​Our lives are constructed of our experience and our perception of those experiences. These are not mutually exclusive concepts; they build on and feed into each other. As adults, and thus educators, we play a role in how youth appreciate experience and how they learn to perceive those experiences, whether inside the classroom or not. If that responsibility sounds oppressive, consider this: the underbelly of responsibility is vulnerability.

​A few weeks ago I worked with my Manhattan Middle School students as they made their way through their first science test of the year. From Wednesday morning to late Thursday night of that week I was one of the scientists at the University of Colorado’s Mountain Research Station helping to educate 5th graders about the methods used in scientific research. Then, on Friday, I had the opportunity to talk one-on-one with the mathematical biologist Dr. Greg Dwyer. What each of these events has in common, other than me, was a cycle of learning and teaching, an ebb and flow between mentor and mentored. There was the openness of giving and receiving. Inherent in this ecosystem was the responsibility to facilitate wonder and enthusiasm while at the same time being vulnerable to not knowing and therefore opening the doors to our own learning.

​The use of the term ecosystem is not accidental. Regardless of scale, an ecosystem functions best when processes flow unencumbered. Understanding what processes contribute, how they interact, and what might disrupt them is the focus of my research. Delineating the components of an ecosystem can be a frustratingly slow undertaking. There are the inglorious hours behind a microscope, the wading through scientific articles in search of a single piece of insight, and the looming uncertainty that in the end your statistics will prove your theory misaimed enough so as to add another year onto your education.

​And then there are those periods of time when inspiration and insight come in abundance and from unexpected players. More often than not these nuggets of academic sustenance are a matter of how we view our place in the process. How comfortable we feel within our niche and how we feel that niche is contributing to the ecosystem. There is in academia, a hierarchy. Professor, graduate student, undergraduate. So too in secondary and elementary education; teacher, student. Yet while tenure may confer respect, it does not mean the flow of information is in a single direction, just as the processes in a natural ecosystem do not flow in one direction.

​The point of all this is that we each have the chance and ability to contribute to someone’s education. And that includes our own. When you discover something share it. When you don’t know something admit it. Let those around you teach. And when you seek to teach do so with compassion.

I have dropped the ball. Not failed, just have not upheld my end of the bargain. My goal when I buckled myself into the driver’s seat of TomTom (the nickname for my car) two months ago was to post each day or two and to share reflections and pictures of my trip to the Southwest. The pictures issue ended up being one of poor planning: it is hard to download them from my camera when I forget to bring my computer. The reflections issue rests on the simple fact that the trip was life changing. That is a big, warm, comforting space of tranquility to distill into words. Thus, I am admitting fear in attempting to do so.

Removal of myself from my own project and joy (eco.log.y) has been a nagging reminder that over thinking can, and often does, foster paralysis. Yet even internal conflict has a way of finding, and fighting for, the path through. This morning I woke and was presented with the question, “have you given up or simply been absorbed by living?” As I looked out the window, across Malibou Lake, surrounded by the chaparral covered hills of Southern California, and listened to the breathing of the two dogs that lay next to my bed, I answered with a big smile. “I have been living!”

You see, in expanding my horizons and interests, I have also condensed and sweetened the juice of knowing what is at my core; the outdoors, friends, science, physical activity. Downstairs, on the kitchen table is a microscope and vials of ants to identify. Outside is a new surfboard and gentle shore breaks. Tranquility rests in knowing I have learned to balance play and playful work. Learned to embrace the small as an element of the big. Learned that expanding into the world can be a path to understanding the framework of our inner workings.

I will leave you with these words from John C. Van Dyke’s The Desert, words that accompanied my morning coffee.

“What is it that draws us to the boundless and the fathomless? Why should the lovely things of earth – the grasses, the trees, the lakes, the little hills – appear trivial and insignificant when we come face to face with the sea or the desert or the vastness of the midnight sky? Is it that the one is a tale of things known and the other merely a hint, a suggestion of the unknown? Or have immensity, space, magnitude a peculiar beauty of their own? Is it not true that bulk and breadth are primary and essential qualities of the sublime in landscape? And is it not the sublime that we feel in immensity and mystery? If so, perhaps we have a partial explanation of our love for sky and sea and desert waste. They are the great elements. We do not see, we hardly know if their boundaries are limited; we only feel their immensity, their mystery, and their beauty. And quite as impressive as the mysteries are the silences.”

