Gossamer Naturalist

Tag: Naturalist

  • January 8th, 2025

    Today I took a walk in a new place, learning the curves of its trails and the sounds of its waters. I had just received some disappointing news, and my vision blurred with the icy wind and the resurfacing of long held professional woes. When your vision blurs in such a way in the sunshine freeze of a Minnesota winter, a sort of tunnel vision forms. That which is directly in front of you becomes the object of focus. While my peripheral vision fades to a blur, the center comes into a sharp and present focus.

    In my walk, I come across a bridge across a creek, narrow and tilting with the ebb of freezing and thawing ground. In this strange snowless Minnesota winter, the creek beneath that bridge is frozen like glass. Its ice layer is smooth and clear and even more see through-able than the towers that rise in Downtown Minneapolis. In my vision focused state, I spot movement. I am watching fish swimming, dancing, beneath this frozen glass. They bob and weave and fight against the current to in place, while the creek moves in its thin glass casing of ice. This water flows to the Mississippi, and so to I believe do these fish. They are both of the same system that feeds the life that flows through the skyscapers of downtown, and then on to the Gulf and the Atlantic. Who knows what links and connections these fish will form, and where they will do so.

    Along with the concept of the interconnectedness of all things comes a mystery. If all things are connected, then how are they connected? What is the family tree of a moment, and how wide do we make that circle. A naturalist answers that question situationally, in every interaction with the public. How wide do I make the circle connecting this frozen pond to the great circulatory system of the Atlantic. Today those circles include the road bordering one side of the creek, the marsh on the other, and the great Mississippi River beyond either. These fish swimming beneath the ice are important. In the flicks of their tails and the coloration of their scales, they tell me that this creek is healthy, despite or because of human action. As a naturalist I communicate that hope and health, and help others see those stories.

  • What is A Naturalist?

    What is A Naturalist?

    Recently while sitting around in conversation after a program, my co-worker turned to us and said something along the lines of “We’re all naturalists here, I just assumed we all had biology degrees.” It was a beautiful autumn day, and myself and five other naturalists were gasping for air after hours of field trip programming for first graders. We had each spent the morning walking through golden lit forests, building shelters, and finding bats, all while answering the questions of curious minds of of running children. I forget the way we ended up questioning the nature of a naturalist, but am deeply familiar with my co-workers sentiment.

    It is something I have encountered numerous times, most frequently in urban areas. It is a sentiment I encountered while talking with a principal of an elementary school in St. Paul, who when I told him I was pursuing a degree in environmental education asked “Ah, so you want to be a science teacher”. Or, there was the time that I was offered a job at a local charter school. When I asked what position I would be taking on, the director of the school answered, “well science, duh!”. There is an assumption present in these statements that a naturalist or environmental educator is in essence a science teacher in an outdoor setting. Some of you reading may share that philosophy. And I understand it. As I write this, I feel entirely silly myself for having taken a very different path into the profession of being a naturalist. A Naturalist IS a science educator, but is also so much more. A Naturalist thinks in history, biology, sociology, art, and all sorts of other fields in order to interlink a community with its ecosystem. So what exactly is a Naturalist?

    For now, I think I am satisfied just asking the question. Throwing it out there into the cyber void. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to describe one thing a naturalist is. Then maybe a couple days later I will describe another thing a naturalist is. For now though, the autumn has ended, and it is time for me to take a walk to Lake of the Isles in new fallen snow, greeting the three cardinals in my bird feeder on the way.

  • Thank God I am Not a Space Whale

    Thank God I am Not a Space Whale

    “Thank God I’m not a space whale,” I think to myself with my ear crushed against the yoga studio floor, “for if I were a space whale, I would be doomed to forever wander in wonder in the vastness, the grand vacuum. And I wouldn’t be able to experience this…”. The class below is playing one of my favorite songs, and its reverberations pulse through the floor in a steady rhythm, in opposition to the pristine calm of the Yin class above. My body, folded in tension and discomfort, exists in contrast with my mind, stretched out in perfect stillness. In the contrast I am in revery. My lover is on the next mat over from mine. Our hands nearly touch on the rough wooden floor. I am not a space whale. I am here. I am human. I am experience and thought held together by blood and flesh.

