Speaking of resurrection, a news story I saw on Agade, apparently originating in the New York Times, tells of dates.The kind you eat.These dates were newsworthy because they were grown from seeds two millennia old, found in an archaeological dig in Israel.The story shows just how tenacious life can be.Seeds dead for centuries came back to life and bore fruit.Things like this fill me with an optimism about this thing we call life.Two thousand years is a long time to be buried.These seeds nevertheless came back when the conditions were right.There’s a parable here.The parable of the dates.
Tardigrades are remarkable.Sometimes known as “water bears” or “moss piglets,” they are actually microscopic animals.Google them and take a look.The amazing thing about tardigrades is their ability to survive.Although they are animals, they can go three decades without food or water.(Not quite the same as two millennia, but trees have their own remarkable abilities.)Tardigrades can survive temperatures as low as absolute zero and higher than boiling.Scientists study what makes these little critters so sturdy, but the takeaway for me is that life is remarkably resilient.Given that Republicans and their ilk seem set on destroying the planet, it is comforting to know that life will continue, even if without our particular species to appreciate it.
The idea has been expressed in many ways over the years.Doctor Malcolm in Jurassic Park says “Life will find a way.”Stephen Jay Gould wrote in Bully for Brontosaurus that when we talk of the destruction of the earth what we really mean is the end of our own survival.The planet—life—can and will persist.The funny thing is that we don’t really have an accurate understanding of what life is.If a tardigrade can be revived after thirty years without water, isn’t this an exuberant expression of what life can do?And what about the Galapagos Tortoise, surviving a century-and-a-half?If we leave them alone, sea creatures can live even longer.Bowhead whales last two hundred years while at least one Greenland shark doubled that.And the news story about dates raised from two-thousand-year-old seeds indicates something wondrous about life.It persists.These dates are from the time of Jesus and the Roman Empire.Some trees, such as the bristlecone pine, have been continuously alive for double that span.We should be in awe of life.And we should act like it, for it will outlive us by a long stretch.
Pet Sematary is (or was), according to Stephen King, his most bleak book.The first movie made from it (Mary Lambert, 1989) never reached the iconic status of The Shining or Carrie, but it nevertheless conveyed the dread of resurrection.It also followed the novel pretty closely.The new movie version, which came out last year, uses the more slick, modern horror style that just doesn’t have the same feel as the slow pace of dread.The whole thing feels rushed to fit too much in.It does add some nice touches, however.Borrowing the creepy animal masks of The Wicker Man, it adds a religious procession of children to the eponymous cemetery right at the start and uses a mask to add menace at the end.There will be spoilers here, so if you’re even slower than me at getting to movies, be warned.
The main source of fear, which is only shown a couple of times before the accident, is the speeding Orinco trucks along the road that kill people and pets.Since horror is an “intertextual” genre there are several knowing nods toward the 1989 film, sometimes lulling the viewer into a false sense of security.(Can you have security watching horror?)King’s novel, and the original movie, point to the impending death of Gage, the young son of the family.Faking out the viewer, the new film has the truck killing Ellie, Gage’s older sister, instead.While this must’ve made Jeté Laurence’s role fun to play (for the dead child comes back—and when the monster is a fragile little boy of four or five it’s hard to believe) but it interferes with the explanation of death to her that makes up so much of the story.
Why the wendigo is brought in only to be dropped is a mystery.The wendigo would make for a great movie monster, but trying to squeeze mention of it into an already crowded plot doesn’t really help.The ending of the new movie is well set up, and the realization that she’s living dead on the part of Ellie is well played out.Otherwise the film assumes the watcher already knows how it goes.I suppose that’s a perennial problem with remakes.The source of horror in the novel and in both films is the idea that the dead can come back.It’s an ancient fear and one with which all of us eventually deal.Now that the nights and early mornings are turning cooler and darker, movies like Pet Sematary come readily to mind and we know the horror season has begun.
