Earth Day Thoughts

On this 56th edition of Earth Day, I feel compelled to reflect on how we got here, and where we are going. In many ways, it seems we have taken more steps backwards, especially recently, but I also see hope and promise, if we have the collective will.

© NASA from Artemis II mission

How amazing, if not coincidental, that one of the images that inspired Earth Day was Earthrise, a view of Earth from the orbit of the Apollo 8 mission in 1968, a photo taken by astronaut Willam Anders. Fast forward to earlier this month, and images of our Blue Marble taken by the astronauts aboard the Artemis II mission leave us in awe all over again.

That awe needs to now translate to reverence, something fundamental to Indigenous cultures, and which has been nearly absent throughout the history of Western Civilization, replaced instead with fixation on attainment of gratuitous wealth, and increasing economic growth.

I was nine years old when the inaugural Earth Day occurred in 1970, too young to appreciate the fact that the major purpose of the celebration was to preserve the planet for future generations like mine. All I knew was that I loved going exploring, looking for insects, spiders, snakes, and other creatures that nobody else liked. Today, I cannot escape the observation that we treat whole sectors of humanity as badly as we do “bugs,” and sometimes even worse.

When did Homo sapiens first begin to imperil our one and only home? Some will point to the Quaternary megafauna extinctions of large mammals at the end of the Ice Age, 10,000 to 50,000 years ago. A good argument could be made that the Industrial Revolution, at least the second one, was the beginning of the holocaust. Widespread environmental damage was certainly accelerated by the burning of fossil fuels, which continues to this day.

Every human revolution magnifies the impact of the previous one, and so the Industrial Revolution led to an enormous increase in the scale of the Agricultural Revolution that preceded it. Machinery replaced draft animals, and permitted enormous plots of monoculture crops to be grown. The Third Industrial Revolution began to automate jobs that were not already outsourced to cheaper labor pools elsewhere, and the current Fourth Industrial Revolution is being defined by the widespread employment of artificial intelligence (AI) to replace most other functions in industry, business, and even the service economy. The end goal appears to be reducing most of humanity to the category of consumers, who take little part in the production of goods and services.

Overall, it appears that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are actually colonialism, capitalism, patriarchy, and racism, not necessarily in that order. There are certainly additional players, but here are your lead actors. They have all been behind conquest, war, famine, and death. Those four characteristics of human society must be extinguished if we are to have future Earth Days.

The good news is that more people are waking up to the realization that the systems of power, wealth, and governance are not working for them, or any other living thing, and that there are alternatives that are more just, participatory, and sustainable, or at least less damaging. There is renewed interest in permaculture and regenerative agriculture, for example. Community gardens, urban farming, food forests, and foraging are helping address food deserts in cities. Cooperatives and credit unions are looking a lot more humane, and less extractive, than corporations and banks.

Elevating Indigenous people, people of color in general, women, and other marginalized demographic categories into positions of power and leadership will help immensely in changing the trajectory of our world, for the betterment of all species. Priority must be given to enact change at a local scale, where experimentation is less risky, and results more immediate. There is zero room for politics, only teamwork.

Much as we may feel demoralized, replaceable with technology, and seemingly powerless to change any of it, we must begin living differently. Sometimes, that means dropping out of the systems that are destroying us. Your innovation and example are needed now more than ever.

Where's Walden?

Watching the three-part Public Broadcasting Service documentary Henry David Thoreau, I am struck by the fact that in many ways I am searching for my own Walden Pond, in more ways than geographical. It is more about finding community, and seeking accountability, as my years here on Earth dwindle.

Cranberry Pond, western Massachusetts.

There is no way I am even remotely in the same league as Thoreau. I have not even read nearly enough (including Thoreau!), for one thing. It has taken me more than twice the years to make the same observations, and arrive at the same conclusions, as it took Thoreau. In one sense I am embarrassed by that, and on the other I am proud of myself for coming to such realizations at all, in an age of distraction, and of global consumerism of goods and services rather than ideas and other intangibles.

What has shaped my perceptions, goals, and ideals, has been a conglomeration of mentorship, alternative media that I stumbled upon, the persistence of movements like Black Lives Matter, social media accounts and podcasts coming from otherwise suppressed voices in the LGBTQ, neurodivergent, disabled, Indigenous, Black, Hispanic, and other communities, plus my own observations and experiences.

It is becoming apparent that while my wish list for the ideal place to live the remainder of my days is one with a mostly warm, sunny climate, high biodiversity, public transit, diverse demographics, a robust healthcare system, and affordable cost of living, I am forgetting the need for creative inspiration and accountability. What I should be seeking is a community, or communities, of individuals that will demand of me those practices that I have been resisting or neglecting: writing regularly, reading, and collaborating with others. It is high time I become a literary mentor now, not “just” a mentor in entomology.

My partner and I could probably be happy in an even smaller house than our current two-bedroom here in Leavenworth. The likes of Thoreau’s one-room cabin on the shores of Walden Pond may be a bit too challenging, but I found it comforting to learn that he had friends willing to sleep on the floor for extended visits. We’ve all grown to have expectations of guest accommodations that are all about physical comfort, if not luxury, when what we value most is the camaraderie.

Thoreau could walk into Concord at will, which I find ideal, enjoying the literal pedestrian life that I do. I never learned to ride a bicycle, and am generally terrified of driving, at least in circumstances of congestion at speed. I currently walk with relative regularity, on a nearly three-mile route, which to this day is not at all strenuous. It takes me through a park with ballfields that is frequented by birds, squirrels, and at least one Red Fox, along its periphery by a creek. There is a forested park adjacent to the ballfields, but it is being managed for additional active recreation (a new frisbee golf course is intruding into the woods). If I walk in the opposite direction, non-stop, I can be downtown in about forty minutes.

In other aspects of life here, there is a reasonably vibrant graphic artists community, and my partner is active in it. Nothing similar for literary arts, though, or it is flying well under the radar. Youth, and minorities, however you define them, are seldom encountered except as service workers, and in schools. This is overwhelmingly a town of military veterans, current and former prison employees, and retirees who presumably cannot afford to live elsewhere. Yes, I freely admit I may be too judgmental. We do have good local restaurants, and a handful of unique small businesses that everyone appreciates, regardless of our differences.

My partner grew up here in Leavenworth, Kansas, and her parents still live here, too. She quickly adjusted to life here, and I have some misgivings about asking her to leave again, to assimilate to a place where both of us may not have existing friends, or any kind of support system. Still, continuing to live where I feel that I do not have a support system is becoming increasingly intolerable. Not enough of the residents share our values, or at least don’t express them. When you expand to the state level, it gets even worse.

Where, then, is my Walden, my Concord, my Massachusetts, my New England of yore? Where can I explore and once again be filled with wonder and hope, and have the family that has been so elusive for my entire existence?

Birthday Thoughts

I recently turned the big sixty-five, and there is possibly no other anniversary more important for a resident of the United States. As an official elderly person, I realize I have plenty left to say, but it isn’t “get off my lawn!” or even “today’s music is terrible.” No, there are too many topics of far greater substance. Some of them are personal, some are collective.

My overall sentiment is that I have exceeded my expiration date. There is a certain degree of envy for those who have already passed, and thereby relieved of continued suffering, which includes watching others suffer, species going extinct, the brutality of imperialism, White Christian Nationalism, global capitalism, religious wars and terrorism, and climate change. I would rather not continue bearing witness, thank you.

If I do not find a way out of my current town of residence, surrounded by people mostly older than I am, more sickly, arguably more unhappy, and clinging desperately to “the good old days,” and a culture that no longer serves us well, then I will surely die sooner rather than later. I thrive when surrounded by younger generations with energy and creativity. Few people here have any respect for the natural world.

Turning the magic age of Medicare eligibility is not the reward you might imagine, either. One of the shocking revelations is that Medicare is definitely NOT free healthcare. Parts A and B cost me about $200 per month. Friends have told me that they have that taken out of their Social Security benefits. Because they raised the official retirement age to sixty-seven, I am not yet receiving that income. I would be left with little after the Medicare payment anyway.