What does it mean to be part of a group? Who makes up your tribe? For most, I suspect these are implicit questions rarely considered. My research on social insects pulls such issues to the fore each time I sit at the microscope. And as I analyze the evidence before me, I can’t help but apply these questions to my own life.

I spent many years believing I was not social, (the reasons for which are still under investigation) and by extension did not define myself as part of a tribe. Instead, I opted for the identification with what the group represented; mountain biker, telemark skier, PhD student, resident of Boulder, Colorado. (Note: there is a difference between tribe and group.) Over time, I made a handful of close relationships. However, inclusion in a larger tribe was never pursued because of self-generated limitations and restrictive definitions.

Over the past few years many of those limitations and definitions have been acknowledged and altered. Lo and behold a social person, and one who is seeking and developing relationships within different tribes. The change has been in realizing that my mind was too involved in the decision process. Here I define mind as the keeper of history, joys, disappointments, injuries, successes, and (last but not least) teller of stories. This memory bank can help us survive. It can also function as a tool of isolation and exclusion. While humans have the ability to store tremendous amounts of knowledge and experience, we at times seem to struggle with the balance between wanting in and keeping out. As a contrast, social insects do not have to contend with such gray areas.

In order to be considered social an insect species must abide by the three following rules: 1) individuals of the same species cooperate in caring for the young, 2) there is a reproductive division of labor with sterile workers tending to reproductive individuals, and 3) there is an overlap of at least two generations capable of working in the colony. In many cases there is also a division of labor within a colony such that some workers forage and some workers defend nests or colonies.  These soldiers use pheromones or cuticular hydrocarbons to detect fellow nest mates. If your “smell” meets the criteria, you are in. If not, no entrance. The process is essentially a chemical reaction, either yes or no. It is this type of chemical reaction that needs to gain greater prominence in our decisions concerning who gets in and who is kept out. (You have made it this far. Do not stop reading now because I guarantee you will come to the wrong conclusion.)

I hear the collective gasp of “Jeff, of all people! Are you actually saying that we should be so black and white about who we include in our lives?” No, in fact something totally different. I am saying we should pay more attention to the chemical basis of decision-making.

My sense is that the world is becoming more homogenized into two camps; either you are with us or you are against us. My analogy rests on the idea that perhaps if we paid a bit more attention to the chemical response we feel (note I am avoiding the term heart, mostly because I am at a loss for how to define it), we may ultimately be more gentle and accepting of the world and those around us. We might create stronger and healthier tribes and communities. How many times have you heard stories of politicians “reaching across the isle” and actually accomplishing something productive? It warms your heart, right? And it probably warmed theirs too.

And that “warm heart” feeling is just the point. We should trust it more and seek to include it in our lives. But it is hard to do that when the mind is set on the default of my group or their group, avoidance of risk, and fear of making the wrong decision. Try walking down the street this weekend and see what your heart (there you go, I used it) tells you about the people you meet. Yea, take a risk and shut your mind down. I dare you. Either way, you are still part of my tribe.

Thank you for reading.

​The phone call from my Mom last Thursday was disturbing at the very least. My sister, who is six months pregnant, was in the emergency room. Dehydration and a 102 degree fever for three days finally pushed the intensive care unit nurse into checking herself in. Between my mom’s sobs, I gathered that a bacterial infection was to blame. I hung tough while she went on about my sister’s health and the development of the fetus. When the conversation was over, and I was off the phone, I cried as hard as I have for many months. As the strength of the fear subsided, I actually managed a smile at the paradox of working on a PhD in ecology and evolutionary biology.

​I love studying ecology and the way organisms interact and survive within certain environments. One of the biggest lessons I have learned is that virtually anything can be considered a habitable environment; a creek running through pine forests, an alpine mountain top, a sandy desert, the human liver, a piece of paper, or a computer keyboard (Seriously!). Each of these, and many more, serve as a place where some sort of organism can live and, at times, thrive. So long as the vital components of persistence: water, food, air, (depending on the organism), are available, an organism should continue to live in a habitat for which it is adapted.

