Musings

Touchstones

I was in junior high school when the Cuyahoga River caught fire the last time. I have family in that area, and for the past couple decades my wife and I have enjoyed riding our bikes along the river, in what is now Cuyahoga Valley National Park. That should be a happy ending to a sad story, but it’s not as happy as it might be. After a heavy rain, the river looks like a roiling cappuccino, creamy brown with a froth on top. This is runoff from nearby agricultural fields. The Clean Water Act addressed point source pollution, but we have never been able to solve the problem of nonpoint sources.

The Cuyahoga story is illustrative of many environmental issues: problems don’t get solved in their entirety but rather, in pieces. And battles that are won sometimes don’t stay won—policy decisions can be reversed. For these reasons, environmental work can be frustrating or depressing. People working in this space need something to hold onto, to support them when things don’t go well. I rely on a few touchstones, reminders that I carry with me and that help remind me of what I am doing. You’ll need to find your own touchstones, but here are three of mine.

• Asparagus

  We grew up in the Midwest where a springtime ritual was to walk the fields for wild asparagus. You do this by walking fencerows, looking for the tall plumes of asparagus gone to seed. Then you pick the young shoots that you find under those plumes.

  One afternoon my dad announced that we were going out to to get some asparagus, and instructed me to get a box to carry it. Being of spatial-analytic mind, I came back with a shoebox: what a perfect container for the stalks! My dad dismissed the shoebox out-of-hand and told me to get a real box. The only thing I could find was a shipping carton nearly as tall as I was (about three feet, at the time). We hauled that box out into the fields and along all the fencerows near our house. We found a single stalk of asparagus, which we ate on the spot.

• Violas

  My dad ran a greenhouse—acres under glass—and I worked for him in the spring from the time I was about four through high school. That might sound idyllic, but a greenhouse in late winter (when you start spring bedding plants) is not an idyllic place: it’s cold, damp, and smells like wet dirt. My job was to water the plants: first, trays of bare soil, then tiny seedlings, then bigger plants that became recognizable as various flowers or vegetables.

  One day I was watering away. I wish I could say this was zen-like but it’s merely tedious and goes on and on. My dad came over and told me to follow him. We walked past countless beds of monotonous green trays, and then stopped at the violas. They were just coming into flower, the first in the greenhouse, tiny pops of pure color. My dad told me, “As long as I get a thrill from the first violas, I know I’m in the right business.”

• Stonemasons

  I am not a religious person but my folks were, so every Sunday we trundled off to church, where as a little kid I fidgeted and doodled on the bulletin until the service was over. One Sunday I looked up and instead of being in his usual spot in the choir loft, my dad was in the pulpit. A lay Sunday, I learned later.

  My dad chose as his text the parable of Jesus and the laborers. Perhaps you know it: One day Jesus and his disciples were walking along a dusty road and came upon three laborers. Jesus asked them what they were doing. The first said, “I’m working.” The second, “I’m laying stone.” The third declared, “I am building a cathedral.”

Asparagus, violas, stonemasons: think big. But celebrate small victories. And never lose sight of this huge thing you are a part of.

Obituaries for Nature

Like many environmental professionals—especially those of a certain age and with long memories—I find myself grieving for some parts of nature that we have lost and will not recover. I struggled with this sense of grief, mostly silently, for a long time before deciding to try to deal with
it more directly. I’ve read accounts of how others grieve for nature, but their practices didn’t feel like me. What I came to, eventually, was a series of obituaries for those parts of nature that I miss the most.

In terms of the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—these might not get me to acceptance but they seem helpful in getting through the first few stages. I hope you find them helpful as well.

• A Riot of Fireflies

  Fireflies, as a riot of flashing lights that could paint a country creekbed into a glowing river or a forest edge into a wall of flickering yellow, passed away quietly after a long illness. Cause of death was habitat loss and degradation, especially the indiscriminate and broadscale use of
  pesticides.

  In past times, fireflies filled the nights in forest edges, hedgerows and stream corridors, and even suburban back yards. These were not a single species, but an evolutionary smorgasbord of species with mating signals that ranged from simple on/off pulses, to syncopated rhythms of flashes, to modulated intensities of light with rhythm: songs rendered in flashing lights.

  The old light shows are survived by poor cousins and a few relic populations whose persistence is now threatened by the attention of tourists. Fireflies still show up in the country and even suburban back yards, but these are but a reminder of how things used to be.