Oh, and I still have to find a “Medigap” plan, through a private insurance provider, to cover what Medicare does not. Naturally, that still won’t cover dental, vision, or hearing. I did secure prescription drug coverage, but will I meet the deductible?

What concerns me most is my mental health. At best, I am not nearly as productive as I should be. I loathe writing, now. It isn’t that I don’t have something to say. I simply don’t have the energy and desire to execute the keystrokes to put it down. I may go back to longhand and then transcribe it, like I used to do.

My mental state does not even entertain the idea of engaging with anyone in my community, in person. I see my in-laws on the regular, for dinner out almost every Saturday. I attend meetings or events of the local artist group my partner belongs to, maybe three or four times a year. That’s it, pretty much. Oh, the homecoming game at my partner’s high school.

The most awful notion, right now, is the idea that I need to put my life in danger in defense of vulnerable people, at a time when I am the most vulnerable myself. I’m the physically weakest I have ever been, have even shrunken in stature. I do take long walks regularly, and perform a handful of upper body exercises twice per week, but that is not enough. The rage that once fueled me to protest vigorously, has subsided greatly, though my partner might tell you otherwise. I feel ashamed of my physical cowardice, when I could not be more aligned with those who need protection.

Finances are yet another worry. Overseas travel is highly unlikely. I regret terribly that I did not visit other countries when I was younger. I have been neglectful of too many friends here in the states because I cannot be everywhere at once.

The funny thing is, I can easily envision a better world for everyone, for every species, in fact. It involves the abandonment of global capitalism, corporate control of infrastructure, pursuit of continued colonialism and empire, and instead embracing a borderless landscape. We need a “ruralopolis,” a seamless network of smaller cities, with agricultural corridors in an otherwise sparsely developed environment. International commerce would be a rare, but guaranteed treat. Currency would be something nearly intangible, almost unnecessary. We would reach consensus quickly concerning what we truly need and want. Most of those items would not be products.

Am I optimistic? No, not currently, but apparently I do have hope, and that vision, to keep me going. I do, after all, want to live long enough to see the Indigenous take back control of what is rightfully theirs.

Fear and Self-loathing

We faced a substantial, unexpected expense this week, related to our one vehicle, and it conjured up all manner of emotions, some based in reality, and some emanating from the deeper wells of my paranoia. I do not believe I am alone in such reactions, so I am sharing them here.

First, we are fortunate. We can absorb the cost of repairs and new tires with our savings. There are countless citizens who are not that advantaged, who would be charging it on a credit card, or forced to abandon personal transportation completely. Racking up debt seems to be as much of an American pastime as baseball and apple pie.

Every time we dip into savings, though, means less money for the future. It is snipping another thread in the safety net. Everything monetary seems extremely tenuous now, and that is where fear starts to creep in. I believe that anxiety is a legitimate concern. Everyone who is not a billionaire should behave cautiously.

The self-loathing comes from not having traditional employment, or at least some kind of reasonably dependable income. I abandoned that lifestyle well before the pandemic. I am simply dysfunctional in the average workplace. Subjecting others, and myself, to that is not in anyone’s best interests. I do thrive when I get to choose who I want to work with, but I am in a rural location now where that is almost impossible to do in person.

I am nearing retirement, I think, but the age at which you can claim full benefits from Social Security keeps going up. Neither political party seems to have a problem with this because the people we elect to public office are so wealthy they don’t need Social Security themselves. They also get a government pension, and their own premium healthcare package.

Personally, we have investments, even a “wealth manager,” but they certainly have bigger fish as clients. Obviously, everything tethered to the stock market is precarious now, thanks to tariffs and other destabilizing actions that our President and congress have been taking. Consequently, I don’t think of our financial state as “real,” let alone something we can count on over the next twenty or thirty years.

This is all a predicament I think many of us share, and it has enormous ramifications. One horrifically distressing aspect is that as perceived personal risk goes up, we are a lot less likely to make donations to nonprofits that, ironically, help people in even worse circumstances. There are also many environmental organizations and civil rights advocates that I would like to support with my dollars, but what if we have another personal emergency?

I begin to rage when I think about how government has defunded many of those agencies and non-governmental organizations doing positive work, and instead grossly inflated the budgets of the “War Department,” and I.C.E. Emphasis on “gross.” We should have the exact opposite scenario.

If money itself is not the problem, it is the weaponization of it that enables cruelty, and compounds existing misery. We have to make money irrelevant, somehow, to rob it of its power. We stand to lose control of it entirely should cryptocurrency become the new standard. Almost nobody understands blockchain, myself included, and crypto represents, essentially, the privatization of currency. Its value will be determined entirely by powerful individuals, and we will be at their mercy.

My greatest act of fiscal resistance has been to enroll in a credit union. I did that decades ago when I lived in another city, and I have been delighted by the results. Spreading assets across different types of financial institutions seems like a good strategy, at least for now.

Today, our car is safer now, with new brakes, and rides a little smoother thanks to new tires, but where will the proverbial road take us? The GPS navigation device/department of our governments seems to be malfunctioning, and we are being taken for a ride, instead of being in the driver’s seat and determining our own destination. Fasten your seatbelt.

One Thirty Over Eighty

It took a little longer than average, but I am officially old now. My physician finally prescribed high blood pressure medication. As one ages, blood vessels naturally become a little stiffer, but I dare say there is more to it than that. There are other factors at play, some of them beyond our control.

Image does not equal endorsement of the device pictured.

My good vascular health is the product of circumstances that not everyone is fortunate to have. Good genetics. Opportunities for physical exercise in terms of time and location. Financial privilege that allowed me to withdraw from the corporate workforce earlier than usual. Fewer pressures from external sources means lower pressure on my internal organs. That is what a modest inheritance can do for you, but there should be more avenues for escaping the rat race.

U.S. manufacturing is booming, if you count stress as a product.

My doctor would still like me to be on a low sodium diet, and less sugar and fat couldn’t hurt, either. Sorry, doc, but I’m not going to sacrifice the few things that still give me comfort and delight. Do you know how difficult that is to do, anyway? My partner cooks recipes passed down from generation after generation, and I guarantee you that salt content was not a consideration. If anything, such dishes may have originally met with “could use more salt” criticism.

Diet might be the least impactful element anyway. U.S. manufacturing is booming, if you count stress as a product. We are programmed by our culture to be living machines of productivity and consumerism, with precious little reward for either. We are hardly recognized as having any value outside of an economic definition. This is unhealthy, to put it mildly.

Indeed, we have allowed every aspect of our existence to be framed as monetary transactions. Even your personal health is a commodity. Problems, including those created by business enterprises, are viewed as “opportunities” for additional profit. We have the industrial-legal-medical complex whereby law firms specialize in either defending corporations, or representing individuals who are harmed physically or emotionally by those entities. Not paid a fair wage? No problem. Try the lottery, sports betting, other forms of gambling, and frivolous lawsuits. Apply for another credit card, or take out a loan. You can always use the debt consolidation services later.

When I went in for my annual check-up, a year-and-a-half or so late, the one that resulted in the blood pressure meds, I presented my insurance information first thing. When I departed, I asked the receptionist if I needed to pay anything, and was assured that my insurance would cover it since there was no specific “complaint” that would trigger a co-pay. I did have the on-site lab take blood for testing, since I didn’t know when I could get back to the clinic again….

I don’t think it was even two weeks later that I received a bill for nearly $1,000.00. The invoice also asserted that they had no insurance information on file. Wow. I called the number and, to their credit, reached a representative in a timely manner. He took my insurance information again and told me they would issue another statement once the matter was resolved. Awesome.

I don’t think another two weeks elapsed before I received another bill for over $400, likely related to the lab work since it was from a different division of the hospital. Again, they claimed they had no insurance information. I called again. Pretty certain I got through to the same representative (a comforting East Indian accent), and he took my information once again. So far, fingers crossed, I have not received another bill. Good thing I got those high blood pressure meds before the bill, right?!

I will be turning the magic age next year, and am procrastinating the debacle that is negotiating Medicare. Assuming Medicare still exists going forward. If I have to submit my insurance information multiple times as it is now, what am I in for next? Talk about needless stress, so insurance companies can profit from Part C, or whatever.

