Blog Post #8: Hippocampus and the Fear of Dark Waters

From NOVA Online "Seahorse Basics": http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/seahorse/basics.html

              I have always been fascinated by seahorses. Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, a water sign. Maybe it’s because in Roman mythology, Neptune’s chariot is pulled by seahorses. Maybe it’s because their genus name, Hippocampus, comes from the Latin “hippo” meaning horse and “campus” meaning sea monster and I can’t imagine anything much more terrifying than a sea monster. It’s more likely because of the way they look. They have the ability to change color to match their surroundings. They have magnificent headsets. They have plates of armor instead of scales. They have eyes that can rove separately or together. They have a prehensile tail that wraps around a stalk of seaweed or a piece of coral anchoring them in the vast sea.

             There are approximately 54 different species of these fish. I have always loved their species names. As exotic, odd, or common as wildflowers: Winged seahorse, False-eye seahorse,  Giraffe seahorse, Knobby seahorse, Cape seahorse, Tiger Tail seahorse, Crowned seahorse, New Caledonian Thorny seahorse, Big-head seahorse, Long-snouted seahorse, Spiny Seahorse, Lichtenstein's Seahorse, Bullneck seahorse, Japanese seahorse, Monte Bello seahorse, Northern Spiny seahorse, High-crown seahorse, Pygmy Thorny seahorse, Queensland seahorse, Slender seahorse, Half-spined seahorse, Hedgehog seahorse, Tiger Snout seahorse, Flat-faced seahorse, Walea pygmy seahorse, and Zebra seahorse, just to name a few.

I have always admired seahorses and the fact that they are monogamous. If their mate disappears or dies, they are slow to find another partner. I would be slow, too. They are greatly desired in the Traditional Chinese Medicine market as they are thought to be an aphrodisiac and a cure for other ailments. Of course, this requires them to be captured and killed at an estimate of about 20 million a year. Hundreds of thousands of seahorses are captured for the aquarium trade. And since they live in sea grasses, mangroves, coral reefs and estuaries, their homes are being destroyed. So, the chances of them losing a mate are rapidly increasing. This seems especially cruel to a genus known for monogamy.

But what really fascinates me is the fact that the male seahorse is the one who takes care of the young. The female deposits hundreds of eggs into his incubation pocket, which he carries for 20 or so days. And even after they hatch, he incubates their babies until they are developed enough to swim out on their own. Then he gives birth to them one by one. All male seahorses do this. But, I think they are the only males who do. As my due date approaches, the reality of giving birth and not knowing exactly what to expect except general pain lurks like a sea monster in dark waters. A little part of me wishes I could pass this part of becoming a parent onto my partner.

Blog Post #7: Spring Cleaning

Sunday, March 24, 2013

10:32 a.m.

33 degrees Fahrenheit

Feels like 27 degrees Fahrenheit

Today, sitting in my chair in my backyard, I’m having trouble concentrating on nature, or, at least, nature as I have been taught to think of it. This week, we have been reading essays by urban nature writers. One essay in particular, “Thirteen Ways of Seeing Nature in L.A.” by Jenny Price, has me focused on all of the many products I take for granted. (You should read it. You’ll never think about your “un”natural surroundings the same way again.) Of course, her project is not unlike other nature writer’s we’ve read this semester. One piece in particular (prose poem? lyric essay?) by Pattiann Rogers entitled, “This is Nature” from Dream of the Marsh Wren, is a list of many, many things from Bach to “an ice pick through the chest or a soothing hand on the forehead” to support her point that, “[n]othing that exists…is outside nature.” And I believe that. I thought I knew that. But reading Price’s essay about a nature in a thickly urban environment showed me that I still harbor the thought that nature is around us in the city, yes, but only in the green spaces. So, today, I’m looking at the objects we’ve put here, rather than the plants and animals that I’ve been focusing on in past posts. For the most part, these objects are not hard to find because they are, for the most part, much brighter than the rest of the yard. There are the metal for sale signs Andre re-purposed for hanging plant and bird feeder holders, the plastic kitty litter bins we sunk into the ground for compost bins, the brightly colored ceramic tea cups we used for growing sweat oat grass that we just left in a larger ceramic pot over the winter, a few ceramic gnomes, and a St. Francis statue that, despite our best efforts, occasionally loses his head. 

Bird feeder

Compost Container

Gnomes and St. Francis

Pot full of pots

Whose basketball is this?

 

So, even though these objects would not be here if Andre and I had not put them here, they are part of the landscape. They are part of the backyard. They are part of the natural world and have a natural history. I believe this. But…

Despite the slightly warmer, sunny weather yesterday, I spent the morning and most of the afternoon inside my house. With a few windows thrown open to the not-so-frigid March air, Andre and I engaged in the annual activity of spring cleaning. While moving from one room to the next, I tried to consider the natural history of some of the objects I take for granted. Where did the oak or maple (I’m not sure which) come from that now make the floors and banister of my house? Where does the white vinegar and baking soda come from that we use to clean almost all of the surfaces? What about the lye my husband used to make the soap we use every day. Where does the pigment come from for the many colors of paint we’ve painted the walls throughout our house? Where does the paper come from to make the pages of the hundreds of books that line our walls? What about the bookshelves they live on? About some of these objects I could make an educated guess (wood, paper) but the origins of paint pigment? I don’t really have a clue. (As a side note: the blog, Pigments: A Brief History of Color is fascinating.)