Since I like to blog about books, my usual reading practice is to stick with a book once I start it.This can be problematic for short story collections because often there’s one in particular I want to read.Somewhat embarrassed about it, I have to confess that sometimes it’s because I saw the movie first.So it was with Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds.”Du Maurier, the daughter of a father who also wrote horror, caught Alfred Hitchcock’s attention.Several of his movies were based on her works.Not all of them can be called horror—a genre that’s difficult to pin down—but they deal with gothic and thriller themes that had an appeal for Hitch.In fact some analysts date the modern horror film to the period initiated by this iconic director.
I have a collection of du Maurier’s short stories, written in the day when 50 pages counted as a short story rather than “product” that could be “exploited” in various formats.(Today it’s not easy to find literary magazines that will publish anything over 3,000 words, or roughly 10–12 pages.)In any case, “The Birds” is an immersive tale.The movie is quite different, of course, set in America with a cast of characters that can only be described as, well, Hitchcockian.Du Maurier’s vision is much closer to the claustrophobic pandemic mindset.A single English family, poor, tenant farmers, far from the centers of commerce, must figure out how to survive the bird attacks on their own.The suddenly angry birds attack their hovel in time with the tides (they live near the coast) so the family has to gather supplies between attacks and try to last another night of pecking and clawing.
The story is quite effective.Reading it suggests the importance of self-reliance and willingness to accept a changed reality on its own terms.No explanation is given for the birds’ change of attitude.Human intervention in the environment is supposed but how would a simple family living of the fringes of the fabric woven by the wealthy know?Forced to react, they try to keep the kids calm while knowing, at some level, this can never end well.The movie maintains the ambiguous ending, which is probably what makes it so scary.Corvid or covid, there are things out there that drive us into our homes where we must shelter in place.Although I didn’t read the whole book, this choice of story seems strangely apt for the current circumstances.
Deeply conflicted.That’s how I feel about calling the exterminator.The longer I’m alive the more eastern my thinking becomes.What right do I have to kill other animals for doing just what they’ve evolved to do?The yellow jackets who made a nest in our siding were doing just what nature directed them to do.In what sense is our house natural?When they started getting inside, though, memories of having been traumatized by stepping on a yellow jacket nest when I was younger came to too sharp a focus.Terror is probably the right word.We were catching and releasing five or six a day and summer doesn’t look to be about to give way to autumn very soon.There’s nothing like being startled by an angry bee when you walk into a room in summer-weight clothes.So the exterminator came.
As the yellow jackets fled into the house to escape the poison I pondered what right I had to deprive them of their lives (here’s the eastern thinking part).How was my comfort, or my lack of terror, more important than their need for a home?Couldn’t we peacefully coexist?You see, I’m no fan of violence of any sort.In my ideal world there would be no war and no meanness.You might not be able to call yellow jackets cuddly, but they don’t seem the happiest of creatures with whom to interact.They’re industrious, like business owners want their drones to be, but their people skills aren’t too good.Maybe it’s just projecting, but when they swarm the only word that comes to mind is anger.Even their evolved body armor reflects that.Still, I didn’t want them killed.I just wanted them not to misunderstand our human interactions while shut in during a pandemic.
Life is a gift to all creatures.I became a vegan years ago because of humanitarian concern for our fellow creatures.The mess our world’s in now because of our lack of care for anything but money plainly shows.Bees, it could be argued, make more of a contribution to the well-being of the planet than I do.Who am I to make any claim of superiority?Still, I’m responsible to pay half my salary on a mortgage that will keep me in one location until the situation betters.When I see that silhouette in the window a sting of terror from my childhood comes back as I grab an empty peanutbutter jar to catch and release, only to have another bee replace the first.Childhood traumas are like that, of course.But now I apologize for bringing on the death of fellow creatures and I walk through the rooms through which they had freely flown.
Children and Young Adult literature (which has its own Library of Congress acronym!) has come a long way since I was a kid.Don’t get me wrong—I enjoyed the books I read as a young person, but there are many more choices that use a lot more imagination these days.I’ve been reading Robert Repino’s books since Mort(e) appeared in 2015.Spark and the League of Ursus is his latest and it continues his trademark use of animals (and stand-ins) to get at very human situations.Spark is a carefully crafted story based on the idea that teddy bears do more than provide cuddles at night.They are, in fact, a force for good, protecting human children from monsters.