​What had produced the smile at the end of my crying session the other day, was the ability of humans to put the world in black and white contexts when it comes to “beauty” in the natural world. Our definitions of “the natural world” and “beauty” are species centric. We categorize certain types of nature and beauty as good and anything outside that definition as bad. In so doing we fail to see the elegant bridge to the world around us. We miss the vast gray area that really links all of us together via evolution and as inhabitants on the planet. The fact is that the evolution and ecology of disease is no less stunning than that for the polar bear, the shark, the peacock, the prickly pear, the scorpion, the army ant, the orchid and close to two million other named species.

​Malaria, ring worm (a fungus), and Salmonella (the bacteria my sister was eventually determined to have) would probably not fall on most people’s top 1000 list of charismatic organisms. Yet the same forces that guided evolution of the species we find so cute and majestic have guided the evolution of the bacteria, fungus and viruses that make us sick and at times kill us. The same mechanisms behind the struggle for survival and adjusting to competitive forces have contributed to the strength and persistence of these microorganisms. Evolution was never proposed to just produce species that humans find aesthetically pleasing. This is what we so easily forget.

​So next time you get the flu, catch a cold, or have some sort of intestinal “issue”, go ahead and blame the litter critters that caused it. But do your best to not take it personally, and give the forces behind speciation a thumbs up. Because without those evolutionary forces there would be a lot of other beauty we would never see.

“What do you think of the messiness of being human?” This inquiry came across my computer screen the other day. Part of my reply was, “the messiness is the topography. The contour lines that distinguish my map from yours”. It was a written reply and I have not heard back. I am not sure how it landed. Perhaps defining messiness would have been a good first step.

The primary theme of my research is how human induced disturbance (clear-cutting forests) affects animal communities (yes, ants are animals). In essence, I study nature’s messiness. Messiness is the result of disturbance. And messiness leaves a quantifiable (maybe qualifiable) mark. When it comes to ant communities, we are not entirely sure what that mark looks like and if it is consistent across species. What I have realized though, is that nature and humans have very different ways of dealing with messiness. To begin with, we define it. Then all too often we define ourselves by its presence in our lives.

Nature, on the other hand, manages to include messiness as a part of soul, artwork and landscape. As observers, we appreciate the results of subduction, avalanches, fires, and floods. Disturbances. Messiness. Nature makes no attempt to cover anything up or hide what might be perceived as a negative trait. It just sits there, having pulled back the curtain on a magnificent, perhaps slightly absurd, show. Not asking for your applause. And it thrives in the face of whatever happens.

For example, there are a number of plants species that will not start to germinate without first being subject to some sort of disturbance. The seeds of the Victoria ash (Eucalyptus regnans) have a hard, woody coating that requires fire in order to begin the process of germination (development and growth). The seeds of the Flanders poppy (Papaver rhoeas) requires soil be turned over in order to break free of diapause (prolonged period of no growth). In Belgium, during World War I, Flanders poppies grew between the trench lines of the French and the Germans; a result of artillery fire and constant upheaval. So dense were the fields at times that the flower is now used to symbolize the memorial and remembrance of dead soldiers.

And it strikes me that there is a good lesson in here. Aside from the obvious war sucks, I would argue that messiness (again, disturbance has to happen first) can function as a powerful catalyst for growth. We needn’t hide from it or hide its presence. Nor do we need to proselytize. But the messiness, like a unique set of numbers or genetic code, can set us apart, make us individual. It can also bring us together to appreciate the cartography of a common landscape. The fun is in aligning the maps.

A big part of nature’s majesty lies in its sounds. The soft trickle of water, rolling thunder, the smooth hoot of an owl. There are no filters here, no editors. Everyone gets to integrate the pleasure. My experience with scientific journals and academic papers, and often academics themselves, is not the same.

