"Lineage and Life"

Every one of us knows someone who has been transformed by fatherhood.

Even the most feckless and undomesticated 

can somehow manage it.

I’ve seen it in my own family:

as my brothers welcomed their sons 

into the world,

they changed – and for the better, 

in every way.

Though we live in a society

in which many people are tragically flawed,

unable to be good parents

or even to take care of themselves,

it is heartening to remember 

the many ordinary people who do.

 

The transformation into fatherhood or motherhood

is one of the mysteries of life.

It is the work of that mysterious bond –

between one human life and another –

that calls forth the qualities within us

that nurture, protect 

and encourage life itself.

The life force passes from one human to another,

in the bond between parent and child.

It is not limited to biological parents and children,

as any adoptive parent can tell you.

The bond is the love of life,

the capacity within us to care –

at times even selflessly and unconditionally –

for another.

 

There are bonds in life everywhere,

as I was reminded the other morning,

while walking my dog, Aki, on the beach.

We met another dog who looked almost exactly like him – only larger.

The two dogs politely sniffed each other

while we humans chatted about their ancestry –

one Japanese, the other Korean.

 "They have a genetic link somewhere,"

said the man with the Korean dog.

 

In was just another casual conversation among dog walkers,

but indicative of a much larger truth: 

all life is connected.

As E.O. Wilson wrote in The Future of Life,

"All organisms have descended 

from the same distant ancestral life form."

The genetic link is everywhere –

not just in its most human and beloved form as parent and child,

but in every form of life there is.

And just as there are responsibilities and ethical implications 

to being a parent,

there are as well for all human beings,

whether we have children or not.

We have an important role to play in the care of all life –

and in these times of global warming,

we’d better find out what it is.

I always turn to E.O. Wilson first 

to seek guidance on environmental issues.

As a scientist and conservationist, 

he has the facts 

and still remains hopeful.

Wilson claims that the genetic unity we share with all life

engenders an affinity with it.

It calls us to nurture, protect and encourage it everywhere.

>From this affinity comes a "conservation ethic."

 

A conservation ethic, in Wilson’s words,

"aims to pass on to future generations

the best part of the nonhuman world."

We have a relationship – a bond – 

with the earth

just as we do with our own families.

This bond shows us what it means to be human,

just as we learn from being parents

and from relationships with others.

"To know this world," writes Wilson,

"is to gain a proprietary attachment to it.

To know it well is to love 

and take responsibility for it."

 

To know the earth is to experience the wonder

of its dazzling biological diversity

and the enchantment of the wild.

Just as a father gazes on the wonder of his child

and revels in each and every development,

the earth offers us a rich experience to be known

and mysteries to be explored.

In one of his rare self-revelatory asides,

Wilson tells us that he considered swimming a narrow channel

in the Florida keys.

That is the passage I read to you earlier.

"There is something crazy" 

about wanting to do that, 

he admits –

especially considering the presence of barracudas and sharks –

"but also something real, 

primal,

and deeply satisfying."

 

How we go about getting to know the earth 

may vary from person to person.

As a warm-water holiday snorkeler,

I’ve rarely been tempted to dive deeper

and plunge into the darker realms of the sea.

And I don’t need to.

Biological diversity is everywhere:

in the differences, great and small,

we encounter as travelers away from home;

and in the details of our neighborhoods,

as the seasons change in color and bloom.

Wherever we go,

it is the earth we are exploring.

 

We are drawn to the mystery and wonder of nature.

Wilson mentions studies of children 

that have shown that they have preferences

for certain kinds of places

as they develop.

Unlike baby bear

in the story I read earlier,

the youngest children are not naturally soothed by nature.

They can be indifferent 

or even "fearful of the natural world

and of all but a few familiar animals."

But as they grow older, 

they seek it out.

Nature provides secret gardens, hideouts,

and the landscape for acting out childhood fantasies.