As usual when I discuss books, I won’t give too much away.I’m one of those guys who doesn’t even like to read back-cover blurbs because I’m afraid they’ll spoil the story.Instead, I’m going to applaud the use of imagination in a world that seems stuck on a limited number of plot points.Books like this, which stretch the imagination of the young without talking down to them—why does it cost us so much effort to admit that kids are smart?—are a great addition to CYA literature.I was exploring this concept with another friend who writes when I read Hank Green’s An Absolutely Remarkable Thing.A story’s intended audience is often signaled by the age bracket of the protagonists.I’d suppose ‘tweens might be about the age here, based on that metric.(Green was more like New Adult, a category that lasts until about age 30.)
Reading material written for younger readers makes me feel younger myself.I read Ransom Riggs first three Miss Peregrine novels (also published by Quirk, the house that publishes Spark). You see, I’m really encouraged by this growth in younger readers’ material.If we can get kids into books with such engaging stories I suspect there’ll be less chance that they become unimaginative, straight-laced adults who want to keep things just like they were when they were kids.Imagination has that kind of liberating ability.Besides, who doesn’t want their teddy bear to come to their rescue once in a while?It’s not just children that can take a lesson from imaginative story-telling.Repino’s War with No Name series was intended for adult readers but it is good preparation for getting a sense of the possibilities for readers who might, in all hope, never have to face wars at all.
Snakes get a bad rap.There are biological, evolutionary reasons people tend to fear them (some are dangerous and the way they move is literally creepy), but snakes are a necessary part of our ecosystem and very successful reptilian forms.Nevertheless they get associated with evil.The other day I was consulting a book of Christian symbolism.This was actually a book I’ve had since my childhood.My eye fell upon the entry for serpent and the book gave the etymology as from Latin for “sin.”I’d never heard this before and as I thought about it, “serpent” has the same ending as “repent,” so I wondered if the terms might indeed be related.That most authoritative of lexicons, the Oxford English Dictionary, soon set me straight.The etymology of serpent is from Latin (at least partially) but not for the word “sin” but from the word “creeping.”
Given what serpents do, that name origin makes sense.The idea of sin being attached to snakes is a biblical one.The Garden of Eden oh so long ago, and a serpent wrapped around a fruit tree.That story has become one of the most influential in western culture, played and endlessly replayed with some combination of apple, woman, and serpent.Genesis, of course, doesn’t specify the tree as an apple tree.That association seems to come again from the Latin.The word “apple” is malum, which may also be used for evil.In Latin they have different vowel lengths and only become homophones in the languages of non-native speakers.The serpent, on the scene at the primordial fruit tree, becomes associated with sin because of this story, not by its etymology.
The biblical view of snakes is not a positive one.By the time of Revelation the serpent is associated with Satan.It’s also called a dragon, which, as modern fantasy aficionados can tell you, is quite a different thing.The dragon becomes associated with evil because of the Good Book also.The reptile order generally doesn’t fare too well in the biblical world.There do seem to be Sumerian prototypes for the story of the snake and the tree.It’s not completely original with Genesis.Still, you’d like to think that if someone is going to write a book about symbols they might take extra care with the etymologies.People tend to fear snakes.It’s hardwired into our primate biology.That’s no reason to make them the bad guys, though.All you need is a good dictionary to clear things up.
A loud flapping of wings.I looked out my window in time to see a mourning dove land on the roof opposite with audible bump.The poor thing sat there, looking stunned.Then another flapping of wings.Another dove flew over the gutter onto the higher roof.It was then that it dawned on me that these two were being pushed out of the nest.I’ll admit that I doubted the wisdom of a dove building a nest in the neighbor’s gutters, especially when the tropical storm dumped several inches of rain on us last week.Sometimes animals know what they’re doing, however, and even after the storm I could see the mother dove winking at me, her head just above the level of her aluminum-sided home.
