My home in Arizona sits at the edge of the desert, right next to the Pima Indian Reservation.  My yard is pink with rocks and green with long-leaf trees; there are clusters of enthusiastic yellow flowers clambering to its perimeter.  It is populated by a family of California Quail birds; an iridescent hummingbird nesting in a tree outside my office window; a few woodpeckers who from time to time tap their percussive rhythm; a group of owls that perch on my roof and gaze out over the desert; several plump lizards that look like dinosaurs and remind me of the ancient history of this region; and one spry underfed rabbit.  Once I saw a skinny coyote climb nimbly over my wall; he ran around quickly, then just as nimbly, climbed over and out again.  Although the visit lasted only about 30 seconds, the commotion among the animals made me notice.  And I know there is a herd of wild horses that lives in the reservation out back.  Although I haven’t seen them from my yard, once while out hiking, I did see them cross a nearby road on their way to a stream to take their daily store of water. 

In the late afternoon, as the hot sun begins to fade, sometimes I swim in my small pool.  I like to float on my back and look up through the trees.  I gaze long and long at the pale green leaves, the deep blue sky, the orange and purple and brilliant pink clouds. 

I notice that when I am in such reverie, the birds will behave differently from when I walk around on the ground:  when I float in the water, they will fly in close and land on the small plants and ground roundabout, instead of the more distant fences and trees.  In fact, the Quail birds will often walk right up to the edge of the pool and look straight down at me.  If I move from one side of the pool to the other, they will sometimes move so they can follow along.  Since my body is covered with water, what they see is mainly my head.  I imagine that I must appear much smaller to them than I normally do:  perhaps they think I am a fish or some kind of food.  There is something personal about this interaction with me:  I notice that when other people are in the pool, the birds won’t behave this way - they will just keep their distance.  Maybe it's just that I am quieter, but in any case there is something about my behavior that attracts them, or at least doesn’t frighten them away. 

Once when I became worried about something while in the pool, I let out a small cry of bewilderment.  I noticed that instead of flying away, the birds, which up until then had been sitting up in the trees, suddenly dropped down to the ground and began to make sounds too, moving about in an agitated way.  Some flew from one side of the pool to the other, venturing in closer, trying to see me better.  They cocked their heads, squawking and chattering.  They were affected; they were concerned.  When I went back to my normal activity of floating on my back and looking up at the sky, they went back up to their perches and sat quietly.  When I emerged from the pool and walked toward the house, they turned their heads and watched.  I stopped and looked at them as well, and said goodbye.  Some moments later, they flew away.  It would seem as though my Arizona birds have accepted me as part of their extended family.  My sense is that they are concerned about me, about my feelings and my safety.  And being a person with an innate sense of ecology, a sense of how things are interconnected and need to stay in balance, I know that I should feel the same about them, and I do. 

Although I am not indigenous to Arizona, like all people, I am indigenous to the earth.  Consequently, I am indigenous to all ecologies, local and global, connecting all creatures, great or small.  From native people here (and native people from other places of equal beauty) I have learned much about how to live in harmony with the earth.  I have learned that our best teacher is that which gives us life, whether our mothers, the earth, or what lives most locally. 

The lessons nature has to teach are everywhere, and are especially reflected in the comings and goings of the tiny creatures that surround us.  The life of each living thing is important, no matter how small or large, and is to be respected and honored.  This is both for ethical reasons, because the creature is alive and has the right to remain alive and to live in dignity and peace, but also because the survival of the ecosystem depends on the connections between everything and everyone, and its most fragile members may provide its most important links.  All are part of an intricate and vast mosaic of life, each interconnected segment an integral part of the whole.  Put another way, it is that Native American lesson:  all life is connected; what we do to one small part, we do to the whole. 

Meanwhile, we face the horror of mass extinction of species.  Consider:  according to the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, a scientific study undertaken from 2001 – 2005 of the consequences of ecosystem change, more than 30,000 species are going extinct every year as a result of human domination of natural habitats.  At this rate, within 25 - 50 years 30% of all species now alive will be gone forever; and within 100 years, it is possible that very little will be left alive except for weeds, cockroaches, and rats. If human beings survive, it will likely be in massive cities and under conditions that most people today consider unacceptable, with loss of major food sources in the sea and on the land.  We need to quickly change our thinking and behavior so as to slow down this process of destruction, and live in harmony with the nature that remains. 

This vast scale of destruction needs an equally vast response of caring.  We need to learn how to heal on an individual level, then how to do it on a global scale.  We urgently need to restore our collective soul, to re-establish the connections to life, to redirect our technology and know-how in ethical, sustainable directions.  We need to use our collective intelligence not for destruction - this trend must be stopped - but for the saving and restoration of habitats.  We need to critique the technologies and economic and political systems that disconnect people from nature.  We need to redirect our destructive energies and use them to reconnect ourselves with organic structures in positive ways, emphasizing not only ethics, but empathy. 

I like to try to imagine what it would be like if the resources of the planet currently assigned to waging wars around the world were used, instead, to restore habitats.  I like to imagine what it would be like if hospitals and self-healing centers were being built instead of prisons.  I like to imagine a world without guns, bombs, fighter aircraft, and war games.  I like to imagine a world where people everywhere stopped driving cars using fossil fuels.  I like to imagine cities as self-sustaining ecosystems with limited importation of goods and food, using renewable energy sources.  And I think that imagining is an important first step toward actualizing.  Working with individuals and groups who already are committed to these goals is also important. It is the scale, diversity and momentum of the green movement that gives me hope. 

We also need to find ways to address those fundamental beliefs that rationalize destructive human behaviors, and to change those beliefs.  The most likely way for such a massive change in direction will be through education, art, religion, science, restoring a basic respect for life.  Next we need to attend in a conscious manner to the environment, housing, life and ways of living that practice balanced, green lifestyles, and move decisively toward intelligent reuse and biodegradable products, toward reduced consumption and reduction of waste.  Quality of life needs to be re-defined; appreciation for and protection of nature must be seen to be of central importance.  Such massive change must be wrought both from the bottom up, through individual activity, and from the top down, through institutional governance.  The transformational effects of inspired education and media may be the best way to accomplish these changes and transform the way people think. 

We are each a part of a network, a kind of vast mosaic of nature, all creatures connected to all other living things.  When one creature dies, there is forever a hole, something missing in world consciousness, in the connections between living things.  As in nature, with new birth, we welcome new consciousness.  I have a dream that the day will come when so many millions of people have experiences similar to my communication with the birds, that telling such a story would scarcely seem remarkable enough to even bear telling at all. 

December 18, 2007