I believe science can be a universal language.When spoken properly, and with an accent absent of hierarchy, anyone can understand it. I was reminded of this potential last week while talking with Dr. Claudio Gratton from the University of Wisconsin at Madison.  Our half hour conversation focused primarily on me introducing him to my research in Australia. Dr. Gratton adroitly linked my focus with a few of his recent studies. This connection lead our conversation in directions less scientifically rigid. Specifically, we started talking about how best to emphasize the value of conservation efforts to those who are often most affected; those people who make a living on and of the land; those who are not scientists. And it was here that I was engulfed in the power of the natural audio experience I have been lucky enough to hear.

Birds, insects, marine vertebrates…well most every animal except humans, throw communication to who ever may be listening. It is how I know I am REALLY in Australia (the birds in the morning), it is the framework for the memory of a night of camping in which I heard coyotes and owls dueling for acoustic space, and it is the portal though which we know we are not alone. And it was on this particular day, talking to a research biologist at the height of his career, with both of us concerned about those outside of our immediate audience, that my belief in science and ecology, further solidified. So here is the challenge; over the course of the next week, speak to someone outside of your normal audience. Tell them about what you do and what your passions are. Embrace your challenge of learning a new language. And celebrate the expansion of your community.

“And, dear cuz, I like thinking about the two of us marveling at the same moon…” This message showed up last Friday afternoon. It was in response to a Facebook post I put up about a full moon run a friend and I did the night before. We had run up Green Mountain, just west of downtown Boulder, on trails covered in a foot of snow and illuminated only by our headlamps. We arrived at the summit just in time to see the moon peeking above the horizon and welcoming nocturnal frivolity mixed with a little self imposed discomfort. Meg’s message (Meg is my cousin who lives outside New York City)  catalyzed a powerful sense of tranquility and connection.

Many ecologists, admitted or not, dream of a unified set of theories that will link ecological patterns. It is an illusive goal. With so many different organisms (close to 2 million different species) and ever changing environmental factors (climate change, snow depth, wind velocity, etc.) it may be some time before this achievement is realized. Unlike physics and chemistry, events in ecology are seldom predictable. It is why we ecologists quip that what we do “is not rocket science, it is much, much harder”. This challenge is what draws many of us to embrace the field.

Some of us will spend the better part of a lifetime trying to figure out why a single organism responds the way it does to certain environmental cues (day time frivolity mixed with a little self imposed discomfort). We study and record details that to outsiders seem a waste of time, money, and brain cells. But that is not the way we see it. There is a pattern there, we are sure, and elucidating that pattern will make us famous. Zeus and all his companions shan’t stand in our way. Besides, we argue, the predictive value of such knowledge could certainly make for a better world.

This route of discovery involves the constant effort of recording small details, anticipation of challenges, the generation of questions and more questions, and the re-evaluation of all the answers we get (even if they are exactly what we hoped for). This is no different than most people’s lives or jobs. But the efforts of becoming and defining, setting apart and individualizing can pull at the cohesion that rests in sharing and disseminating knowledge and experience. All too often our efforts at being an expert cloud our innate abilities to be together.

Then there are times, like on full moon nights, when it is possible for even the most twisted of ecologists (read as scientists, lawyers, business magnates, doctors… you get the idea) to step back from the maddening detail, from the challenges of justifying our existence, and embrace the things we all get to see. Observation is a gift we possess no matter where in the world you live or what your status. When we see, feel, smell, taste, touch, we are diving into a long line of experience that has nothing to do with piecing anything together other than what we are doing at a particular moment in time.
The value of such experience emerges from the inclusivity. From the collective opportunity to embrace what is. From stopping for a moment and appreciating that your cousin, colleague, long lost friend, or future lover, is seeing the same natural phenomena you are.

“Don’t think humans are the most successful animals”. The warning came during a biology lecture for undergraduates. The slide that accompanied this statement included a number of pictures representing different animal phyla; sponges (Calcarea and Silicea), squids (Mollusca), earthworms (Annelida), and starfish (Echinodermata). Center top was a picture of a beetle (Arthropoda). Humans were notably absent. The use of the word “success” hit me with the strength of Urus maritimus (polar bear, Phylum Chordata).