     As my body folds over itself so too does my mind, finding the parallax between the energy below and the calm within. Every muscle and thought folding into each other, held together by experience and sensation. Thus, I think to myself in gratitude, thanking whatever higher power there may be, whether God, Karma, or lover, that I am me, existing in this moment on the yoga studio floor, folded into my imagination.

    Space is vast. Potentially infinite, though more likely simply big. We can observe a 93 billion light year bubble, growing every day on some upon unknown substrate, teeming with vibrating strings of energy. Their pulse is probability and fills reality with more versions of itself than can possibly be known. Yet on the scale of sensation, of that which we may perceive and experience, space is deeply empty. Something around 96 percent of the universe is made up of stuff that cannot be seen, felt, or heard. I think of dark energy and dark matter as Karma without experience. Energy without spark. Lack of suffering. Lack of anything. Perfection. The rest of the universe isn’t so diverse either. Seven types of stars and seventeen types of planets, composed of and separated by one hundred some types of matter, scattered.in small bubbles hung together by gravity, the vastness of perfection in between. All incredibly breathtaking, all incredibly boring. So little variety in the inky darkness of dust and neutrinos.

    Thank God I am not a space whale, I think as I am folded over on the yoga studio floor. If I were I would be cursed to wander forever the void of the universe. Imagine that. Floating between the stars as though they were a sea, following the gravitational flow of galaxies from system to system, taking in everything. Every gas giant, every chunk of rock burning or freezing or just right and bursting with blue. Forever dreaming of observing the death of a star. Would the pale blue dot of the Earth be but a mote of dust in my wanderings, of the same amount of interest as a roadside attraction? Or would it be repulsive to my biology, an object of fear and dread, so adapted to the inky black as I would be?

    On the yoga studio floor, I am for a moment that space whale, staring down at a chaotic planet of joy and pain. My keen eyes see the Whittier neighborhood, photons reflected off speeding cars, record stores, and folks walking between destinations. There is no medium for sound or smell in my home amongst the vacuum, so I can only observe the people in child’s pose through the yoga studio glass. Just for a moment I am that wanderer, bound to bearing witness to the birth and death of stars and planets. Always witness to experience, but never the one who experiences. A creature of wonder in our imaginations, sentenced forever to wander the void of eternity.

    Here I am. My ear pressed against the wood floor, the sun weeping photons into my eyes. I am a being of Earth, experiencing life regardless of will. Doomed to experience with little time to observe. I am brought back to myself. The song changes. The vibrations through to floor slow, and my teacher calls me to a new posture. My body rises without the intervention of my mind, instinct pushing me forward. I experience every speck of light falling upon my body reflecting know the colors I portray myself to be. I am called back to experiencing my present moment, instead of merely observing it. feeling the contraction of each muscle on my way to gratitude. Thank God I am not a space whale, I think to myself. Later that night I am crying in my bed, remembering I am cursed and blessed to experience, and to someday end. My lover holds me. In my dreams, I wander from star to aching star.

  • Towards being a Science Teacher in 2022

    Towards being a Science Teacher in 2022

    I apologize that is has been so long. The past two weeks have been a time of going back and forth between the Twin Cities and the Northwoods, followed by a time of catching up with myself. While this has allowed much time for thinking and reflecting, it hasn’t left much for writing. I’m pretty okay with that, and I’m hoping that I may be able to devote more time to my writing self soon, as I have six whole things I would love to write. Not just yet though, because big life changes are happening.

    Within just a month or so I will be starting a position as a science teacher at an amazing charter school in an urban/suburban setting. I’ve always been opposed to seeing myself as a science teacher. When I am asked what I’m going to school for, what I will do to earn a living, I always answer “Environmental Education” which is sometime always met with (when talking to folks in the traditional education system), “Oh so you want to be a science teacher, good for you!” a response I am endlessly annoyed by and yet suddenly find myself in the position of being. All of a sudden I have to ask myself some questions. What is this whole Science or STE(A)M thing? And how do we practice teaching science while preparing students to honorably interact with the world around them?