The stunned youngster sat there for quite some time.As soon as Mom was gone, the one that had flapped above climbed back into nest.Was I watching a parable unfold?Mom flew back when chick number two decided to flap down and join its sibling.Throughout the morning I watched as the mother returned, landed in sight of her offspring, then showed them how to get down to the ground.Ensuring they were watching, she waddled to the edge, dropped, and spread her wings.She did this several times as the young birds kept carefully away from the edge.Mom, it seemed to me, was growing impatient.She’d occasionally fly back to peck them, but the siblings simply wouldn’t take the leap.She started coming back to feed them instead.I wondered how she managed with two beaks jammed into her own at the same time.
I kept an eye on the drama the entire day.By the time I turned in for the night, the two youngsters were bedded down next to each other on the roof.Their mother had landed, cooed insistently to them, but they dutifully ignored her, afraid of falling.We look at birds and think they’re built to fly.It’s one of their greatest assets.It is the kind of gift, however, that requires overcoming obstacles.Just because you can fly doesn’t mean that you’re not afraid to fall.There’s learning involved.Such episodes of animal intelligence always inspire me.We could learn so much if only we would take the time to see how birds learn to fly.The transition from coddled nesting to the freedom of the skies is not easy, and being built to fly still requires overcoming a very natural fear.
It began as an odd sort of noise.I had the study windows open during the morning of a heat wave and I heard a small, but metallic noise coming from the roof outside.My study overlooks part of the first floor roof and slinking to the window I saw a sparrow trying to pick up a roofing nail.We’ve had the roofers over twice already since we moved in a couple years back (and will have them again), and some of the nails from their work on the second-story roof landed here.I’ve noticed sparrows pecking at them before.Instead of skittishly flying away when I came up—I was only about a yard away—she still tried to lift the nail without success.She then flew even closer to me, snatched up a different nail, and flew off with it.Sparrows have, of course, adapted well to human dwellings, but what would a bird be wanting with a nail?Surely not to make a nest?It wasn’t even shiny—it was a rusty old one from the shingles replaced—since everyone knows birds are attracted to bright objects.
I’ve been a close watcher of nature my entire life.This isn’t the same as being an outdoorsman, but when I can see outside, or when I do spend valued time outdoors, I look closely.I always keep an eye out for animals on my daily jogs.And I watch animal behavior through the window when work isn’t too pressing.Still, I wonder about what a sparrow could want with a nail.The next-door neighbors moved out a couple of months ago, and I watch the sparrows on their porch roof.With no human activity nearby, they frequently gather there.They seem to be picking up bits of human detritus—even pulling at, it looks from here, nails.Now this behavior has me a little worried.I’ve read about sparrows before and despite their innocent looks, they can be very aggressive birds, even attacking and sometimes killing larger perching fowl.The idea of them weaponizing themselves is disconcerting.
Intelligence in nature is one of the last features many scientists want to admit to the the discussion.There seems to be too strong a supposed correlation with shape of the physical brain and the ability to “think,” it seems to me.I don’t know what the sparrows are planning, but clearly it involves gathering rusty old nails.Even as I was writing this I noticed sparrows chirping aggressively.Looking out my window across the street, I saw that a squirrel had crawled across an electric cable into a bushy roost where there must’ve been a sparrow nest.Sparrows began flying into the fracas from all over the place, loudly chirping.I couldn’t see what what happening because of the leaves, but the squirrel soon rushed out with a whole flutter of sparrows in pursuit.Perhaps he’d discovered their plan with the nails.
It happened this way.When my daughter was young she was interested in dinosaurs.Most kids are.In fact, my wife and I went to a public lecture by a paleontologist in Edinburgh where he pointed out that the real experts on the subject in the audience were generally twelve or younger.I took an interest in what my daughter found fascinating, and you can’t study dinosaurs without knowing a bit of geology.Now, the professor’s lifestyle is a thing of wonder.You may have a heavy teaching and publication load, but the freedom to spend your unstructured summer time pure learning was (still is) a huge draw.I began studying geology.I joined the Wisconsin Geological Society.I was even made an officer.My, a biblical studies professor.
At one point I bought a jeweler’s loupe.Many geologists have them.To get down to the level of the crystalline structure of most rocks you’ll need something more powerful, but for fieldwork (and I’ve got a garage full of rocks to prove it) your average loupe will do.When Nashotah House decided I should no longer be a professor (and the rest of academe acquiesced) I seriously considered going back to school to study geology.Time was against me, however.I had to find a job with a family needing support, and so here I am in publishing instead.And not only that, but I’m a Bibles editor.Most people have no idea what that means.Some days even I don’t.But one thing I have learned is that you’ve got to know your leather.
