Death Touch

Driving down the highway through Nebraska, I got put on speaker with my boss's 13-year-old son.
"How long do I have to wait before I dig up my dead pigeon" he asked. I'm the noted expert in my community, so I responded to check it out in the Spring if he was looking for the skeleton. (Time has a unique pace in the desert. It's amazing how quickly the clouds can pass overhead, and how long a summers day can feel. Yet a season can blink by without a rain.)

For years I've been growing my knowledge and building my reputation on all things in Nature...but the most common questions seem to entail that which has passed from this world. Kids bring me skulls, half rotting snakes, or we stop to look at the leftover rabbit's feet from a coyote's meal. I have become the expert in identifying skulls, desiccating lizards, plucking feathers off dead birds and the like. None of this is done out of menace or aggressiveness...but honor, gratitude and scientific curiosity. My museum exhibit collection includes several skulls and skeleton fragments, patches of fur, and a number of embalmed lizards, snakes and spiders that are as old as my parents. 

 A few years ago, when I worked in a different desert-- in California, some co-workers nicknamed me "Death-Touch" after a neglected mouse that was to be snake food died in my hands. I had many encounters with dead things before then, but not any experiences with the transition between life and death. The final breath, the energy transposed from one being, through the others in the room, and out into the expansive Earth. When my great grandmother passed away when I was 17, I opted not to be there for her final moments, and to instead remember her in all the happier previous moments we had shared, and through stories I had heard.
When my pet dog died, I heard about it days later in another state. Our pet cat crawled away, like many felines, to have her final moments in solitude.
I had reflected and processed all these events. I have spent hours reflecting upon and coming to terms with my own mortality. And perhaps not surprisingly, the person I spoke about mortality the most with was my recently deceased partner, Sid.

This summer, someone brought me to a baby rat, shivering on a stone behind our mess hall. Amazingly, it was still alive, but struggling. I did what any Naturalist might do... I picked it up, (double checked it wasn't a hanta-carrying deer mouse) and encouraged the kids nearby to touch it, pet it and hold it.

(As an aside, I've worked at a lot of programs in which nature is viewed and not interacted with. In my experience with connecting students to nature hands-on, I have seen much deeper connections arise.)
Before I knew it I was feeding it milk from a syringe and watching his tiny incisors pull the juice off a melon, his little face scrunching and slurping as his hands tightened and relaxed by his face. I was informed by a co-worker that she had already named it, and quickly found myself working to make it a home, keep it warm and feed it.
I was surprised he lived through the first night, but then I became hopeful, too. I've never liked the idea of caging an animal, even for the purpose of education, but this one seemed to find me, and so I began to imagine all his possibilities.
Two days later, as Harriet was warming in my bosom at breakfast, I noticed he wasn't moving, and casually excused myself to assess, and then bury him in the bushes before announcements.
The rest of the morning, I was wrecked. I played it off so nobody could tell, but that nickname Death Touch came to mind, along with the unforgettable passing of my long-time friend and short-time lover just two months before. One of my dear students, who was attending our Paleontology program from Belgium for the fourth year, said, "Cass, I think you have the same problem as me. You are better with dead things than with the living." His sentiment was felt, though I felt like crumbling in that moment. It was easy to get caught up in the loss...of Harriet, of Sid, of all the little beings that didn't arise to see the sun rise on the Earth that morning. In fact, the hardest moments were not when I was sad and longing for a companion, or in need of a hug...nor when I replayed their unknowing final breaths through my head... but those perfect moments under the sun with the leaves shaking, when everything else melted away and I was completely present, only to realize that Sid would never experience that moment, and it was mine to share with myself. 

Today, Halloween, all Hallow's Eve.... with the new moon yesterday and Dia de los Muertos tomorrow, the veil between this world and the next is said to be thin. I happened to be in Sid's old neighborhood. I walked on his old route through town and looked up at his apartment window. Mostly, I saw kids in silly costumes being fed sugar and tourists standing apart from the locals who knew Sid, but were probably not thinking of him on this day, in this moment.
I was reminded today of the life I am living and have lived. Of the precious breaths I am afforded, and the beautiful people who helped shape me to who I am, whether they're still on this Earth or not. I don't believe it is unproductive to reflect upon the dead. But I strive not to dwell on it. Instead, I hope to honor the Death that has Touched me by living fully and completely...and not taking things for granted, and using my energy to enact change and educate people. I'm also looking forward to creating an altar and sharing stories to honor those who have passed. 