I have seen multiple posts to social media suggesting that we should be making personal friends with doctors, so that when the system collapses, we at least stand a fighting chance. I don’t think this is hyperbole, but it is a sad state of affairs. Oh, the diet thing? It really would pay to make friends with farmers, so that when the food supply chain goes south, you can at least eat. Stressed out yet? Yeah, me, too.

Home Is...?

I recently posted on social media the assertion that “Home is not a place, it’s a time,” adding “That is why you can’t go home again.” The responses, few that there were, suggested more intangible definitions, such as “a feeling,” and “a memory.” Someone said “….a smell, a taste….” It may be complicated, but I detest the romanticism associated with the idea of home. I am a slow nomad.

In the traditional sense, geographically and temporally, my first home was Portland, Oregon, in the nineteen sixties through the mid-1980s. If this evokes your idea of paradise, then good for you. My reality was that of an only child with two parents who frequently fought verbally, and occasional property damage by my father. I also remember seemingly lifeless coniferous forests under overcast skies, and rain. Home was a place where I lived against my will.

Work eventually took me to Cincinnati, Ohio. I remember storms, one of which flooded my apartment. I recall the self-inflicted trauma of being fired, or asked to resign, by multiple employers because I was never properly socialized. Cincinnati was the home where I confronted my tumultuous childhood, and curbed my drinking.

From Cincinnati, I took a job in rural southern Missouri. The employer downsized eight months after I got there. I decided that my being there, however briefly, was less about the work of fabricating exhibits for museums and nature centers, and more about gently suggesting to my coworkers that they use something in addition to religion to craft the fabric of their lives.

On a whim I moved to Tucson, Arizona. I bottomed out financially, and it took five years, in my forties, to establish quality friendships. Ultimately, a temp assignment turned into something permanent, mere blocks from my apartment; and I got my first book-writing opportunity. The office eventually closed, but by then I had met my partner, Heidi.

Moving to Colorado Springs to be with her felt more like home than prior locations. I got the benefit of instant friends from her workplace at the zoo, and found additional friends through other networks.

Heidi retired from the zoo after 26 years, but she probably should have done so sooner. Keeper work takes a toll on the body. Meanwhile, the rising cost of living in the Springs meant we could not afford a home in a better neighborhood. I agreed to her suggestion that we move to Leavenworth, Kansas, her childhood hometown, where her parents still reside.

Four years on, and I still have no friends that I see regularly, aside from the in-laws. I assume everyone here is a Republican cult member unless proven otherwise. I want my old friends back. Leavenworth demographics skew heavily to the White, geriatric end of the spectrum. The town does have young people, but no collective energy. Leavenworth is prisons, the military (Ft. Leavenworth), and churches. At least we have a house we own free and clear, and a couple of yards.

What is the overall theme here, then? Misery? Trauma? Isolation? Mere dissatisfaction? I abhor sentimentality attached to the idea of home. Nostalgia can screw itself. Portland was not a bad place to be at the time I lived there. Today, the traffic is worse than Los Angeles. Before I left for Tucson, a coworker told me that he lived there in the 1980s and loved it. In the early 2000s, I did not. Timing is everything, and the idea of place cannot divorce itself from that. A place does not stay stagnant, locked in some kind of Neverland. It grows up, and is usually the worse for it. Colorado Springs continues to sprawl because the powerful and wealthy insist that the high prairie I love is worthless until somebody can profit by putting in a subdivision or an industrial park.

I think, for me, home has been a series of gratifying, if not occasionally euphoric, punctuations in an otherwise unsatisfying existence. The places I have the fondest memories of were fleeting destinations, experienced over weeks or weekends, with friends of the highest order. I can sometimes put myself mentally back in those places; or on a beach in the Caribbean that I’ve invented in my mind, listening to calypso or jazz fusion, and drifting off to sleep.

State of Myself Address

I know better than to use a search engine to clarify my mental state, but of course I did. I don’t believe that my condition is dire, but I am a bit concerned. At risk of oversharing, I am putting forth an analysis of my current state. This is not to extort sympathy, or solicit advice, but hopefully evoke a sense of solidarity.

I did muster some enthusiasm today for a live interview with an NPR program and podcast in Utah, This Green Earth, talking about wasps.

Let me say up front that this is all on me. I own it. Neither you, nor anyone else who knows me, nor any institution, is responsible for my lack of will to do actions necessary to make myself feel better, and/or engage in acts to counter what is happening in our society at large. It is unclear to me, in fact, whether this is a permanent change to my character, or a period of dormancy before I become an ally and agitator again.

According to that search engine that begins with the letter “G,” I may have “passive suicidal ideation.” It is true that some days, or even fleeting moments on an otherwise “good” day, I experience the sentiment of not wanting to live, but not wanting to die, either. I am not, however, having thoughts of self-harm. I simply do not desire to exist, and I can tell you exactly why.

The major reason for my malaise is that I am tired of seeing other people, other species, and the planet itself, suffer at the hands of powerful, cruel, and ignorant human beings. I am utterly fatigued by what I am witnessing. I am also paralyzed with fear that my assets, or even my identity, will be seized at some point, leaving myself and my partner in poverty, prison, or worse. I am normally rather generous and charitable. No more. Not since personal data has been compromised.

Furthermore, advances in technology have eroded my motivation to create, to educate, and advocate. My work is but a drop of genuine humanity in a sea of AI imposters. I still have plenty to say, but no impetus or energy to put it on paper or online. Everything has ground to a halt.

While I consider myself an introvert, I am now bordering on being a recluse. I rarely go out in public, and almost never engage with strangers. I am living in a town where I have zero interest in getting to know anyone else. This is ironic, because I recall that when I moved to Tucson, Arizona at the beginning of the 2000s, it became obvious to me that most people there, while friendly enough, already had their circle of friends, and were not interested in expanding it. I now think this is the norm for any town that is essentially a retirement community.

I vowed to never be one of those people who would shut themselves off from new relationships, but I understand now. You can only trust the friends you already have. Mine live nowhere near me. I have close friends all over the world, some of whom I know only through social media and/or who are colleagues in entomology and natural history. It is painful to know I may never meet them, or see them again.

Physically, I have lost nearly ten pounds in the last two or three months, and I have not been trying. I do not think I am eating less, to any obvious degree, anyway. I try to walk regularly, but the weather has been rainy and, when dry, quite windy. Seasonal allergies to grass pollen make outdoor activities a miserable prospect currently. There are really no truly wild places anywhere within walking distance of our house, anyway.

The distrust I have for other people now unfortunately extends to therapists, psychologists, and others who could “help” me out of my funk. I am not even sure if my health plan covers that anyway, or what the copay would be. On the bright side, I no longer drink alcohol (last time was October 7, 2024), and have never used drugs. Still too much caffeine, perhaps, and sugar and fats, but those are still sources of happiness, along with sleep, blissful sleep. I live for those pleasures, my partner, and the Facebook reels of Taylor Tomlinson and Elle Cordova. That’s about it.

Hey, I didn’t promise I would have answers on how to cope. Rest assured, if I do find a way out, I will share that, too. Please be safe, friends.

Metaplexities

The landscape of social media has become more complex recently, or perhaps more unstable, restricted, biased, and otherwise uninviting. Maybe it is me, and my experiences that have colored my opinion of the “Metaverse” and other platforms. In any event, I am forced to reevaluate my use of these ways of interacting. This is painful, because in real life, in my small town where I am a socio-political minority, I have no friends at all, even after three years.

My history of adopting social media has been one of reluctance, but Facebook has been an almost daily ritual since I joined back in 2009. Friends had to twist my arm to register, but I quickly found it to be a useful tool. I set up an Instagram account on December 14, 2021, and even made a handful of posts from my computer. When I logged in on January 20, 2022, I found my account had been permanently disabled for “violating community standards,” with no more specific information. I have not, and will never, set up another Insta account.

I cannot pinpoint when I joined Twitter, but it was apparently prior to June of 2014. I mostly neglected it initially, but gradually it became more of a habit. In July of 2019 I noticed the format had changed, and I didn’t like it. By late November of that year I was complaining that fifty percent of my Twitter feed was advertising. It was all downhill from there, and I left “X” for good on November 7, 2024.

