding Idaho and Alaska).  Climate change doesn’t care if a state is red or blue. 

A winter without snow is not as quiet as the hush that exists when a white blanket covers the earth and all sleeping under it.  A winter without snow is gray and tan and somewhat ugly unless you appreciate the fractal patterns seen amongst the silhouettes of tree branches.

But today, as the sun hits the tops of the trees, I see the red of buds of the maples beginning to swell, the orange yellow now present in the dangling branches of the willows, and the emerging breeding plumage colors of the male goldfinches.  I don’t think that it is my imagination that the house finches appear to have more red on their heads and breasts now.  Reds and golds against the brilliant blue perfect sky.  As I type this, I can still hear the honks of geese migrating north.  My son comes in to report that a Killdeer flew over calling and that he heard (and photographed as evidence) an Eastern Meadowlark.  

Indeed spring has emerged.  I am just not sure when we had winter.

Happiness

Sometimes prose is unnecessary.

Photo by Corey Husic