I read a recent article in the New York Times titled “The Insect
Apocalypse Is Here: What does this mean for the rest of life on Earth?” It was
an interesting article about the gradual decline of insects, and one I would
recommend. It also left me a bit sad because, while I’m as annoyed as the next
person when mosquitos disrupt an otherwise perfect night for dining al fresco,
and I freely admit my desire to go full Ripley- GET AWAY FROM THEM YOU BITCH! - on that giant hornet’s nest under
the eaves when one of them vexatious little stingers gets remotely close to my grandbabies,
I actually appreciate insects and their place in our eco-system and would
grieve their loss. OK, flies and roaches? “Well, bye.” No grief there. But as
for the rest, please stay! I’m sure we need you for some good reason we don’t
fully comprehend and would miss you terribly if you were gone. Nevertheless, this
epiphany regarding my dormant appreciation for insects is not what has made
this article stay in my mind for so many days now. Rather, it is the
realization that something I take for granted will always be here could begin
to disappear, and I might not notice.
I still have a childhood memory of an
autumn when the crickets were so thick that we couldn’t see the pavement around
the streetlights, or walk on the sidewalk, or cross the yard without the crunching
sound of cricket bodies accompanying each step.
I can recall a spring in Texas several decades ago when caterpillars
blanketed the exterior of my mother-in-law’s house, and a person didn’t dare
lean up against a tree or wall without first examining it for the woolly
critters. I have memories of summers thrumming with the brain-numbing racket of
cicadas so plentiful and brassy we couldn’t hear ourselves think. And of being outside, the air thick with gnats,
and trying to play while breathing with mouths closed for fear of swallowing a
knot of them. Are they still out there? Have I heard them, seen them, felt them
in such numbers since? Would I recognize their loss if not?
“The disorienting sense that...’something
from the past is missing from the present’” was a line from the article describing,
in part, what precipitated a study of this insect decline. Someone sensed the change- noticed the bugs. Those
words caused me to think. When have I last stopped long enough to recognize
that something from the past is missing from the present? Not things like princess
phones, FAX cover pages, or cassette players, but fundamental things in a
decline so subtle I may not have noticed. I feel certain I am often plagued by a
disorienting sense, but I suspect that’s
the malaise of the “too much of” times in which I live. A disorienting sense that
there is too much change, too much uncertainty, too much information, too much
of everything except the time needed to put it all in context and determine,
within that whirlwind of exponential change, what from the past is missing from
the present.
Which leads to the next chrysalis
of awareness which arose from the article. “Humans are not great at remembering
the past accurately.” This seems particularly true, the writer points out, in
regard to the natural world, where “with each generation, the amount of
environmental degradation increases, but each generation takes that amount as
the norm.” An example given to illustrate this phenomenon, often referred to as
“shifting baseline syndrome,” was that of decades of photos of fishermen
holding up their catch in the Florida Keys. It was noted that “the fish got
smaller and smaller, to the point where the prize catches were dwarfed by fish
that in years past were piled up and ignored. But the smiles on the fishermen’s
faces stayed the same size.” “We can see a hundred of something and we think
we’re fine,” one entomologist was quoted as saying, “but what if there were
100,000 two generations ago?” The concept being that, while there may be a
marked change in the natural environment, each generation takes that amount as
the norm. As a result, “the world never
feels fallen, because we grow accustomed to the fall.”
Is this true? Were the fish in the
creek which ran behind our parsonage in Salado larger when I was a child? Were
there more monarch butterflies spooling their way across this Oklahoma sky
when my girls were children? Are there fewer mockingbirds to cheer me on each
spring? How does one recognize a change whose gradual progress is measured in
years and decades? I don’t know the
answers, but I know this- I don’t want my grandchildren, nor their children or
children’s children to become accustomed to the fall. I don’t want them to
celebrate small fish while a world of abundance quietly slips away. And this is
true not only of nature, but of life itself.
I’m no longer considered young,
though I’ve continued to think of myself as middle-aged until recently, when it
was pointed out that I am only middle-aged if living to be 126. But neither am
I that sage old grandmother with the wisdom of the ages to impart- there’s far
too much inner child left inside for that. But there are a few things that I
would say to those who will outlive me, and who will carry a fragment of me
with them into the future. I would say to hold dear each day of the precious
life with which you are graced. Cherish every part of this fragile earth you
are tasked to protect. Guard it from those who don’t. Feel the breeze, hear the
birds, dance in the field with the light of a full moon on your shoulders, go
barefoot in the mud, never cease to marvel. Have fun with things, but only cherish what has
true value, which is rarely a thing. Love your parents. Stay close to your
family. Make friends and welcome strangers. Take care of yourself but know that
the essence of you is inside- it’s in your heart, your spirit, your soul-
everything else is packaging- and remember the treasure is always what’s inside
the wrapping paper, not the paper itself.
Please don’t grow accustomed to less- less love, less respect, less
kindness, less decency, less truth. Be
the one who will not settle for a world that smiles next to small fish,
forgetting how breathtaking a prize catch should really be. And finally- I know it’s a
big world, and our hands seem small, but you are its steward, and so am I. So
come, child, let’s join hands, go out in the sunshine and count some bugs.