Fortunately, Bluesky became a much more friendly alternative to X, and I made an account there (@bugeric) along with a legion of ex-X users. We shall see how long this honeymoon lasts. While I am also on LinkedIn, and have an account on YouTube, that is the extent of my online communities.

Lately, Facebook has become more of a hassle than a comfort. It has become nearly impossible for me to use it easily on any device other than my phone. On desktop, and now laptop, it requires two-factor authentication, and never recognizes either of them even when I ask it to “trust” the device. Messenger, the chat function of Facebook, now encrypts messages, and I can never see messages sent, just the notification that they were delivered. I do not recall ever getting an option to create a PIN for accessing encrypted messages. Consequently, I have largely given up using Messenger.

Other factors complicating my relationship with Facebook include the Meta corporate decision to abandon fact-checking of public posts; and Meta is now more tolerant of hate speech, especially when it is directed at the LGBTQ+ community. Lastly, the dedication of Meta to scraping images and other user content for use in training generative AI (Artificial Intelligence), and announcement that it fully intends to create artificial user accounts to boost its algorithms, has many of us questioning whether we want to be a party to all of this.

I consider myself average, if not slightly above average, in my ability to curate my newsfeeds, so that I usually get to see most of what I want to see. What has become a supreme frustration now, on Facebook, is criticism from ”friends”, whenever I post almost anything.

The other day I posted that I was proud of my partner for deciding to do more of our grocery shopping at Aldi, instead of Walmart. About two comments in, people started saying “Well, Aldi isn’t that great [socially responsible], either.” Wow. We live in a small town with limited options, we are doing the best that we can! We also utilize a farm store farther out in the county, and the downtown farmers market when it is in season.

I mentioned these exchanges over on Bluesky, and got 152 “likes” so far. One person commented that “Moral choices are hard and imperfect. Snarking from the sidelines is easy.” Another said “Tell them they sound like shame bots. These people really have lost themselves to a mind virus that just looks to discourage. We call these detractors.” Another reply: “I think we need to take a stand against people who believe in ‘purity tests’ like you describe. That kind of behavior is NOT helpful.” I especially liked the “shame bots.”

My strategy from this point forward will be to post little from my Facebook private page, with few, if any, images or videos, so I am not feeding the machine of AI (I have also changed the settings on my “off-Facebook activities”). I will post almost exclusively from my business page, Eric R. Eaton – Writer. I’ll use my private account to keep up with friends and colleagues, and share posts I find useful.

I hope that I can be better at regularly putting content on my blogs, Flickr photostream, and iNaturalist account. I will perhaps investigate other social media outlets and services as I learn of them, and adopt those with a user interface compatible with us old people. Now, if the local townspeople would all wear something (I rarely see MAGA attired) that identifies them as an ally or an adversary, that’d be great.

Postscript: I get a lot of “don’t take things so personally” advice. Well, I do take things personally. I am an only child who was never properly socialized. I think it is a minor miracle that I get along with anybody. Maybe stop assuming I am normal?

One Secular Coffee, Please

Some people would say that I am blessed to be living in a small town like Leavenworth, Kansas. Well, that is part of the problem. The fusion of retail business and religion is problematic everywhere, but especially so in rural areas where consumer choices are limited. Proprietors do not think twice about how their messages, subtle or overt, are received by others outside their denomination.

I recently posted the above image on social media, and while there were sympathetic comments, other remarks were quick to defend the coffeehouse. Some did not believe it was an issue at all. Personally, I wish it were not a consideration, but being a “citified” person, willingly subjected to a variety of influences, I cannot escape a feeling of unease.

We supposedly have a separation of Church and State in the U.S., though the line is becoming increasingly blurred. We need the same divide, though, when it comes to the church and business, and between church and public education. I am reasonably confident that God desires the collective good, no strings attached. I am a lot less sure that is the case from a religious perspective.

Let me state for the record that I have no objection to any individual’s right to subscribe to any religion. That is, in fact, a freedom worth defending. I would, however, prefer that you keep your beliefs to yourself in your public interactions, unless someone asks you about them. Even then, you have a right not to disclose.

The unfortunate state of affairs is that religion has consciously decided to marry politics to influence government, espousing agendas that are outdated and discriminatory at best, but often hate-inciting and oppressive. It is at the point that Christian Nationalism is now a widespread desire, fueling divisiveness the likes of which we have not seen in recent history.

Even more passive denominations are now so stained by the footprint of extremists that many of us have given up on making the distinctions. Your “good intentions” trigger all the bad connotations. They send a signal that you may not be friendly to non-believers, or vulnerable demographics like the LGBTQ community, for example, let alone Muslims, Hindus, maybe Jews, and people of other faiths. “Jesus is Lord,” on my receipt? Really?

Many religious people think there is no place that should be exempt from proselytizing. I disagree. Maybe there needs to be a law in the town charter or something that at least compels a business to overtly disclose the religion of its owner, and have it publicly displayed on the door or front window.

”Oh, no,” business owners would cry, “we could lose business if we had to disclose our religious affiliation!” Thank you for making my case. If you are so proud of your beliefs, why hide them at the bottom of the invoice? You want to take my money until I’m on to you.

I’ve patronized this coffeehouse for about two years, but only noticed this statement on my last lunch. I feel like I’ve been had, like I was tricked into endorsing something I don’t subscribe to and, by proxy, funding whatever religious causes the establishment donates to. I’m embarrassed as well as disgusted. There you have it, full disclosure of why this kind of thing irritates me so much.

Something else you should know: I am not a diehard atheist. It took me a while to figure out that religion and God are not the same thing. I thought I didn’t like God, but it turns out that what I really find troublesome is the religious interpretation of God. It would be like figuring out that you thought you hated democracy, but what you really have a problem with is (liberal) Democrats. Well, shoot, thanks for weakening democracy with the Republican candidates you vote for. In short, religion is in many ways ruining God’s reputation.

I can walk downtown to this locally-owned coffee shop, and to the other one for that matter, but both are owned by highly religious people. I am now left with a national chain that is not Starbucks, but the walk is longer and there is no place to sit once I get there. I suppose that is the penalty for adhering to one’s beliefs.

"Life Isn't Fair"

How do you feel when someone utters that phrase? Do you ever find yourself saying that? There is something about this simplistic statement that sticks in my craw, and maybe yours, too.

© Harvard Medicine Magazine

I put “life isn’t fair” into the same category as “thoughts and prayers.” It sounds dismissive, even if it is not intended that way. Such phrases are excuses for avoiding taking the energy and responsibility for tangible action to resolve the problem, tragedy, or injustice.

”Life isn’t fair” suggests that you accept this as a given fact of life, and that we should, also, so that we can “move on,” or “have closure,” or whatever else puts the ordeal out of your sight and out of your mind, as quickly as possible. It is about preserving your comfort.

In your defense, maybe dismissive language protects you from snowballing into anxiety and depression yourself, if you tend to dwell on the profound misery that so many people experience daily. Empaths are easily overwhelmed, I imagine, and self-care may demand keeping the problems of others at arm’s length.

Still, “life isn’t fair” is a statement that mostly discloses your privilege and entitlement because it reveals a situation or condition you rarely, if ever, face yourself, such as poverty, a shooting at a public school, or flooding from a hurricane because you have always been able to afford the higher ground. ”Get over it.” That might as well be what you exclaim, because those are the next logical words after “life isn’t fair.” Are you uncomfortable yet?

I have concluded that the sole purpose (and soul purpose) for my own existence is to make life more fair. I think that I have always believed that every species has a right to exist, whether it provides a direct service to humanity as a whole, or not. Other organisms are an endless source of wonder, fascination, and reverence for countless individual people, and that’s enough for me, enough for me to go on living, in fact.

It is only rather recently that I have come to see the depths of fear and loathing that we direct towards some members of our own species. We treat many artificial subsets of humanity worse than mammal vermin and insect pests. We call “those people” minorities, immigrants, and LGBTQ. An acronym, for God’s sake. That is what we are comfortable reducing human souls to.

Global humanity continues to persist, to operate semi-functionally, not because of government operations, nor economic cohesiveness, nor shared religious beliefs, but mostly despite those institutions. Some extremist politicians are wanting to write legislation further stripping basic rights from the most vulnerable of the world’s citizens. They are wanting life to be less fair for everyone but themselves.