This is a bit uncomfortable to me as a vegan, but I have learned that many people want their Bibles wrapped up in animal sacrifice.I’ve also learned there are many different kinds of leather.The typical leather Bible is pigskin.Yes, that’s right.In the trade you can call a Bible with any animal hide leather.Bonded leather means that it’s pieces glued together.The most expensive Good Books are “genuine leather.”Cut from whole cloth, as it were.I keep my jeweler’s loupe in my work desk.Sometimes I need to look at something closely, off screen.My loupe came in a leather case.One of the sides peeled off during our move and I could see clearly what bonded leather means.In fact, the “nded” part of “bonded” is clearly visible like a secret Bible code on the underlayer of my case.Nothing, it seems, is ever wasted.
Although my fiction writing has been said to resemble his by one of those websites that tell you who you write like, I’ve never read any Ernest Hemingway before.In the wake of Melville I had a hankering to read his The Old Man and the Sea.I honestly had no idea what it was about or how the story went.I’d read Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” so Hemingway’s classic was the last of the holy trinity of sea-faring literary classics to remain unread.Not knowing what to expect, I was blown out to sea by it.Published about a century after Moby Dick, The Old Man and the Sea visits some of the same themes but also pulls into new ports as well.
Santiago has hooked a massive fish after nearly three months with no luck.To do so, however, he has gone out too far from land.This watery hubris leads him to make fast to a reasonable stand-in for God.I don’t know Hemingway’s religious outlook, but sea-faring novels already have such a large dose of Jung that it’s difficult to imagine there’s nothing divine in the massive marlin Santiago snags.With many classics the end is known before beginning to read.I wasn’t sure if Santiago was going to make it back to land, or indeed, if he would kill the fish.The old man’s conversations with himself are the heart of the novel.And one in particular turns to the religious idea of sin.
Not a religious man, Santiago bargains Hail Marys and Our Fathers for the successful catching of the fish.Then he begins to reflect on sin.In words similar to lyrics discussed in a recent post, Santiago declares everything a sin, even though he doesn’t believe in sin at all.His view of life is stunning at this point, and commentary on which theologians would do well to chew.Sin is a concept meant to impute guilt to mistakes, often made unintentionally.What might’ve begun as a form of social control has grown into a mass neurosis for those who believe humans are capable of no good.This is especially worth pondering if the reader considers the marlin to be God.Try it and see what you come up with.I know little about Hemingway, but having read his Nobel Prize-winning novel, I do feel that I have learned something worthwhile.And I also feel the trilogy is complete.
Apart from being Shakespearen click-bait, the title of this post reflects a present-day fear.We live on the edge of rural Pennsylvania.If you’re not familiar with the state, let me assure you, there are tons of woodlands and rural communities. You can drive for hours in a straight line and seldom leave the forest.When my wife sent me a warning email—I go to bed early and can’t seem to sleep late—I paid heed.A bear has been ambling through our town.My usual morning jog is along a trail at the edge of the woods.Bears are crepuscular.I watch horror movies.Put it all together and a Shakespearean level of anxiety quickly builds.It wouldn’t be so bad, but the photos show the bear romping through backyards and one of the reasons I jog the way I do is to avoid other people.
I see wildlife on my jogs.I see deer frequently, along with feral cats, rabbits, and, in season, ducks.I’ve seen raccoons, foxes, groundhogs, and even snapping turtles and salamanders.It’s not much of a stretch to think a bear could be lurking there.So instead I took to jogging the human streets.The danger out here, of course, is the human-borne kind.Covid-19 lurks, and even though I jog at 5 a.m. there are other elderly out and about.I hear a cough and wonder whether my chances might be better with the bear.The broken sidewalk’s a problem too.I have tripped before in the half light, but without Superman’s knack for flying. Or at least landing gracefully.