When my boss's son digs up his pigeon, my hope is that we can acknowledge that it's life has passed, give it thanks, and use its skeleton to further his knowledge and curiosity of the world around him. I am thankful for Harriet,  and the bobcat that unknowingly donated her skeleton and tail to my museum last year. And to Sid... for all he was and gave to this world. And for what he showed me about myself, as well as who he has since woven into my life.

Een beetje lichtheid

I realize that I often unload a lot of my deep, and heavier thoughts. I make mention of the joys in my life, but it's usually as evidence for a dogmatic shift I'm hoping to influence you into. Today however, I wanted to share something light, maybe inspiring, but very beautiful.
Today was a big day. I cried great tears of joy today, and all for something relatively simple.
Ever since finding the quote by Albert Camus:

vivre et de créer au point de larmes

 Which translates to "Live and Create to the point of tears" I have tried to embody that sentence. Whether I'm taking a walk, having a conversation, or eating a sandwich, if I live to the point of tears, I am fully aware of the incredible energy around me. And many times, by living on the verge of tears, your levvy fills up, and a sweet warm drop of internal emotion spills down your cheek. And you feel totally human...and beautiful.
Today was one of those days.
I woke up at 4:45 to get some things in order before I had to commute out of town for a gig. I even got a quick workout in and made a delicious carob/banana/strawberry/cherry/oat smoothie. When I arrived at our base camp 100+ miles later, the first thing I noticed was the sweet, damp smell of the pines. To me that smell is congruous to the smell of walking into your house on thanksgiving smelling mom's mashed potatoes in the oven. She doesn't always make that treat, but when she does you know that smell. 

Soon after the smell got familiar to my nose, we began our activity leading a group of teachers through some culminating processing of their two years in Teach for America. While walking down the trail from that activity to our next, a reading that my co-worker had picked out called The Other Way to Listen, I saw a little bug crawling up the grass. I stopped in my tracks. It looked like a cicada. I had only ever heard them, or found them dead at the end of the summer, but this one was low to the ground and must have recently emerged. I stooped and picked it up, feeling it's little climbing claws hold onto my finger. I carried it down the trail a little ways, then stopped in awe, noting that one of it's wings hadn't quite finished developing since it emerged from it's molt, and wondering if it could fly, much less make that infamous clicking sound with its wings.

One of the things that has amused me so much about these desert cicadas is their small size, and the considerable difference in sound they make compared to the Cicadas of central America, and especially the 13 and 17 year cicadas of the East.
After admiring him for a bit, he flew off, much to my amazement, about 15 feet above my head. I signed, expressing to my coworker how I had always wanted to see a live one, and we settled in for our reading...but the true sounds of nature had yet to be revealed.
Less than an hour later, feeling the sweat build in the places that sweat does, I found myself walking back through the trails to grab something. I noted the warmth of the day- reflecting that even 5 days ago when I was out here, there was still a sort of crispness of winter. Spring had finally emerged. I saw an Indian Paintbrush blooming, and heard crickets. Lizards were growing in abundance from my last visit, as were the hummingbirds. I have worked at this base camp for 3 years, but I always come into the lush life that is the warm season, I never to get to see the change as starkly as I did today.
On my way back from the mess hall, I noticed another little creature climbing up a blade of grass. This one, however, was bright orange. As I let him crawl onto my finger I discovered that his exoskeleton was soft, almost fuzzy. He must have emerged within the hour (I assume) from his subterranean home, and begun his journey up. Despite his age, he definitely had a strong instinct to climb. I moved him to a nearby tree and I saw another one. Throughout this moment it really hit me-- not only was I to see and touch a cicada today, but I was seeing them emerge from their molt, a true symbol of metamorphosis. I snapped some shots- of the insects, and of me crying about it..and carried on.

Bright orange cicada?

Bright green cicada?!

