“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.

It has been a dry winter here in the Colorado Front Range. To date, our snowfall is 81% of average and 64% of 2011. Temperatures have been a few degrees higher than normal. Most of the days this January have felt like early spring. Global warming or just a natural cycle? Who the hell knows. My vote is a cycle compounded by global warming. What I do know is that I miss the tranquility and process of snow.

I love spring; the shy auditions of cinquefoils, the bold expression of insect hatches, and the artistic composition of sounds and smells. There is a lightness in emerging and the sense of having survived. I look forward to it every year. This morning, however, while reading Barbara Kingolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (www.AnimalVegetableMiracle.com) I was reminded that what we appreciate in spring are products; the end results of overlooked natural contributions. We regard winter’s, and specifically snow’s, unseen benevolence as a time of inactivity.

Winter is typically thought of as a time of rest. The temperature drops, down comforters make their annual appearance, snow falls, and the crack of logs burning in the fireplace signals a time of quiet. (OK, a bit Norman Rockwell, but you get the idea.) Yet underneath the snow, sandwiched between our shroud of inattention and the circle of life, millions of small processes are preparing the world for the explosion of Spring.

Snow provides a layer of insulation protecting soils from cold, desiccating winds and shelters soil dwelling organisms. These little guys play a significant role is helping to  recycle soil nutrients, such as carbon, nitrogen, and phosphorous, from dead and decaying plants and animals. The freeze/thaw processes that accompany changes in temperature contribute to aeration and water drainage. Winter is not the poetic death, instead it is a precocious period of preparation.
So, this Spring, when rejuvenation seems so automatic, stop and thank your new friend winter for all the hard work. Oh yea, and pray to Ull for snow.

I am not a parent. I have no desire to be, sorry Mom. At the age of 46 this seems a reasonable stance. I am also a PhD student and therefore tend to be on the selfish side of life when it comes to my time. However, the combination of age and lifelong learning has helped me start to appreciate the lessons and perspective children can unknowingly place in your lap.

I spent the Martin Luther King holiday with two of my best friends, their 5 and three-quarter year old daughter and nine year-old son, in Olympia, Washington. I have not spent much time in the Northwestern United States. The threat of fog mixed with rain, everyday, has scared me away. Such is the narrow mindedness of someone who lives in Boulder, Colorado where less than 300 days of sun a year would classify as depressing. However, my desire to catch up with friends rendered geographic threats unimportant.

My PhD research on habitat fragmentation and its impacts on ant communities in Eucalyptus forests takes place in Australia. Notwithstanding the 14 hour plane ride and a distinct change in dialect, I know I have arrived in Australia because the air cradles the sweet smells of eucalyptus and each morning is met with the symphony of Sulfur-crested cockatoos (Cacatua galerita) and the Australian magpies (Gymnorhina tibicen). My arrival in the Northwest was no less distinctive. The forests surrounding Olympia gifted me the soft aroma of moss on cedars and fern infused understory supported by rich, dark soil. It was a greeting to cherish.

The arrival at home, after the hour drive from SEA/TAC, was something to remember also. “Hello, Jeffie!” from Cole and a leaping, all encompassing hug from Eleanor signaled the beginning of new friendships. Over the course of the next four days I played witness to the vicissitudes of youth, and the attempts at even-keeled parental navigation through one day liking chicken and the next day hating it, he is on my side of the car, and she is pointing her finger at me. These ebbs were accompanied by the flow of peaceful interaction, including impressive displays of reading, discussions about who founded Rhode Island, and detailed analysis of proper Valentine Day card design.

During one of our outings we visited Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge (www.fws.gov/Niaqually/). For the first time in my life I was actually able to pick out bald eagles. I caught myself looking up, smiling, and being fully rooted to the ground amidst the undergrowth. I was, at this very moment, hit with an overwhelming sense of three dimensionality. The day before I had been engulfed in the smells from a new landscape and on this day, I was standing on that same ground, craning my neck to look at two bald eagles sitting observantly in a pine tree. My experience with the children had been similar in many respects. The texture and topography children bring to the world is one to be celebrated and embraced. Nature, too, offers us this dynamic interaction. Natural topography is sometimes steep and unwelcoming, unexpected, daunting. At other times gently rolling, rewarding, informative.
It struck me, that perhaps I have replaced one with the other, children with nature. I still do not want children but I am thankful that Cole and Eleanor expanded my appreciation of the world around me.

A change of scenery. It is a cliche until you feel the heartbeat of the two words that give life to the statement: scenery and change. Every experience has scenery, and all scenery requires interaction of an observer in order to exist. Yet all too often the natural scenery that surrounds us is subliminal background, negative space, surrounding the experience of making it through the day. And when the effort of making it gets too big, and pushes even harder against that negative space, we opt to shift locations, to alter the external artwork, to change where we are in the world.

Desire to change where we are, however, overlooks the high likelihood of seeing the same world wherever we go. The expectation is of a magical force of place altering the motion of plate tectonics and realigning our inner landscape. We may not even realize desire is masking the urge to flee.
It is at this point when we need to take a breath, raise our eyes and encourage the background to come forward, if for just a moment. Notice the subtle way 4 inches of snow peeks and bends over a stone wall. Let the flick of a deer’s ear inform the power of the present. Let the play of squirrels usher in the desire to enjoy where we are. Instead of changing the scenery, try changing the vision.