By sheer coincidence, as I was writing this, a friend posted a meme on social media that listed other examples of “toxic positivity.” Most memes are overly simplistic, have a negative or even destructive agenda, are unhelpful, or outright wrong. To their credit, the creator of this meme matched common, dismissive phrases with more constructive and empathetic suggestions.

Toxic positivity is really a form of bullying, or at least condescension. It belittles genuine, appropriate emotions, and punishes vulnerability. It refuses to recognize suffering, let alone address it in any meaningful way. There is a reason we are able to cry, to experience emotional lows. It is not for the sake of comparing one degree of pain with another. It is not an opportunity to invoke your religious definition of God, and how He will provide. Sometimes the reason bad things happen is because bad people and bad socio-political institutions inflict trauma. Don’t add to it.

Toleration is not enough. Accept people’s ability to grieve, to cry, frown, or otherwise express difficult emotions. Reward it, in fact. Tell them you see them, seek to understand the depth of their situation, and simply be present for them. Ask if you can do anything beyond that. Check in again later.

If you are feeling extra-brave, start advocating for mental health. Help end the stigma surrounding depression and related illnesses. Stand up to toxic positivity, stoicism, and false bravado. We can build a better society if we stop saying “life isn’t fair.”

Comet

On Monday, October 14, I found myself appropriately placed in space and time, for a change, thanks to my partner, Heidi. We already live in the rural town of Leavenworth, Kansas, but decided that if we were going to get a decent view of Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS (aka Comet C/2023 A3), we would need to drive beyond the reach of the lights of the prison a mere two blocks away.

”O-o-o-h, this looks like a great place to stop. The road is wide enough that we can pull over, too.”

We drove down the road a little way beyond the intersection, gravel grinding under our wheels until we parked. We got out, and focused on the dimming light of the western horizon.

”I know you’re not supposed to be able to see it with the naked eye….”

”Some people say you can,” Heidi responded.

We aimed our phone cameras in the general direction of where the comet was supposed to appear, about forty-five minutes after sunset.

”Oh, I saw it on my screen right before I took the picture,” Heidi exclaimed.

"Where,” I asked anxiously, “in relation to that bright star (turns out it was Venus we were seeing)?”

”It’s between that one and the one to the far right, about midway between the two.”

I found it, and as it got darker, the comet resolved itself. The tail appeared as a great, vertical smudge, like a faint cloud, with the head nearer the horizon.

We enjoyed the moment in relative silence, save for the call of a distant Killdeer punctuating the night from the farm fields that stretched out before us. Louder than the bird was the intensity of moonlight, so shockingly bright that I initially cursed the lunar illumination as a nearby streetlight.

”Ok, I’m sufficiently wowed,” I said, as a way to suggest that we leave. I knew Heidi was getting cold, and the comet was not getting any brighter. The trip home gave me time to recount other comet memories.

In about fourth grade, I played the tail of Halley’s Comet in a school play. I remember that I couldn’t wait for 1986, when this most celebrated of comets would return. Boy, what a disappointment. Without a telescope, it could not be seen, and even then, no one thought it was that spectacular.

Given the defeated expectations around Halley’s Comet, I barely took notice of Hale-Bopp in 1991. I was living in Cincinnati at the time, in a neighborhood at the top of a hill on the west side. One evening, as I was taking the garbage out to the dumpster behind our apartment building, I just happened to look up.

I remember exclaiming surprise, out loud, as a couple was coming out of the building, and pointing up.

”That is amazing,” said one of them, or words to that effect.

Comets don’t come around very often, let alone within sight of anyone on our planet, and fewer people still have access to the optics needed to properly view them. You could easily never see a single one simply because you lived in the wrong century, or without adequate enhancement of your optical limits.

I don’t know what the attraction is, for me, as I am not a stargazer, let alone an astronomer or astrophysicist. Maybe it is all about the tail. That weeping brilliance perhaps reminds me of bird plumes, or the streamers that are mayfly tails. Comets are just as ephemeral as those insects.

Maybe it is the path of comets that appeals to me as a writer. The trajectory of comets is literally a narrative arc that spans lightyears. Each one has an origin story, and a journey that makes Homer’s The Odyssey pale by comparison. That we know anything of these cosmic iceballs is remarkable.

My curiosity over ATLAS is overwhelmed by sheer awe. Some things I want to remain mysterious, and comets are solidly in that category. Thank you for the visit, C/2023 A3, you will not soon be forgotten, at least not until the next aurora borealis.

I Don't Want to Live Longer!

I know that sounds laughable, or possibly alarming, depending on what direction you tend to react in. Please rest assured, I am not contemplating suicide. I am talking about lifespan extension. We are constantly bombarded with the latest diets, medical treatments, and other offerings designed to extend our lives. I am not necessarily in agreement that this is a good thing.

There is this uneasy feeling that those who promote longer human lives are not really concerned for how that impacts our personal welfare. What do I mean by that? When someone passes, the Gross Domestic Product responds with “Damn it, we lost another consumer!” Forgive my cynicism, but I believe it is warranted. The greatest benefits to longer lives are reaped by excessively affluent and powerful people who get wealthier because we are consuming material goods they produce, for a longer period of time. The same is true of service industries, of course, some of which are dedicated solely to the aged population.

The idea that the only thing we should value in our elders is their purchasing power, should make you angry. You cannot put a price on wisdom, life experience, and familial bonds (provided your family dynamic is a positive one). The marketplace thrives on our isolation, our individualism and, sadly, our naivete. The less we relate to each other in meaningful ways, the more vulnerable we are to exploitation by bad actors in the global marketsphere.

The other aspect of living a longer life is that you are highly likely to witness the continued, if not accelerated, destruction of the natural world. This is unbearable for a great many of us. Why should I want to live longer when it appears the planet is not so inclined? Indeed, more consumerism for a longer period is only going to hasten the extinction of species, the conversion of habitat to agriculture and urbanism, and increase natural resource extraction.

I am exceedingly troubled by the fact that the majority of people do not have time to contemplate what I am talking about in this blog entry. The average life is crammed with daily commuting, appointments, meetings, errands, fast food, caffeine, meetings, and another commute. Once we are back home, we help the kids with their homework, if we do not have our own that we brought from the office. Maybe we manage to sneak in a pleasant distraction like a bath or shower, a television show, social media, a chapter in a book, an alcoholic beverage, or a dose of marijuana. Put that on repeat until the weekend.

We look forward to the day we do not have to work, or at least not have to work for someone else, but fear of financial destitution keeps us toiling away. Ironically, a global pandemic made it glaringly obvious that our psychological health has been in sick bay for a long, long time. Still, we are not managing to harness our collective power as laborers and consumers to fully revolt.

The government is not helping with its constant talk of raising the retirement age, and doing away with Social Security, Medicare, and other resources we earn during our laboring lifespan.

The question remains: Exactly what do I get out of a longer life? More years as a greeter for a big box store? More time to passively exist? More debt? More opportunities to vote for candidates that are serving those powerful and wealthy elites instead of me, and others like me? More time to forget what I know, what I’ve learned, and the people I have met? More time to watch the world burn?

Human life is not something that needs “product” or “service.” It needs community. It requires nourishment that no food or beverage can provide. It demands rest and quietude, for longer periods than anyone is willing to acknowledge.

Personally, I will have greater respect for, and trust in, the medical community when they make quality of life a higher priority than longevity. To borrow a phrase from whiny Hollywood actors, “What’s my motivation?” If all you can offer me is more medications, pseudo-comforts, and the corporate vision of “retirement,” I will pass, thank you.

Sympathy and Neutrality

This is for all my fellow (U.S.) Americans who feel pressured to “stand with Israel” in this latest incarnation of warfare with Islamic extremists. Your discomfort with absolutes is valid, and you have a right to your personal commitment, or lack thereof. No one has the right to coerce you, or question your ethics. Here is why.

