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In 2018, in Puget Sound, a mother orca (catalogued J35 in our scientific papers but named by those studying her and her family “Tahleqhah”) gave birth to a calf that died an hour later. She had gestated her for nearly 18 months. When her baby died, “she wasn’t ready to let her go,” writes Meera Subramanian in her essay Black and White, in Orion magazine. “She held her newborn calf afloat in the cold waters of the Sound nudging hundreds of pounds of inert flesh, blubber, and bone along the surface. Breathe. Push. Submerge. Let go. Rise. Breathe. Push. Don’t let go.”
Exhausted after a week, other orcas in her pod joined in helping her keep the dead infant afloat. They carried it over one thousand miles, for seventeen days! The only fitting, non-scientific descriptor is grief.
In the same essay, Subramanian insightfully explores how the Star Trek series references whaling as a metaphor about human relations to more-than-human life. In Star Trek IV, aliens are attempting to communicate with Earth, specifically, whales. Leonard Nimoy as Spock says: “Only human arrogance would assume [an alien] signal must be meant for mankind.”
We can’t hear what our mindset tunes out.
~~~~~~
A very kind and compassionate friend recently posted about an amazing local experience. Some friends were in a drum circle near a river and heard some Canada Geese honking up a loud ruckus. So much so the folks went to see what was up. The parent geese were distressed because a gosling was underwater, held there in the grips of a snapping turtle’s beak. With much effort the humans managed to get the turtle to let go. It was a heartwarming tale.
And yet, it made me wonder, are some species more precious? Which ones? Does age matter? While floating on an inner tube, I’ve seen an 18” diameter, very old snapper in that same stretch of river (Admittedly glad it didnt mistake my toes for a morsel to eat). When do we choose to engage in such incidents? And why? I’m not sure what I would have done.
Many critters pass through and live in or near my small, semi-wild, inner city yard. I generally welcome them, but do try to salvage some of my vegetable garden for me by fencing it in. Something recently dug a burrow under my front porch. I have a live trap and have relocated groundhogs in the past. However, I’m not comfortable risking delivery of a skunk, which may use an abandoned g-hog’s burrow. Wandering the yard with me, a critter expert sniffed the air by the hole and instantly declared: groundhog. When I asked about a few smaller holes he confirmed my suspicion — rat holes.
I accept rats are one of those seldom seen but ubiquitous critters living everywhere humans do. I can livetrap the g-hogs, but his suggestion for the rat holes was to toss poisoned bait into them. I was hesitant. I asked a trusted master gardener friend; she said you can use poison, but it may also kill an owl preying on a weak rat.
We all have to choose our limits. Most of us cringe at killing an owl but are far less troubled by poisoning a rat. Why? Where and how do we define what life we will defend? Full disclosure: I opted (so far) to use mint concentrate which rodents particularly dislike, and to plug up their holes, in the wish they find other pathways.
Another incident: While hiking in Idaho a few weeks ago, we witnessed a red hawk cresting a ridge above, with a 3 ft. snake dangling from its talons. I’ve read they sometimes drop them from a height to kill them. It had me wondering, do other life forms ever try to avoid causing suffering?
~~~~
I’m reminded me of an experience a few years ago on a tour in Kenya’s National Park, which is adjacent the border of its capital city, Nairobi. Three sides are fenced and one is bordered by a river that enables herds to migrate in and out toward the famed Masai Mara. Several of the iconic species live and migrate within the park: Giraffes, rhinos, wildebeest, zebra, lion, hyenas, baboons, buffalo, hippos, crocodiles, leopards, elands, other antelopes, snakes and hundreds of bird species. Unlike a zoo, this allows the full dynamic of life to proceed.
We were within a car (visitors are required to stay in vehicles) with a park guide when we turned a corner and saw an impressive lioness “proudly” surveying the land in our direction. She stood on a small mound just a twenty yards from our vehicle. We stopped and watched, mostly awed by the beauty and presence of this creature.
She stood for a long while when the guide (familiar with his park, and this lion) mentioned she was the mother of a pair of cubs, who were nearing the age to be on their own. Eventually we noticed she was sniffing as she scanned the horizon behind our vehicle.
Another car load of visitors quietly pulled up beside ours and the cameras were aimed. To our astonshiment, she stepped off the berm and down into the dirt road, and nonchalantly strolled between the vehicles. We barely moved other than the quick rolling up of some widows, I think most of us were too stunned to breathe.