Thinking back, I wonder what has happened.As I child I lived in truly rural Pennsylvania.My brothers and I used to sleep on our open porch in the summers, even though we could occasionally hear bears going through the trashcans around the side of the house.Our place was hard up on the woods, right at the edge of town.I didn’t worry about the bears back then, though.We’ve perhaps become more afraid of nature because we know we’ve not been good to it.The episode of the X-Files we watched before bed last night had Scully saying that nature’s always out to get us.Perhaps we’ve drawn too solid a line between ourselves and brother or sister bear.We’re not above nature; we are nature.But still, I’d rather not be pursued, or eaten by a bear, no matter how much I like Shakespeare.So I’ll jog in town for awhile, taking my chances with the dangers of my own kind.
Photo credit: Manitoba Provincial Archives, via Wikimedia Commons
One of my motivations, I have to admit, for re-reading Moby Dick this year was my wife’s gift of Ahab’s Rolling Sea: A Natural History of Moby-Dick, by Richard J. King.I wanted to read the latter, and I’d been toying with the idea of reading the former.So I did both.King’s book explores the oceanic world introduced by Herman Melville’s classic.The various creatures and natural phenomena mentioned by Melville are examined in the light of what we now know today and a few key finding emerge.We continue to know little about our oceans, even as we deplete them.The book is about whales, but not only about whales.Anyone who’s read Moby Dick knows the novel encompasses about a year at sea and describes the many sights experienced by a crew that sets out with few port calls and many long hours on the open ocean.
King does a fine job here.It’s particularly refreshing that he doesn’t hide from what he calls Melville’s natural theology.Many science writers fear to go to such places.Clearly Melville looked at the world through such lenses, however.The novel is one of the American philosophical masterpieces.Not only philosophical, but also theological.We can only guess what Melville’s true beliefs were, but he described the book to Nathaniel Hawthorne as wicked, and he knew that he was butting heads with orthodoxy throughout.Natural theology was, of course, an early form of science.Today scientists tend to be embarrassed by their heritage, but King shows that in the hands of a genius like Melville the results can be extraordinary.
This is also a disturbing book.Any volume dealing with the natural world these days likely is.The over-exploitation of the ocean, our use of it as a dumping ground, and global warming have combined to make the recovery of whales, as well as many other species, slow if not impossible.While commercial hunting of whales has largely ceased, the leviathans haven’t made much of a comeback, and several species are well on their way toward extinction.Sea birds are less common than they were when Melville was writing.We’ve influenced our world in such a bad way that we’ve likely set the clock ticking on the extinction of our own species.In a sense then, natural theology is facing its own apocalypse.Ahab’s Rolling Sea is not a dour book—it is a celebration of the world as it was once known, even if that world was less than just two hundred years ago.
A few weeks back I posted about a dove that had built a nest on an unused planter on our front porch.I’d read that mourning doves choosing your house was a sign of peace and tranquility.Each morning I went out for a jog, the dove’s little head would pop up and she would eyeball me.There was no fear in that gaze, but rather serenity.She was sitting on her eggs and knew I wouldn’t hurt her.Several days ago she was gone from the nest.We were out for a family walk when my daughter noticed.We crept up to see two good-sized chicks sitting there instead.Within days we had a couple of young birds flapping around the yard, trying to learn how to live on their own.
I missed the dove, though.The nest was empty.I felt less bad about stepping into somebody else’s bedroom every time I went out the door, but still, I’d grown accustomed to having her—them—on the porch.This week when I again went out for a jog (the jogging never ends), she was back.She looked at me with a knowing stare.Ours was apparently a safe house.Mourning doves, I read on the Cornell University ornithology site, can raise a brood of two in six to eight weeks.From the laying of eggs to abandoning the nest is only a two-month proposition.The website then went on to say that doves will sometimes return to their previous nest.This one obviously had.
Peace is a rare commodity these days.Stress seems to be our daily matrix.How long will our jobs hold out?Will opening up the economy lead to a second wave?(Likely yes.)Will we be able to make mortgage payments if our companies can’t weather the storm?Who really owns this house anyway?There is a serenity to relinquishing anxieties of ownership.A kind of freedom to belonging to a world that will, at least in some nations, help you make it through a crisis intact.There’s a wisdom to the animal world that we too often ignore.We can find peace if we look for it.One cold morning I found one of the chicks sheltering on the leeward side of our fence.I took her some sunflower seeds since she looked so miserable.I don’t know if she ate them or not, but I knew that we humans had benefited from having her under our roof.Such gifts are worth more than might be imagined.