© EuropeanTimes.news

First, there is no shame in withholding allegiance if you do not fully comprehend the history of the Middle East and its associated religions. Grant yourself permission to abstain, but make an effort to learn about such matters. Yes, it is treacherous territory, a minefield of misinformation from sources that have an agenda, be it clear or obfuscated. Hamas and Hezbollah are not the same organization, though both are backed by Iran.

Recognize that you are not an Anti-Semite if you do not declare unconditional support for Israel. Should anyone accuse you of such, that reveals more about their character than yours. Most of us have friends who are Jewish, who we cherish and advocate for. We are not holocaust deniers, and in fact stand up against anti-Semitism. By the same measure, we are intolerant of genocide directed at Islam. Extremist groups tend to ruin thing for everyone, ending innocent lives in pursuit of unattainable supremacy.

Here at home, I am fearful of Christian White Nationalists intent on imposing extreme religious constraints on all of our citizens. Banning books today could mean something far worse down the road. Racism and other forms of intolerance, bigotry and oppression go hand-in-hand with this agenda.

Back to the international topic at hand. Personally, when confronted with centuries-long conflicts, my impulse is to punish both sides. Were it in my power, I would throw everyone out of the disputed territories and declare them an International Peace Park, under the administration of the United Nations, where both sides could interpret their positions and histories for visitors, and where wildlife could flourish in what was once a hostile environment to all species. A Palestinian state might look something like Vatican City in Rome, ensconced withing Jerusalem itself. Where, in any event, is the creativity in conflict resolution?

What encourages me are people who speak up for innocent Muslims, which constitute most of the victims of Israeli military retaliation. They question the imbalance between U.S. foreign aid for Israel versus the paltry sum going toward humanitarian aid for the victims of those very bombs and weapons we have helped pay for. How is this helpful?

I am likewise heartened by coalitions of Jews and Muslims, who are peacefully protesting the extremism of both religions. Let us raise their voices and profiles as an example of true bravery and empathy.

I like to hold onto the possibility of God, and It is the entity for which I feel the most sympathy, by whatever name It goes by, should It exist at all. Religion, after all, is a decidedly human institution, and as such is vulnerable to the corruption we see in business, government, and all other human enterprises. The difference is that religion is the one thing we can choose to participate in, or refrain from joining. It has its social benefits, until it does not, until it starts violating someone else’s right to a different belief system. Choose carefully. Maintain an ethic that transcends that of your chosen allegiance. Stay sane, stay safe, keep loving your fellow humans.

I Want My Old Friends Back

Happier times, on a visit to Tucson

It dawned on me the other night, right before falling asleep, that what I want is to have my friends back. My partner will read this, and believe it is her fault. My in-laws may think they are to blame. No one is guilty except, perhaps, myself, for not anticipating the loneliness I would feel after moving to a new town. Two-and-a-half years in, and I am still grieving. I truly am misplaced here.

My partner and I agreed to come to Leavenworth, Kansas, to spend quality time with her parents, while they are still healthy, and relatively young. We have dinner out with them, at local restaurants, almost every Saturday night. I’m happy to do that, though the conversations typically cover the funeral(s) of the week, and news of people Heidi may know from her childhood, but no one I have any connection to. I’m used to talking about broader topics, society at large. I rarely do that now because of differences in ideology.

Let me emphasize that I like my in-laws, and most of the extended family of my partner. The problem is that this is my entire universe now. We get back to Colorado once per year. I think it has been close to a decade since we last visited Cincinnati. We both have friends strung out around the globe, some of whom we only know through social media, but are anxious to meet IRL (in real life).

Funny, as an only child many friends in my youth were adults. Now that I am an adult, or at least pretending to be one, I find the need to be surrounded by young people, to keep up my energy and enthusiasm for life. Colorado was a perfect mix of both youth and age. Everyone is physically fit, highly engaged in community affairs and in national and international issues.

Leavenworth, by comparison, appears at least on the surface to skew heavily geriatric. Many people are overweight or otherwise unhealthy, and you seldom see smiles. There are children and teens, of course, but I rarely encounter them. The twenty-somethings I see are wait staff at the restaurants. Fort Leavenworth fairs better, and despite the military affiliation, I have met some nice families there thanks to a couple of events I’ve participated in. You need passes to get on post as a civilian, though, and it is not a daily or even weekly proposition.

All this is to say that I am not incentivized to cultivate new friends here. I am simply not interested. It would take energy I do not have because I am deflated by where I find myself. It is a perfect circular storm of sadness feeding itself.

I want my old friends back. They gave my life purpose that I am lacking now, and I fed off the energy they have. I learned things from them. I helped teach them in return. We shared both optimism and pessimism for the collective future. We made each other laugh.

Practically the only thing holding myself together is an obsession and compulsion to document all the animal species I can find on our modest little property. It is enough of a healthy distraction to keep me away from potentially self-destructive impulses.

In the cold months I struggle constantly. I have lost nearly all my creative energy, and seldom write. It is not that I have nothing to write about, but I am unmotivated to do the exercise of pressing the buttons on the keyboard. Translating thoughts to actions is too daunting.

I believe advice is unhelpful. My situation is something I will have to solve myself. Maybe I’ll need to spend a year somewhere else, on my own. Who knows? I only hope that I recognize the solution once it presents itself.

The Colonist I Am

It is not commonplace for anyone to acknowledge their ignorance of, or complicity with, colonialism, in either a historical context or in the present day, but here I am, about to do exactly that. Some of our political leaders, and I use that word with great sarcasm, would prefer we remain uneducated, and our children left in the dark as well. It is up to each of us to confront our own blind spots and inadvertent participation in continued colonialism and racism. The overwhelming aspects of both are subtle and insidious, most of the time.

Someone on my late father's side of the family did our genealogy, and traced our New World roots to the Mayflower, quite literally. There were one hundred and two passengers, and a crew of thirty more, on that famous ship, which landed on the shores of Cape Cod, Massachusetts in 1620. A year prior, a different ship, the White Lion, brought the first African slaves to a colony in Virginia. Slaves of Spanish explorers coming to North America predate the English transport by nearly a century. My forefathers may not have started the fire, but they made no effort to extinguish it, either.

Somewhere between inappropriate pride in a White heritage, and shame and guilt about the past, there must be a plan of personal action to rectify injustices.

Did any of my ancestors actually own slaves? I have no idea, though it might be worth exploring. I would be interested to know if my family tree has any ties to Indigenous Americans, too. Is it necessary, though, to have a personal stake in the history of slavery to have empathy for the enslaved, the imprisoned, the opressed and murdered? I think not. Somewhere between inappropriate pride in a White heritage, and shame and guilt about the past, there must be a plan of personal action to rectify injustices. This applies even if you have not personally committed some overt act of bigotry, or incidental trespass. It begins with self-evaluation.

In creating a presentation recently for an organization of entomologists, it occurred to me how much overlap there is between environmental devastation and racism and colonialism. I asked myself why the scale of agriculture has intensified, beyond the Industrial Revolution, which amplified the Agricultural Revolution through mechanization, and now automation. Is it because we cannot feed the world any other way? No. In fact, those of us in the Western Hemisphere have an expectation that other nations feed us first, and themselves second.

I drink coffee. I love chocolate....Do my choices in the mareketplace make me a colonist all over again? Still?

Mea culpa. I eat bananas. I drink coffee. I love chocolate, and I no doubt consume my fair share of products made with palm oil. I enjoy pineapple on occasion. These crops have traditionally required deforestation to clear the land for their vast plantations. That is an environmental holocaust, but it also impacts indigenous human populations in a negative fashion. Where they are growing export crops they are not growing food for themselves.

Do my choices in the marketplace make me a colonist all over again? Still? Maybe. I have some soul-searching to do, some critical decisions to make if I do not wish to contribute to poverty and economic colonialism.

Being an ally to Black and Indigenous people here at home requires a different kind of effort. First, we have to commit to educating ourselves. Beyond Black History month, we need to examine the impediments that we have erected, on purpose or by ignorance, that prohibit or discourage participation in our workplaces, our public spaces, and neighborhoods and communities. In short, being an ally does not begin and end with joining protests over the most recent death at the hands of law enforcement, or other racist hate crime. The "everyday racism" is more difficult to detect and takes more work to eliminate.