I know a number of successful people; few of them receive kudos commensurate to that designation. These are people who have pursued their passion and done so with no or minimal disruption to the world around them. The people I refer to are those that manage to have smiles on their faces as a result of adapting to their surroundings, those that thrive on fitting into the whole experience. They exude confidence in creating community while at the same time embracing the vulnerability of not succeeding. They employ a creative adaptation, and in so doing they include and nurture, abstractly and seamlessly giving back to those around them. And sometimes they fail. But without a doubt, they celebrate the diversity in their lives and do not feel the need to homogenize their surroundings in order to feel alive.

There is a single species of human (Homo sapiens, Phylum Chordata). One. There are approximately 12,800 named species of ants, close to 400,000 named species of beetles, and roughly 1500 different species of flies, and that is just a start. One species of human and we populate every corner of the planet, not through adapting to the environment, but by creating an artificial one. We as a species, manage to overlook all these ecosystems in favor of something that suits us.

Other organisms are forced to adapt. They must efficiently use available resources and adapt to their surrounding environment, or die. Pretty simple really. They are vulnerable to the influences of selective pressures. Many will not make it, in fact most won’t. Yet, in terms of shear numbers, it is a strategy that has worked far more successfully than any yet devised by humans. And it is one of the things that gives the world its personality, why there are differences, why we can say the community of organisms that live in the tropics is different than those that live in the deserts, why the group of species living on the tops of mountains are different than those living on ocean floors.

I like humans, really, and I fully appreciate that we live in the 21st Century. But my goal with this blog is to get people to lift their eyes, to see what they usually don’t. So sometimes as I stand outside looking in, it is hard to not hear the echo of Groucho Marx’s words when I look at the narrowness of my species’ success. “I don’t want to belong to a club that would accept people like me as a member.” (If I had my choice, I would be a sea otter (Enhydra lutris, Phylum Chordata). That’s another post though.)
So, here is the question; How did you adapt today? Not through manipulation but rather through interaction and absence of pride. And tomorrow, pretend you are an insect; the world can live without humans but would wither and decay without insects.

Something extra ordinary happened today. My bank, via their ATM, wished me happy birthday. Now, today is not my birthday, but my sentimental mind said “thank you” and my parasympathetic nervous system forced a broad smile. My skeptical scientist mind started analyzing the components of the algorithm that sends such messages. My guess is that I will see one of these messages each time I remove $60 from my checking account for the entire month of February. (I will test it again tomorrow.) But the encounter got me thinking about small efforts and the power of their additive impacts.

In the past week I have had one welcoming and memorable handshake from a perfect stranger, one truly interested inquiry about an article I was reading while sitting at a bar, one “Hi Jeff” from someone who meets far too many people to casually remember my name, and one hug that lasted an eternity and was not weird. Added to this are countless pats on the back, good to see you’s, how’s your day, and random texts from friends just checking in.

The lab I taught this week was on the diversity of protists. Protists are a sub-group of the domain Eukarya; organisms that have membrane bound organelles such as mitochondria and a nucleus. Protists are really small, some less that 1 micro-meter (that’s 1/1,000,000 of a meter or .001 mm). In other words, most cannot be seen without the aid of a compound microscope. They are ubiquitous in all environments. Many consume and recycle organic matter and even serve as food for a variety of organisms. Others, like Giardia and malaria, cause disease. Whatever their function they have a huge impact on life on earth.

I study ants. They often require a microscope to identify, but they can be seen with the naked eye. I like to be able to see their activity in their native environment without disturbing them too much. But, during lab, as I looked through the microscope and saw beautifully symmetrical diatoms, deadly malaria and constantly changing amoebas, I fell in love with the amazing diversity of shapes and sizes. My students were infected with this diversity too. As I made my way around the room, answering questions and encouraging further inquiry, watching the level of excitement and interest rise, I was absorbed by the understanding of how all those small things we fail to stop and appreciate can affect our lives.

When we accept that the small, in all its diversity and additive impact, be they protists or the simplest of human interaction, are all around us, we start to link to the circle of life. Perhaps, too, we will pay more attention to how we influence and impact others.