    My class starts as students file in, expecting a video and a worksheet as they have done for the past couple years. They are surprised when we find ourselves in a circle, with the questions on the board being “What is Science” and “How do we practice science?” My objective in this class is to give my students the tools they need to notice the interactions within the world they live in, and document the phenomenon they sense everyday as interesting and noteworthy. Rather than discovering facts about the world around them, I want them to be able to see the world through the perspective of a geologist, chemist, or physicist. I want to take my students to the park nearby to do real science, through curiosity, observation, and an app called iNaturalist. I hope that I can show them how different types of scientists view the world, and ask them how they view the world in a similar or different way. I want them to question the western scientific method, and ask how science is to be best conducted in the 21st century. Most of all I want them to do four things.

    Notice the thing

    Get curious about the thing

    Document the thing

    Think about how the thing connects to other things.

    I honestly have no idea how similar or different this philosophy of teaching science is from any other teacher out there. I have no idea if it will work in practice. Maybe I’ll write about it. For now I focus on actually getting there first. And amongst it all I want to keep writing for anyone who would like to read. Mostly to hold myself accountable my next few subjects for this blog are: how place changes us, simplifying our expectations for a just world, challenge hikes, using gardens as a teaching tool, and maybe the conference I’m going to next week.

  • Sit Spots

    Sit Spots

    A full year after my mentor, Joe Walewski, gave my cohort of naturalists an assignment I am finally getting a round to actually doing it. It may not end up exactly as he assigned, or even close to that. However I am doing it. Today is my 14th day sitting in the same spot at Corny Beach for at least an hour each day. I have a routine here. Take a picture, sit and watch the waves of Gitchi Gumee and note their intensity (soft, but not still today), read by book (Schools that Heal by ___________), dive into the Lake, then read again as I dry out, switching to my novel (Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time today). I expect I’ll continue this trend for another week or so until I have to travel for a few days.

    Sitting this way, collecting snapshots in time and watching changes every day or week or month is called a sit spot. I don’t know the origin of this practice, someone can hopefully give me a history, but I hope that contemplatively inclined humans have been doing this since the dawn of consciousness. It’s the practice of the Buddha, sitting under the tree and finding enlightenment. It’s the practice of __________. Sometimes we humans are drawn to a place, and we sit there many times in our lives. It’s a practice I have always been pretty bad at until the past two weeks.

    My sit spot at Corny Beach as it is today.

    Through sit spots we can see the world shift between weather and seasons, noting who is doing what and when. Here at Corny Beach, I’ve observed how tourists react to the weather and day of the week. There’s the obvious, with there being fewer folks on a blustery wavey weekend than a bright and warm one. But there’s the not so obvious, like there being so few people here on a perfect and sunny Wednesday. Today I noticed a high number of bee flies swarming about, harmless flies which have evolved to appear like the more painful and more bountiful bee. I notice that the way the Lake moves is changing between the summer and the fall, and the ways various levels of siche effect change the structure of the beach. Maybe tomorrow I will notice the smaller plants and animals at my spot. Having a spot, and visiting it everyday, gives me joy in the knowledge of my place. Here I hold space only for me, give myself a chance to become steady, and just breathe. Even living so close to Lake Superior, sometimes in the details of life it becomes easy to forget she’s there. Making these visits part of my life everyday has made it impossible to forget that the Lake is right there, ready to support me.

    If you’re like me, a digital native born in a time of stimulation and content, it can be difficult to just sit in the same spot and observe. Don’t try. Please do have those moments of wonder in which the content washes away, but don’t force it. Don’t force your sit spot either. As you begin this practice just walk around, find yourself somewhere. Sit someday, maybe years from now, maybe tomorrow by the swamp or on that bridge you like. Then, as you find that place for the moment, take out your content whether that’s a book or a journal or crocheting, and let your conscious mind focus on that. The rest of your mind will make observations of the world around it, and give you curiosities to follow as you will. And then, the next, find yourself craving to return to the same spot, and go.

    Corny Beach Day 1: Fog over Roman’s Point and perfect sunshine just a mile away.
  • Place

    Place

    Place changes us fundamentally as people. People change as their place changes. Our habits, our emotions, our ways of knowing, all have roots in our biome and social geography. I’ve thrown myself into the waters of Gitchi Gumee each day for the past ten days, and those days have changed my mental space. More on this to come, hopefully on Wednesday. For now, enjoy your place….