She then walked into the grasslands behind us, got low to the ground, began stealthily moving toward a herd we had passed several hundred yards back. We could barely keep track of here from our vantage point. The guide said the lioness was downwind, making her way to the wildebeests. We were mesmerized as the scenario slowly unfolded, a few yards at a time, over a half an hour.
All at once, she bolted like lightning into the pack, and lunged as the group scattered. One was slow or misstepped within range of her claws, she caught it, they tumbled and rolled, legs flying. She emerged atop and sunk her teeth into its neck as it let out an unmistakeable last bleat of life.
The driver of our vehicle, was a mother, and had grown up in Nairobi. However she was inexperienced at chauffeuring park tours, and had never seen a kill in person. She was very upset by the scene. The park rangers are very careful not to intercede in the dynamic. Our park guide very matter of factly pointed out this was food for a week or more for the mother and her young cubs, and that without such a kill, they would not survive.
The cubs were as much potential lunch to a mother crocodile as the wildebeest had just become. This was a routine and necessary process. It was harsh to see, yet I felt vey privileged to witness the drama of life unfold.
~~~
It was a stunning sight in Idaho when we saw the hawk still hovering and clutching the snake a half hour later— at least, we assumed it was the same snake. Was it still alive? Had it been dropped and not killed by the fall so plucked upward again? Or was it slowly draining the snake’s vitality while floating on updrafts? Was the hawk avoiding being bitten? Or was it patiently carrying a fine lunch waiting for some of the too many humans to vacate its dining spots?
All these animal scenarios involved the passing and exchange of life energy. Each revealed how harsh it is to die, how difficult it is to let go. Maybe the transition, especially when such a direct exchange, is so intense, there are very few “easy” ones.
~~~
Many of us are justifiably troubled by wars, or horrors like the genocide in Gaza, and the destruction of human life wherever our media directs our focus. Yet, to cite just one example, few are aware far more humans are suffering and dying in Sudan, “4 million children are acutely malnourished, 770,000 at immediate risk of death.” But can we ever really quantify suffering? We all know the pain of losing a single loved one. This mass horror has been unfolding since before the “wars” US media highlights in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza, and Iran. Apparently, we’re still hardwired to notice and respond mostly to the local, even if that’s a safely abstracted version on a screen in our palm.
We can’t hear what we tune out. How and why do we select which species, nations or people are more valued? Who directs my focus, and why?
~~~
Will I have a chance to stave off an encounter with my own death? Will I want to do so? Will someone intercede on my behalf? Will I want them to do so? What creatures will my departed flesh feed? I do know I don’t want to corrupt my dead flesh with chemicals that vainly defy death, and ruin my body’s nutritional value to other life.
When my death is immanent, I hope I go with acceptance — but if I’m unsure where to intercede in other lives, how will I know when to let go of this incredible personal experience of being?
It seems easier if I can accept occupying this human form as just one phase I’ve manifested as, before merging with the Whole. Still, this gift of now is awful sweet… and challenging.
Acceptance of the dynamic of life seems wise, yet within this sentiment I feel a tension, perhaps an instinctive contrary impulse, because I want to believe I’ll act to keep another from suffering rather than stand by and see them endure pain… Maybe my inner tension arises from arrogantly assuming I’ve got control of the dynamic and somehow supposed to “direct” its flow, when in fact, I’m a teeny player with a small bit of agency within it. Which is precisely what keeps life infinitely open to nuance and evolving.
Those lion cubs had a mother that was sustaining them. It seems the gosling had dutiful parents (and was also very lucky some humans acted on its behalf). I imagine that snapper had parents that (at least genetically) helped guide its survival (and I hope it found enough other food to get by).
I can’t stop thinking about that Orca mother losing her infant calf, and her whole pod grieving with her. Do the kids starving in Sudan not also have loving mothers? Can we begin to imagine the depth of their grief? Who and what determines those we work to save, and when do we choose to intervene?
Maybe that snake, like the wildebeest, lived just as long as it was meant to live. At the least, I feel throughout its life it contributed energy to the incredibly wondrous circle of life. It’s uncomfortable to apply this idea to watching a cute fuzzy gosling drowned by a snapper.