Blog Post #6: In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

27 degrees Fahrenheit

Feels like 17 degrees Fahrenheit

March is said to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. I’ve always loved that saying. It illustrates the end to the blustery, roaring winter months and promises the glorious entrance of the soft days of spring.

This past weekend it felt like spring outside. In the warmer weather, my backyard suddenly seems so inviting. Despite my ballooning belly and the difficulty it gives me when I try to bend over, I spend much of the day Saturday raking up the leaves we spread as covering compost last fall. The leaves did not completely break down over the winter and clearing them away feels as though I’m clearing away two seasons, fall and winter. There are more of the same green sprouts I discovered last week popping out of the uncovered ground. The tulips and daffodils are still green shafts. The crocuses are in full bloom and there are more and more groups of them. They are perfectly bunched lavender bouquets, hunched close to the ground. Nestled in the green grass, they look like an Easter basket display. On one of the crocus clusters there is a honey bee crawling in and out of each purple blossom. The first bee of the season!  

But the lion returned yesterday, easily devouring the lamb. Today, the low gray sky is spitting snowflakes in every direction making it hard for me to keep my notebook pages flat, let alone dry. The lovely patches of crocuses are hardy, though. They don’t seem to be bothered by the cold and wind, presumably the result of millions of years of evolution. Their time to bloom is now, in a month that can change from 60 degrees Fahrenheit to 25 degrees Fahrenheit in a day. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the lion didn’t devour the lamb. Maybe the lion is roaring its frosty last breath in the lamb’s gentle, purple-flowered face.  And the lamb grows that much stronger for it.

I heard this poem about the end of winter on the Writer’s Almanac a few days ago:

In the Late Season

At the soft place in the snowbank
Warmed to dripping by the sun
There is the smell of water.
On the western wind the hint of glacier.
A cottonwood tree warmed by the same sun
On the same day,
My back against its rough bark
Same west wind mild in my face.
A piece of spring
Pierced me with love for this empty place
Where a prairie creek runs
Under its cover of clear ice
And the sound it makes,
Mysterious as a heartbeat,
New as a lamb.

"In the Late Season" by Tom Hennen, from DarknessSticks to Everything. © Copper Canyon Press, 2013.

Blog Post #5: Spring Marches In

4:30 p.m.

26 degrees Fahrenheit

(feels like 17 degrees Fahrenheit)

March is the first month of the Roman year. It is also my birthday month. It seems fitting that it is named after the Roman god of war, Mars – given the bitter cold of this wind blowing through my backyard it’s a battle to stay out here. But March also holds the first day of spring. This year, according to 2013 Old Farmer’s Almanac, the vernal equinox occurs on March 20 at 7:02 A.M. EDT. On the first day of spring, day and night are each approximately 12 hours long. Balance is reset as we move into the light-hearted days of spring.

There have been a few warmer mornings this past week where I heard birds enthusiastically singing, but none are singing at the moment. I don’t know where they go, but I don’t see any nests in the trees or the ground of my backyard. I have been told not to feed ducks and geese because it may interrupt their sense of urgency when it comes to migrating south for the winter. Because of this, I have always felt unsure about keeping a bird feeder stocked in the late fall through the winter. I didn’t want to inadvertently cause the demise of some migratory bird because I wanted to see more birds in my backyard. But, according to a webpage entitled, “Feeding Your Backyard Birds,” found on the Humane Society of the United States website, I really have nothing to fear. In fact, it can actually be helpful: “Bird feeding is most helpful at times of when birds need the most energy, such as during temperature extremes, migration, and in late winter or early spring, when natural seed sources are depleted.”

I do see something that makes my heart leap. Green sprouts pushing through last year’s layer of dried leaves and compost. Green sprouts that will eventually turn into green stalks and bright flowers! These plants seem like a miracle to me. I recognize them because my husband planted the bulbs the first fall we lived in this house and points them out to me each year as soon as they start to emerge: crocuses, tulips, and daffodils. The tulip shoots are the first that I notice. They look like red rolled tongues (you know, that trick only the genetically-enabled can do) sticking out in tight bunches. Their insides are green and full of promise.  

Not far away are the mop-headed crocuses. They seem comically disheveled compared to the militant unfurling of the tulips. I even found one purple flower. It is gorgeous and so welcome. 

A few feet away, I discover the daffodil shoots. They seem so substantial, ready to burst into their cup and saucer blooms. I remember ours being of the white and yellow varieties, but I wouldn’t swear to it. 

What I do know is that their time is coming, even if I forget because I am so removed from the day to day passing of the seasons, only noting hard to miss events like the vernal equinox, a full moon, or a flower once it is blooming. This year, I get to point out the shoots to my husband. I may not point out to him the hole I found where I’m pretty sure a squirrel absconded with a bulb. 

I choose to see this as part of the balance, a way for humans and non-humans to share this backyard. And like a responsible patron of the earth, the squirrel left some bulbs to become green shoots.