    The Lake is whimsy…
  • Knowing by Not Knowing

    Knowing by Not Knowing

    A dear friend recently told me “I love knowing things by the way I don’t know them” as we spoke about differentiating species of lilies. I loved that phrase deeply, and I’m still trying to find all of its meaning. To know something by the ways in which you do not know it is an action. You are actively seeking what you you do not know about a thing, without seeking to answer those unknowns. I am simply wondering “what will the color of this lily be?” or “what are the parts of their flower and how do they react to the midsummer sun?”, and then I am letting the lily tell me in their own time. This attitude has some similarity to the scientific method I think.

    The curiosity of a naturalist  is bounded not by the discovery of a thing, but by the rediscovery of that thing over and over, as our perspective of the thing is changed by time. Year after year, my observation of the lilies in my yard is changed and given depth by my own sorrows and wonders, as well as the minute details of jetstream chaos, temperature differences, and forest canopy coverage. This could be considered a variation of phenology, keeping track of the year-to-year changes in nature’s timing as we track our own changes as well. To me, phenology is the realization that our own perception of nature’s changes affects those very same changes.

    The best emotional state with which to make phenological observations is with a cool and rational mind, looking for the first bloom of the marsh marigold the instant its petals unfold! But that same rational mind tells you little about your relationship to that marsh marigold, or everything that is happening around it. You sure could wait beside the wetland boardwalk all night, waiting for the petals to open before the morning light. Or you can find yourself on an adventure, and suddenly remember “ah yes, I’m looking for Marsh Marigold today, who were they again?”. By allowing ourselves to be curious about the mysteries around us, we may lose some scientific pinpoint accuracy, but we may discover so many more connections between all these little things we may have never seen before.

    Knowing a thing by the ways we do not know it means simply asking questions, not expecting an answer, and loving that thing through the mystery of what we ask. To love something or an interaction of things for its mysteries is a practice of honorable interaction with the ecological system of our Home. I know Gitchi Gummi by the way I never know what she will give me on any given day. By the way I don’t know what is around the next bend along her rocky and winding shores. Just as I purposefully forget the color of the lilies in my yard, year after year. I do this so I may hold that surprise each time it blooms, and may love again those petals, as their ornage petal unfurl to the mid-summer sun or those Superior waves as they crash about a mysterious pointe. I invite you to find yourself in boundless surprise, by allowing yourself to never know too much, and to always forget one little thing.

  • A Naturalists Habits

    A Naturalists Habits

    The habits of a naturalist are eternally ordinary. Watch, count, find wonder, and repeat endlessly (there is always an end, but let’s ignore that part for today). In walking with a friend at Siskiwit Falls today, in the tiny village of Cornucopia along Gitchi Gummi’s southern shore, I counted the steps one of the waterfalls had carved into the sandstone in one particular spot, 13, and compared it to another spot. All this counting before wandering down to a sandbar where a bare tree lies, a mystery to be identified and cataloged. And by cataloging we may know a little more or satisfy our inner curiosity, through which we naturalists build an honorable relationship with Place.

                My friend and I debate the patterns of bark and growth, and find meaning in the speckling of knots along the debarked tree. We guess everything from alder to box elder to cottonwood. Through all this we find meaning from each other, deepening human bonds over curiosity in the slightest mystery. The habits of a naturalist are all about noticing relationships and tying niches together into a whole picture of a biome, large or small, and that includes human connections as well. My friend and I are just getting to know each other, and this mystery is our connection point. It is soon forgotten when they find an orchid along the river’s banks, a green bog orchid, which I still check in on every so often.

    Along the same banks, we later observe layers of sandstone, separated from the main body of bedrock. Here on the South Shore our bedrock is glacial till and sandstone on top of igneous gneiss. Here in particular, the river has eaten a path in the sandstone, and along these banks’ underneath cedar roots and their threads of roots, disks of sandstone have fallen from the main body of bedrock, to be cradled aloft by the roots of the cedar. I feel that way sometimes. Separated from the beloved source, and held up by the barest of gossamer strings. Somedays, I feel as the debarked tree must, or as the sandstone steps of the waterfalls. Feeling deep relationship, kinship even, is also a habit of a good naturalist.

    Still wondering who this tree was? Anyone know?

    Here is a lovely resource for understanding Wisconsin’s bedrock regions. ——> https://www.wpr.org/take-your-own-tour-through-geological-wonders-wisconsin