And yet, perhaps because it’s so mind-numbingly haunting, so cruelly severe, we can’t even begin to pay attention to the human upon human suffering in places like Sudan…
I’m sure I’ll be here just as long as I’m meant to; and I also hope to my bones that while I’m here I’m adding to the harmony of life more than disrupting it.
Exhausted after a week, other orcas in her pod joined in helping her keep the dead infant afloat. They carried it over one thousand miles, for seventeen days! The only fitting, non-scientific descriptor is grief.
In the same essay, Subramanian insightfully explores how the Star Trek series references whaling as a metaphor about human relations to more-than-human life. In Star Trek IV, aliens are attempting to communicate with Earth, specifically, whales. Leonard Nimoy as Spock says: “Only human arrogance would assume [an alien] signal must be meant for mankind.”
We can’t hear what our mindset tunes out.
~~~~~~
A very kind and compassionate friend recently posted about an amazing local experience. Some friends were in a drum circle near a river and heard some Canada Geese honking up a loud ruckus. So much so the folks went to see what was up. The parent geese were distressed because a gosling was underwater, held there in the grips of a snapping turtle’s beak. With much effort the humans managed to get the turtle to let go. It was a heartwarming tale.
And yet, it made me wonder, are some species more precious? Which ones? Does age matter? While floating on an inner tube, I’ve seen an 18” diameter, very old snapper in that same stretch of river (Admittedly glad it didnt mistake my toes for a morsel to eat). When do we choose to engage in such incidents? And why? I’m not sure what I would have done.
Many critters pass through and live in or near my small, semi-wild, inner city yard. I generally welcome them, but do try to salvage some of my vegetable garden for me by fencing it in. Something recently dug a burrow under my front porch. I have a live trap and have relocated groundhogs in the past. However, I’m not comfortable risking delivery of a skunk, which may use an abandoned g-hog’s burrow. Wandering the yard with me, a critter expert sniffed the air by the hole and instantly declared: groundhog. When I asked about a few smaller holes he confirmed my suspicion — rat holes.
I accept rats are one of those seldom seen but ubiquitous critters living everywhere humans do. I can livetrap the g-hogs, but his suggestion for the rat holes was to toss poisoned bait into them. I was hesitant. I asked a trusted master gardener friend; she said you can use poison, but it may also kill an owl preying on a weak rat.
We all have to choose our limits. Most of us cringe at killing an owl but are far less troubled by poisoning a rat. Why? Where and how do we define what life we will defend? Full disclosure: I opted (so far) to use mint concentrate which rodents particularly dislike, and to plug up their holes, in the wish they find other pathways.
Another incident: While hiking in Idaho a few weeks ago, we witnessed a red hawk cresting a ridge above, with a 3 ft. snake dangling from its talons. I’ve read they sometimes drop them from a height to kill them. It had me wondering, do other life forms ever try to avoid causing suffering?
~~~~
I’m reminded me of an experience a few years ago on a tour in Kenya’s National Park, which is adjacent the border of its capital city, Nairobi. Three sides are fenced and one is bordered by a river that enables herds to migrate in and out toward the famed Masai Mara. Several of the iconic species live and migrate within the park: Giraffes, rhinos, wildebeest, zebra, lion, hyenas, baboons, buffalo, hippos, crocodiles, leopards, elands, other antelopes, snakes and hundreds of bird species. Unlike a zoo, this allows the full dynamic of life to proceed.
We were within a car (visitors are required to stay in vehicles) with a park guide when we turned a corner and saw an impressive lioness “proudly” surveying the land in our direction. She stood on a small mound just a twenty yards from our vehicle. We stopped and watched, mostly awed by the beauty and presence of this creature.
She stood for a long while when the guide (familiar with his park, and this lion) mentioned she was the mother of a pair of cubs, who were nearing the age to be on their own. Eventually we noticed she was sniffing as she scanned the horizon behind our vehicle.
Another car load of visitors quietly pulled up beside ours and the cameras were aimed. To our astonshiment, she stepped off the berm and down into the dirt road, and nonchalantly strolled between the vehicles. We barely moved other than the quick rolling up of some widows, I think most of us were too stunned to breathe.
She then walked into the grasslands behind us, got low to the ground, began stealthily moving toward a herd we had passed several hundred yards back. We could barely keep track of here from our vantage point. The guide said the lioness was downwind, making her way to the wildebeests. We were mesmerized as the scenario slowly unfolded, a few yards at a time, over a half an hour.