If we can afford to finance wars, militarize the police, subsidize certain industries and corporations, and protect those with excessive wealth through tax legislation, then we can damn well afford reparations.

At a national level, there is talk of extending reparations: tangible financial benefits for the descendants of slaves. That puts the onous on Black people to prove they are related to former slaves. In my opinion, reparations should be made to Blacks, period, as they continue to face racism. I would also argue that reparations be given to Indigenous Americans. As it stands now, Whites are still mostly deciding where Indigenous and Black Americans can live, what jobs they can hold, and what rights they can enjoy.

Can we afford to pay reparations? If we can afford to finance wars, militarize the police, subsidize certain industries and corporations, and protect those with excessive wealth through tax legislation, then we can damn well afford reparations. You know where this is going. We should be paying reparations instead of financing endeavors that only serve to enrich those who are already wealthy.

As a Caucasian, cis, straight male, I do not feel threatened in any way by the idea of empowering those who have faced nothing but adversity for centuries on end. To the contrary, I believe my life is enriched beyond measure by knowing people of all identities. I learn from them, and I am a better, more sensitive and empathetic human being for it. There is no down side.

Learning how I can effectively participate in decolonization and anti-racism is an ongoing journey I have barely embarked on. With my White privilege comes the luxury of time to think, read, and listen. You, dear reader and follower, are invited to contribute your input, start conversations, and otherwise advance our collective goal of diversity, equality, and inclusion.

Jim Anderson: My Original Mentor

Last week I learned that my first true mentor, Jim Anderson, passed away on September 22, 2022 at the age of 94. It was my intention to honor him while he was still among the living, but I did not make that enough of a priority. That oversight in no way reflects what a powerful and positive influence he was on my life, and the lives of so many others.

Jim Anderson at 82 years young

I am reasonably certain that my mother was the one who took the initiative in connecting me to Jim. She was a veteran in the television and radio industry, and at the time I first met Jim he was doing a local show on nature for Oregon Public Broadcasting. I seem to recall that our initial meeting was in his studio, in fact.

Concurrently, Jim was employed as an educator with the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI). From there, he became director of the Children’s Zoo and conservation and education programs at what was then the Portland Zoo (now the Oregon Zoo in Washington Park).

Jim introduced me to other biologists and naturalists, too, including Mike Houck, who went on to become the Urban Naturalist for the Audubon Society of Portland. Jim and Mike did programs at OMSI field stations and camps, which I had the privilege of visiting periodically on weekends.

The Nature Conservancy hired Jim to manage its Ramsey Canyon Preserve in the Huachuca Mountains of southeast Arizona for three years, but Jim and his wife Sue returned to his beloved Oregon to run the nature center at Sunriver resort south of Bend in the early 1970s. It was there that I caught up with him again. Had my late mother not been so overprotective, I might have spent time with him exploring lava tube caves, or maybe even assisting in banding raptors.

Myself and Jim at Sunriver in August, 1971

Eagles, hawks, and owls were always the center of Jim’s wild universe. He even flew with them, in a manner of speaking. He got a commercial pilot license, and was an accomplished pilot of glider planes. He even instructed student glider pilots.

Among Jim’s enduring menagerie of animals was “Owl,” a Great Horned Owl that had lost an eye. Remarkably, the bird regenerated the eye and, after several years of behavioral rehabilitation, Jim released “Owl” with great fanfare at Sunriver. Owl was immediately harassed by an American Kestrel, such is the drama of nature.

Jim surveyed and banded birds of prey in central Oregon for over fifty years, the last decade or so with the company of his wife, Sue. She wisely insisted that climbing cliffs and trees was too dangerous for someone in his eighties, and Jim begrudgingly retired.

One of the milestones I am most proud of is when I was first published in Ranger Rick magazine, because I had grown up reading Jim’s articles in that publication. He wrote consistently, for many periodicals, and had a column in The Nugget Newspaper of Sisters, Oregon. He also appeared regularly in The Source Weekly of nearby Bend, Oregon. Jim was an outstanding photographer, too, and most of his articles included his images. He compiled his most memorable and hilarious stories in Tales from a Northwest Naturalist, published in 1992.

Everything came full circle for me when Jim agreed to be best man at my wedding to Heidi, on April 29, 2012. A few years later we saw Jim for the last time at his home in Sisters. I had the privilege of introducing another young man, and his then girlfriend (now marital partner), at that time. The couple lived in Bend, and I hope they were able to visit with Jim and Sue again before Jim and Sue moved to Eugene, Oregon to be closer to their children.

Jim, myself, and my mother at my wedding

Being an only child, I had a difficult time socializing with my peers. It was with adults that I felt most comfortable, but Jim nudged me to expand the boundaries of my comfort zone. He was always patient and encouraging, but also insistent, especially when it came to my education. I am glad I still have a few years left, hopefully, to become an even better human being, and a less hesitant one when opportunities present themselves.

Jim's photo of Heidi and I

From what I hear from Sue, I am one of many disciples of Jim. His enthusiasm was contagious, his breadth of knowledge and interests seemingly boundless (did I mention he sang in church choirs?), and his self-reliance admirable. There was no machine he could not repair with bailing wire. He had an old-fashioned wit and sense of humor, and a genuine love and appreciation for all of those he invested his time and counsel in. They do not make men like him very often nowadays. Rest in peace, Jim, you deserve eternal joy and love.

Digital Anxiety

Forget the global pandemic. That I can manage through personal choices to vaccinate and wear a mask in confined spaces with strangers. No, fears of contracting a novel coronavirus pale in comparison to my constant anticipation of some failure of my desktop computer, my laptop, my phone, wi-fi, social media platforms, and everything else electronic. Recent experiences have only heightened the tension in my brain and body.

At the end of the 2021, my old (admittedly too old) desktop began to display a blue screen at start-up. The local computer fix-it shop determined it was a compatability issue between the ancient processor and the desire for Windows 10 to update properly. Do not tell me to get a Macintosh. I am too committed to Microsoft, and while it is arguably not that intuitive, there is remains a mild degree of comfort and familiarity as I, myself, continue to age.

Even after the tech folks diagnosed the problem(s?) and did the best they could to fix them, I still got a blue screen a few days later. They strongly suggested I purchase a new desktop, and so I did, last month. I ended up with the "house brand" from Micro Center, got talked into their supplementary security software, and off I went. I did manage to upgrade to Windows 11, so I feel set for awhile, but still dreading some pop-up window that I don't understand, or am leery of accommodating.

I transferred some files to my documents and pictures, but soon filled up the One Drive that was syncing with the PC. I had forgotten that abomination of "The Cloud" that Microsoft insists you subscribe to, demanding you to pay for extra storage. I thought I had managed to unlink, and then uninstall, One Drive, but yesterday I created a new Word document that I accidentally saved to One Drive instead of my desktop, so could not immediately locate after closing it. Now it is saved to "My PC" with a slightly different file name.

The laptop seems to be doing ok, but it is refurbished and I already know it will not be compatible with Windows 11. I am not good about backing things up regularly, and when I do, I end up scattering things in different external hard drives and flash drives. I no longer re-use SD cards from my camera, in case every hard drive fails. That is how paranoid I have become.

I was dragged kicking and screaming into buying a smart phone because the last time I tried to add minutes through my pay-as-you-go carrier, the service disallowed the transaction. My basic, reliable flip phone was at last obsolete, incompatible with 5G or whatever. I had to have my spouse set up the beast, which is an android. She has an iPhone, so she was a bit frustrated, too. I remain steadfast in having as few apps as possible, and I still managed to fill up my phone with only a handful of pictures. Nobody told me that I need a micro SD card for more storage.

Having enrolled in a self-paced wildlife conservation photography course, I learned that Instagram is a good place to showcase your best images. Consequently, I resurrected my dormant Instagram account, and started posting. I was initially getting prompts that Insta was not recognizing me, so I had to change passwords several times before agreeing to have a two-step authentication process that included my phone. I was doing Instagram through my laptop, and progressing ok, with a whopping fourteen posts. Then, when I logged in a couple days later, I got a message that Instagram had permanently disabled my account for a "violation of community standards," and I had no way to appeal. I can guarantee that I committed no violation, unless posting a photo of the cover of my book Wasps: The Astonishing Diversity of a Misunderstood Insect was somehow copyright infringement. I have no plans to try making a new Instagram account. I'll continue relying on Flickr as a way to attract the attention of publishers. Pity, though, as there are some friends I can follow only on Instagram. I do hope they will forgive me.