Children head for "woods, fields, ditches

and other unclaimed spots 

they can claim as their own."

In the suburban town where I grew up,

abundant lush parks provided the mildly wild places

we children haunted.

Wilson points to examples even in the most urban areas,

where children have turned 

culverts, alleyways, 

basements and hedges

into special places that simulate wilderness.

 

Nature gives children indelible memories.

I remember an undeveloped area behind my house 

where at certain times of year –

and with a certain prescience –

I sought out my favorite wildflower,

the "jack in the pulpit."

Part of what it means to be human

is to carry the memory

of being in nature.

It shapes who we are.

As we get older, we develop preferences,

lose some fears – and gain others,

and sense that our relationship to this earth

is privileged and unique.

This is where the conservation ethic begins.

 

Wilson uses an interesting image 

to describe our relationship with the earth.

It even struck me as having theological meaning,

though Wilson probably did not intend that.

"Because all organisms have descended from a common ancestor,"

he writes,

"it is correct to say 

that the biosphere as a whole

began to think when humanity was born.

If the rest of life is the body,

we are the mind.

Thus, our place in nature,

viewed from an ethical perspective,

is to think about the creation

and to protect the living planet."

 

The earth began to think when we were born.

Perhaps the sense that life is holy

has its foundation in our role as thinkers for the earth.

That "spark of divinity" we sometimes say humans possess

may be the part of ourselves

that relates lovingly and responsibly

to the rest of creation.

 

We human beings sometimes say that life is a gift.

We understand that it does not belong to us,

but is somehow in our care.

And yet, though we watch our health,

raise our young,

and support each other through the struggles of life,

we know that despite our care,

we shall die anyway.

We feel deeply the paradox of wanting to live fully

and knowing we must let go some day.

We wonder what will happen to the life force

when it passes from us.

 

Fathers and mothers see the passage of time

and the continuity of life

in the children they raise.

But they also see it, 

as do we all,

in the future of the earth

and its condition when we hand it over

to those who follow.

The earth gives us a sense of personal continuity too.

Many of us imagine

that when our bodies turn to dust,

we merge with the earth again.

The life force never dies;

it only seeks transformation.

 

I find it easy to think in terms of these connections;

what I find hard 

is knowing what to do about them.

I do the usual things a responsible citizen does:

conserve energy,

recycle,

clean up after my dog.

But I doubt that my personal conservation practices –

even if they are multiplied by other earnest citizens –

will save the earth.

And some days I wonder whether anything will.

 

But Wilson remains hopeful.

Wilson believes that people with different political perspectives,

even those who are directly opposed,

are all capable of working together

in the spirit of the conservation ethic.

No one hates nature.

Everyone has a role to play in saving the earth.

 

Scientists and environmentalists can educate us

about what needs to be done

and we citizens can call upon our elected officials

to follow their lead.

We can learn that there is an environmental tragedy

that results from human poverty.

"The natural environments where most biodiversity hangs on,"

writes Wilson,

"cannot survive the press of land-hungry people

with nowhere else to go."

Caring for the earth means caring for people.

If we help the earth’s poor 

attain a decent standard of living,

their habitats will survive too.

"The guiding principles of a united environmental movement,"

writes Wilson,

"must be, and eventually will be,

chiefly long-term.

If two hundred years of history of environmentalism 

have taught us anything,

it is that a change of heart occurs

when people look beyond themselves to others,

and then to the rest of life."

We know we can do it.

This is the same transformation at work in us

when we become parents.

We have the capacity to care –

at times even selflessly and unconditionally –

about the future of life.

 

Where that capacity may lead us,

what awakenings await

and adventures remain,

are the moral landscape of humanity now.

When we enter it,

we become aware of just how connected we really are –

connected, not alone –

in the genetic unity of life.

And we cannot imagine our lives without it.

So we learn how to love and be responsible for it,

and know that we have finally discovered

our role in creation.