All at once, she bolted like lightning into the pack, and lunged as the group scattered. One was slow or misstepped within range of her claws, she caught it, they tumbled and rolled, legs flying. She emerged atop and sunk her teeth into its neck as it let out an unmistakeable last bleat of life.
The driver of our vehicle, was a mother, and had grown up in Nairobi. However she was inexperienced at chauffeuring park tours, and had never seen a kill in person. She was very upset by the scene. The park rangers are very careful not to intercede in the dynamic. Our park guide very matter of factly pointed out this was food for a week or more for the mother and her young cubs, and that without such a kill, they would not survive.
The cubs were as much potential lunch to a mother crocodile as the wildebeest had just become. This was a routine and necessary process. It was harsh to see, yet I felt vey privileged to witness the drama of life unfold.
~~~
It was a stunning sight in Idaho when we saw the hawk still hovering and clutching the snake a half hour later— at least, we assumed it was the same snake. Was it still alive? Had it been dropped and not killed by the fall so plucked upward again? Or was it slowly draining the snake’s vitality while floating on updrafts? Was the hawk avoiding being bitten? Or was it patiently carrying a fine lunch waiting for some of the too many humans to vacate its dining spots?
All these animal scenarios involved the passing and exchange of life energy. Each revealed how harsh it is to die, how difficult it is to let go. Maybe the transition, especially when such a direct exchange, is so intense, there are very few “easy” ones.
~~~
Many of us are justifiably troubled by wars, or horrors like the genocide in Gaza, and the destruction of human life wherever our media directs our focus. Yet, to cite just one example, few are aware far more humans are suffering and dying in Sudan, “4 million children are acutely malnourished, 770,000 at immediate risk of death.” But can we ever really quantify suffering? We all know the pain of losing a single loved one. This mass horror has been unfolding since before the “wars” US media highlights in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza, and Iran. Apparently, we’re still hardwired to notice and respond mostly to the local, even if that’s a safely abstracted version on a screen in our palm.
We can’t hear what we tune out. How and why do we select which species, nations or people are more valued? Who directs my focus, and why?
~~~
Will I have a chance to stave off an encounter with my own death? Will I want to do so? Will someone intercede on my behalf? Will I want them to do so? What creatures will my departed flesh feed? I do know I don’t want to corrupt my dead flesh with chemicals that vainly defy death, and ruin my body’s nutritional value to other life.
When my death is immanent, I hope I go with acceptance — but if I’m unsure where to intercede in other lives, how will I know when to let go of this incredible personal experience of being?
It seems easier if I can accept occupying this human form as just one phase I’ve manifested as, before merging with the Whole. Still, this gift of now is awful sweet… and challenging.
Acceptance of the dynamic of life seems wise, yet within this sentiment I feel a tension, perhaps an instinctive contrary impulse, because I want to believe I’ll act to keep another from suffering rather than stand by and see them endure pain… Maybe my inner tension arises from arrogantly assuming I’ve got control of the dynamic and somehow supposed to “direct” its flow, when in fact, I’m a teeny player with a small bit of agency within it. Which is precisely what keeps life infinitely open to nuance and evolving.
Those lion cubs had a mother that was sustaining them. It seems the gosling had dutiful parents (and was also very lucky some humans acted on its behalf). I imagine that snapper had parents that (at least genetically) helped guide its survival (and I hope it found enough other food to get by).
I can’t stop thinking about that Orca mother losing her infant calf, and her whole pod grieving with her. Do the kids starving in Sudan not also have loving mothers? Can we begin to imagine the depth of their grief? Who and what determines those we work to save, and when do we choose to intervene?
Maybe that snake, like the wildebeest, lived just as long as it was meant to live. At the least, I feel throughout its life it contributed energy to the incredibly wondrous circle of life. It’s uncomfortable to apply this idea to watching a cute fuzzy gosling drowned by a snapper.
And yet, perhaps because it’s so mind-numbingly haunting, so cruelly severe, we can’t even begin to pay attention to the human upon human suffering in places like Sudan…
I’m sure I’ll be here just as long as I’m meant to; and I also hope to my bones that while I’m here I’m adding to the harmony of life more than disrupting it.
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