  In lieu of flowers, friends are invited to make a donation to an organization that preserves and protects natural habitats. Also, try applying insecticide to yourself rather than to your entire yard.

• Creeks

  The creeks of our youth, small streams in the country or running through remnant woods, passed quietly after a long illness. Causes of death included excessive channeling and streambed modification, degradation of riparian zones, and especially, runoff from agriculture and development within their watersheds.

  These creeks once consisted of a series of alternating straight runs, shallow riffles, and deeper pools. Each in-stream habitat had its own communities. Bizarre insect larvae under rocks in the riffles and runs, looking like out-takes from low-budget SciFi films (later, these turned out to be the nymphs of dragonflies and other delightful creatures). Crayfish that could shoot backwards with a flick of their tails. In riffles, small darters hugging the gravel, wearing their colors like paisley party shirts. In deeper water, a layering of different fish, from topminnows hugging the water surface; to madtoms, tiny catfish on the bottom; and in the middle of the water column, perhaps a sunfish, perfect, the size of a thumbprint.

  These creeks are survived by lesser creeks, and fewer of these as more streams are rerouted or buried. The degradation of urban creeks is so symptomatic that it bears its own shorthand: the urban stream syndrome. Symptoms include flashy streamflow (higher highs, lower lows), increased sedimentation, high stream incision, bouts of low oxygen during dry spells, and high concentrations of nutrients and pollution (including thermal pulses) from runoff from fields, yards,
  and pavement. Streambed communities are dominated by worms—the larvae of midges—in the mucky sediment and very few of the charismatic invertebrates (mayflies, soneflies, caddisflies) and fish of more pristine streams.

  In lieu of flowers, friends are invited to make a donation to organizations that support healthy streams by preserving and protecting natural habitats along streams and in their watersheds. Local land trusts are especially effective in this mission.

• Dark Skies

  Dark skies passed quietly after a long illness. Cause of death was chronic and long-term encroachment into large landscapes, and the introduction of light sources from human development and infrastructure.

  Dark skies were the norm for much of human history, and easy enough to find even recently. The term is misleading in a sense: under a truly dark sky, the Milky Way galaxy emerges in all its glory, a band of light that conveys easily and accurately the notion of an infinite cosmos, and eliciting the purest notions of wonder and awe.

  The skies endure, but few places now are dark enough to reveal the Milky Way. Instead, a scattering of stars are visible, the brightest of the brightest or the markers of familiar constellations (Orion, the Big Dipper) that can still be found by an earnest seeker. But such views are compromised by light pollution from near and far, from the upward-facing light near the back door to the glow on the horizon from a distant city.

  In lieu of flowers, friends are encouraged to make a donation to organization that protect or lobby to protect the last remaining dark skies. Increasingly, these sites are remote parks or other large landscapes. Also, replace your porch light with one that casts light only downward.

• Quietude

  Quietude—a sense of quiet solitude—passed quietly after a long illness. Cause of death was chronic encroachment into the large landscapes and remote settings that provide the settings where quietude might be found.

  Solitude was easy to find in early landscapes; even agricultural and suburban landscapes afforded some sites protected from the noise of human activities. In the best of circumstances, such settings provide a sequence of experiences to the visitor. First, the noise of getting there: hiking, clomping boots, footsteps. Next, the noise of nature itself: birds, small mammals scurrying away or scolding the visitor for encroaching. Eventually, these sounds disappear into the background. At this point, the visitor’s thoughts, footsteps and breathing dominate the scene. Ultimately, these also fade and the visitor is left with nothing: quietude, the sense that you are the only person in this vast space. It is a place of humility and pure being.

  Quietude was preceded in death by its companion Dark Sky. It is survived by settings that are noisy—with human noises—no matter how remote the setting. Traffic on nearby roads, jets overhead, no place is so far removed from people as to escape our noise. In urban settings, this impinges as layers of noise: a background of traffic, industry, and so on, overlaid with more immediate and local noises. As an ironic endpoint, we shop in stores that pipe music at us to
  distract us from the other noises.

  In lieu of flowers, friends are advised to make a donation to organizations that protect and preserve the vast open spaces that can still provide quiet solitude. Increasingly, these landscapes are the same parks and large reserves that provide Dark Sky experiences. Agencies that promote policies to protect these investments are especially effective advocates.

Contact me: deanu@duke.edu