The greatness of the day wasn't over, however. Later I got to return a soggy baby rabbit to its hole after it had been chewed on by a friendly dog. I'm not sure if the rabbit will survive, which is unfortunate...but there isn't a shortage of them around. I have been hoping to catch a rabbit around here for years as well, and I got to feel the soft (wet)ness of its fur, and the way it trembled with newness.
And yet, still...my day of curiosity and crossing things off my Base Camp bucketlist wasn't complete.
Our final activity took place under some towering Ponderosa pines. These are the same pines from which we've heard a friendly owl for the last few weeks. On Tuesday I tried to find his/her nest, but only found the owl, and it flew away as I got near. Today, however, while inspecting the tree more thoroughly from different angles, I was able to make out very clearly its nest, and then I set out to achieve another goal- to find an owl pellet to dissect. I walked around the base of the tree that I had checked just days before, and there among the pine needles was a little round gray ball of lint, with a tiny bone sticking out. Success.

These may seem like pretty petty experiences...especially to evoke such strong emotions. But it goes back to Camus. I live each day looking for beauty, and therefore I find it. Sometimes it's in the faces of the men standing with signs on the side of the road. Sometimes it's in the shape of a cloud, or a gesture of another human. But increasingly often, it's the sights and sounds of the world around us. The world we don't often get to hear.
If you haven't read The Other Way to Listen, click the link- the full PDF is there. We can all listen. The first step is wanting to. The next step is working toward it. But I promise the rewards are astounding.

 

Calculating your Carbon Footprint

The whole reason I started this blog is because I believe I’m pretty environmentally conscious, and sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who thinks through the repercussions of certain actions. That said, I feel like my carbon footprint has greatly increased upon moving to the city. I’ve justified it mostly by telling myself that the work I do connecting students to nature and getting them thinking about water conservation and electricity use is worth the energy expended, but it’s time to put some science to that thought.

I just read a delightfully fun book by local author Laura f. Sanchez, called Freaking Green. We are thinking about having this be our kick-off book to start off our state-wide book club for environmental educators, or environmentally minded people. The premise of the book is that a teenage girl’s life is turned upside down when her great aunt dies and requires that the family cut their carbon footprint by 80% if they are to inherit her estate. Although there were plenty of tacky-teenage bits, I feel that a lot of people could relate to this book, just like I did. What I really hope is that if teachers require this reading for students, they follow up with a project to see how much of their carbon footprint they could decrease. Inspired by the book, I decided to estimate my own carbon footprint since I moved to Albuquerque 6 months ago.

I did a google search for Carbon Footprint Calculators, and found the following two most helpful:

 This quick and easy test gives you a basic idea of how many tons of carbon your actions produce every year, while giving you the option to donate to the Nature Conservancy (my favorite place to donate!) to "offset" your carbon footprint. My number was 18 tons, which is less than the us average of 27 tons, but far greater than the world average of 5.5 tons. WOW. This is why I love numbers.

The Ecological Footprint Quiz has some fun background music and a cute little interactive scene. I like that it asked more specific questions, but still left a few things out (they asked how much I drive, but not what kind of vehicle).

Here's a nice little graphic of my results.

I'm curious how the results differ from this time last year, when Amil and I were living in a 5^th wheel trailer in the San Bernardino mountains, right after having traveled across the country and back to visit family for a month.  But I don't remember enough details to take the full test.

What really inspired this entry was not the book I read, which led me into some fascinating research, but a comment that an old friend made, asking if me living in Albuquerque was “sustainable” since I preach eco-friendly living, but am living in a desert. I retorted that I live along the river and the water we use to flood the pecan trees and water the grass comes from the acequias. I do my part to conserve water around the house, too, taking seldom showers, and washing dishes with one bucket-full of water that we then broadcast onto the trees outside (we use a biodegradable soap called Miracle 2, that Amil could write more about).

One thing I love about this city is how environmentally friendly it seems. The recycling bin is as big as the trash bin (although it doesn’t get picked up as frequently), which I can’t say about our service in Texas. The city as a whole is incredibly water conscious, with a noticeably large amount of xeriscaped lawns and lots of reclaimed water sprinkler systems. I've read through lists of 'the most sustainable or eco-friendly cities in the US', but just like with the Footprint calculators, they leave a lot of things out. I'm going to continue to search for how sustainable Albuquerque is, but in the meantime, I'm still casting my dishwater on my plants.  

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