“Ne’er cast a cloot ’til May be oot,” as we heard it in Scotland, was a warning, loosely translated, to “never take off a layer until May is over.”That bit of lowland wisdom fits this spring pretty well.As I was donning full winter regalia for my jog this morning my thoughts naturally turned toward the weather.Memory distorts things, of course, but I keep coming back to my youth and thinking late May used to be reliably warm.There were chilly mornings from time to time, but yesterday held a touch of November in the air, as if the world somehow switched axes.Even the usual animals I see—deer, groundhogs, ducks, and the occasional fox or raccoon—all seemed to be sleeping in this morning.Who could blame them?
I postulated in Weathering the Psalms that the weather is somehow connected in our psyches with the divine.It’s God’s big blue heaven, after all.The weather is something we can only control in a bad way, though.While other people are fixated on surviving the coronavirus outbreak Trump has been quietly (although well documentedly) been relaxing environmental regulations so that when this is all over the beleaguered wealthy will have further income streams.And so global warming gets a head start on opening the doors of industry again.Those older than even me tell me the weather is far wilder than when they were young.Perhaps it’s just the Anthropocene hadn’t had time to settle in yet.Or maybe environmental degradation is spitting in the face of God.
First light is beautiful.I’ve been awakening before the sun for so many years now that I can’t recall what it’s like to stumble out of bed when blue begins edging the curtains.When it does I pull on my sneakers and head out the door.It’s easy to pretend out here that everything’s okay.When I do spot a deer, statue-still until I’m mere feet away, I wonder what life was like before the koyaanisqatsi of industrialization.When our human impact on the earth was humble, like that of our fellow animals.Now the weather has turned.It’s chilly out here this morning.I’m wearing a stocking cap and gloves and I’m watching my own breath forming the only clouds in the sky.The weather is a kind of psalm, I guess.I should pull on another clout and consider the wisdom of my elders.
If you’re like me, and I sincerely hope you’re not, you spent your childhood worrying about killer bees.You see, I was stung a lot as a child, having stepped on a yellow-jacket nest hidden in an old tree stump.That event was one of the most formative of my life.Oh, I act brave, shooing wasps and carpenter bees away, but that’s all a front.I was repairing a piece of furniture out in the garage over the weekend and a big old bee got in and started buzzing around.It drove me to distraction.I once had a bee land on my back and sting me for no apparent reason.Alone in the garage I had no one to watch my back.I decided to do some repairs back in the house instead. Let it have the garage.
During this pandemic, then, the last thing I needed to hear was that “murder hornets” have made it to the United States.And Republicans are bad enough!The murder hornet is responsible for double-digit deaths in its native land, and now my childhood nightmares of killer bees have reemerged.We had a warming trend over the weekend.There were so many wasps and bees around outside that I could even hear their buzzing with the windows safely closed.Insects are the future, of course.They adapt better and more quickly than we do, and there are many, many more of them.The Bible often uses insects as vehicles of divine wrath.No wonder horror movies often make use of them!
Image credit: SecretDisc, via Wikimedia Commons
More rational minds soothe us, saying that murder hornets seldom attack people or pets.If provoked, however, they can do so fatally.Perhaps it’s the anger of stinging insects that bothers me the most.The yellow-jackets that attacked me certainly seemed angry.My stepping on their home was an innocent accident.It was also a learning experience.I don’t step on old stumps any more.I haven’t since the incident.Such early traumas can stay with you all your life, and the buzzing co-inhabitants of the earth, I have to remind myself, have as much right to be here as we do.In cases like killer bees, we invented them.When we play Doctor Frankenstein nature responds in kind.The monster was angry.Bees, wasps, and hornets may be intelligent but they can’t reason out the motives of bumbling humans who accidentally disturb them.And now a bigger variety has moved in.It’s probably best to keep calm and not get anybody angry.