My overriding existential fear, naturally, is that my voice will become increasingly irrelevant as the next generation of digital technologies leaves me ever farther behind. No Tik-tok for me. I have a few things on my "Bug Eric" Youtube channel, but that is about it. I have been posting all my edited images to iNaturalist, but am terribly behind in uploading to Flickr. Both are my way of saving things to "the cloud," but only Flickr lets me save images at their highest resolution. I may need to find additional solutions.

Too much screen time, too little exercise here in the winter months, and the trepidation I feel every time I push a power button, is taking its toll. It is highly tempting to return to pen, paper, and typewriter, but that would be self-inflicted irrelevance. I feel compelled to keep my social media friends entertained and informed, but get less and less satisfaction from Facebook and Twitter all the time. In-person interactions are not only problematic from the standpoint of the pandemic, but unappealing given the highly religious and conservative community I now find myself living in.

How do you cope? What comforts, and cures for anxiety and frustration am I unaware of? Please share your thoughts in the comments. Thank you.

Misplaced Again

My wife and I are moving, from Colorado Springs, Colorado to Leavenworth, Kansas. I kid that we are moving to Leavenworth voluntarily, not as the result of incarceration, but the truth is that I am still not a willing participant. Her parents live there, and she wants to spend more time with them. I like my in-laws, so no problems there, but I also spent most of my adult life avoiding my own parents. Even now that both are deceased, I have zero interest in “going home” again.

Like most men, I don’t do well when I interpret a situation as one in which I have no choices. This is especially true when it comes to expenditures that are required for home and car repairs, insurance, medical costs, and other non-elective expenses. Having no choice can also apply to relocation when you either agree with your spouse’s decision or start looking for a divorce attorney. In no way do I “blame” my wife, but I see the window closing on a more optimal retirement scenario for us.

I would have preferred moving farther south, at least. The more I age the more intolerant I have become of extended periods of cold, or rollercoaster weeks like we have here in Colorado. At least we have plenty of sun. Meanwhile, Leavenworth is best known for prisons, the fort, and churches, three institutions that I largely abhor. Mostly, I want to live in a place that reflects my identity, my appreciation of, and dedication to, equality, justice, and inclusiveness.

Over the years we have accumulated far too many material goods, and purging them has been painful. Going through my own parents’ belongings, journals, and keepsakes, and discarding most of it, has left me feeling like I have betrayed them once again. At a visceral level I can’t help but think I am erasing their existence, rendering them invisible and irrelevant. I know that is not the case, but my entire childhood was one of denying that their tumultuous marriage, and eventual separation and divorce, had no impact on me. Then, as an adult, the PTSD asserted itself and I became a crusader for the rights of children of divorce.

The pictures, the household objects, they all symbolize the anger, the longing for stability and peace, and the resentment of the absence of anything resembling normalcy. In retrospect, neither my mother nor father were properly equipped to be parents. My mother did astoundingly well in spite of that, but she was overprotective. My father was just flat-out angry all the time, or on the verge of it. “Mamma’s boy” and “you’re just like your father” were not compliments, and I could not do right by one parent without insulting the other.

My wife put their cremated remains in the same suitcase. I thought they were already there, and was surprised they had not burst into flames all over again. Not funny, really, but they had no reverence for me, either. Yes, I am spiteful. I can be mean and hateful, though I am more aware of the triggers now.

What has been even more painful is what we cannot find in the course of cleaning and packing. The self-portrait in graphite that I did in college is nowhere to be seen. I am most devastated at losing my own creations. I already sacrificed my insect collection, an endeavor of forty-some years. It was the right thing to do, donating it to a museum where it will be properly cared for indefinitely and made available to scientists around the world. Still, I can’t point to it and say “I did that.” That is hugely demoralizing. Like most men, I don’t do well with intangibles, either. There is no observable value to them. My identity is closely tied to what I have produced, if only because that is what our society demands. We must demonstrate concretely our accomplishments. That can be a topic for another blog post.

What am I left with? Where, exactly, am I going, apart from a small town? Why is it not enough to be taking my person with me? Why do I assume I no longer have freedom, in any sense of the word? What do I have left to do, to be? Where would I rather be? When would I rather be? Who am I really, and how do I reconcile the past and the future?

Critical

© newhopepdx.org

”Everyone’s a critic,” the saying goes. This is perhaps truer now than it has ever been, and the intensity of criticism, and reaction to it, is at fever pitch. Why is this so? Why is criticism so argumentative? Do we even know what criticism is anymore?

To be clear, the criticism addressed here is not the same thing as what a movie, theatre, or restaurant critic does for a living. That kind of criticism is more a matter of shared personal taste and opinion, and perhaps public service. In the case of eating establishments, the health department is the only critic that really matters. A bad-tasting burger is one thing, a case of botulism is quite another. Matters of accreditation are likewise much more institutionalized and standardized, as they should be in the interest of accuracy and safety.

It is quite apparent that criticism in the traditional, personal sense suffers from confusion with disrespect, jealousy, betrayal, political correctness, and a whole host of other negative associations. Indeed, the interpretation of criticism by the receiver, and the intent of criticism on behalf of the critic, are often wildly different. This is a profound failure of communication because the conversation ends with unexpressed resentment, hostility, defeatism, and other emotions, plus assumptions about the character of each individual that may or may not have validity. There is seldom clarification of intent, let alone reassuring words that you are not out to assassinate someone’s character.

This is not to say that criticism is never generated from ego, or an attempt to assert power by demeaning others, subordinate or not in the formal sense of a professional hierarchy. Criticism is frequently viewed as a tool of persuasion. It is assumed to have an agenda behind it. Maybe it is a desire to invalidate a belief system, or discredit a competing hypothesis, or, worst of all, diminish someone’s self-worth and realm of experience to further an established but destructive political, social, or judicial system.

It is this last scenario, the one revolving around white privilege and patriarchal societies, criticism must be leveled and respected as a means of advancing reforms in equality, social and environmental justice, and leadership. We must speak honestly and fearlessly, and sometimes fiercely.

If you come from a place of white privilege and are compelled to start acting to advance the rights of others less fortunate, you must be prepared to accept criticism for every word and every thought you express. A baby does not come running out of the womb. It crawls and walks first. Your initial efforts at empathy and action are going to be laughably awkward. You may need to lower your expectations of yourself, and do more listening in the meantime. There is no shortage of women, BIPOC, and LGBTQ+ leaders to follow and learn from.

Many of us have a visceral reaction to criticism because it triggers negative emotions from our childhood. These are the “buttons” that your parents and teachers and peers pushed. They bypass the logical intersections of your brain like a car running a red light. Conclusions are jumped to that no longer serve your interests and it takes extreme conscious effort to put the brakes on, stop, and think again. It is worth the work, but you once again have to accept that you won’t get it right every time. It takes years, even decades, to get rewired, realigned.

Criticism, at its most brilliant and loving, is delivered with the intent to make you a better person, not turn you into someone different from who you are already. The best critics are people who make this clear from the outset and don’t leave you to wonder. When offered from a perspective of empathy, criticism is a powerful tool for change. Recognition of human insecurity, of imposter syndrome, and ego fragility is necessary in communicating criticism effectively and honestly. The goal should be to elevate the other person in their perspective, knowledge, understanding, skills, talents, and other personal attributes.

The worst criticism comes from a place of self-defense, desperation, dominance, aggression, disrespect, or dismissiveness. This serves no one, including the critic. It is not even criticism at its most extreme, it is violence. If you are so obsessed with preserving your own opinion, perspective, or insulated position of power, you probably need to be more self-critical instead of putting others down.

We come to every place, physical, intellectual, and emotional, with expectations and fears, promise and pessimism. This is human nature. We are gifted with the ability to overcome the inertia of protectionism by the plasticity of our minds, but we are unfortunately too often inflexible in that regard. Let your guard down, a little at least. Bend your ego. The more you do, the less the pain. I promise.