Monday, July 29, 2019
Saturday, September 8, 2018
The first headline “A Large Body of Water on Mars Is Detected, Raising the Potential for Alien Life” appeared in the New York Times (July 25, 2018) and was based upon a paper published shortly thereafter in the journal Science (3 August 2018) providing radar evidence for subglacial liquid water on Mars.
The second headline “Beyond the Shadow of a Doubt, Water Ice Exists on the Moon” appeared in Scientific American (August 21, 2018). In that article the author, Leonard David, wrote that the water was “deposited in perpetually dark craters around the poles” and suggested that “the ice could be a boon for future crewed lunar outposts.”
These two headlines remind us that though we have yet to confirm the existence of life elsewhere in the universe—and perhaps that confirmation will never come—that living things require resources upon which to subsist. Thus, a search for the primary resources upon which life depends (or alternatively for the distinctive wastes generated by living entities)—both searches, we should mention, assume that we know what “life” is, exactly, which we don’t—often surrogate for the direct detection of alien organisms. Attempts to search for aliens organisms will follow any promising leads from the search for resources and waste.
Water being sovereign among the resource needs of life (most organisms will die of thirst long before dying of starvation), the discovery of extraterrestrial water thus points to putative indigenous life on those planets (and satellites) where it is detected. Whatever about the conjectured needs of alien life, without doubt humans are a thirsty species, and the existence of extra-terrestrial water encourages aspirations to support human life off this particular planet upon which you and I are discussing these issues.
Now, interesting though these developments may be, we might ask why an environmental scientist—an urban ecologist in particular—should be more than casually distracted by them? For two reasons, I think. Though it didn’t have to be so, the prospect of space colonization has often seemingly been motivated by concerns about resource shortages on Earth. Certain elements, such as deuterium used in nuclear reactors, are hyper-available on Mars and could be profitably returned to the ‘home planet’. Additionally, rare metals like platinum, gold, and silver, can be mined on Mars for use back on Earth.
Beyond these immediate implications, the two articles illuminate the following issues: the difficulty of defining (and detecting) life, the reaffirmation not only our sense of aloneness in the solar system, but also the herculean (and expensive) efforts that are expended in attempting to meet the neighbors, so as to speak, and finally the papers hint at the machinations that will be required to colonize another planet—maintaining life in xeno-environments.
Making space more tangibly part of the resource shadow of Earthlings is one thing but the prospect of space colonization as providing a alternative home in the event of planetary despoliation is quite another. Yet, there is in the literature of space colonization and terraforming a notion that off-planet colonies provide a “Plan B” in the event of a catastrophe on this planet.
Gerard K O’Neill (1927–1992) the Princeton physicist and space exploration enthusiast, framed his advocacy for space colonies explicitly in the context of concern over environmental pollution and the ‘evils” consequent from the Industrial Revolution. In The High Frontier: Human Colonies in Space (1976) O’Neill wrote “the evils of environmental damage (pollution and so forth) are minor compared to others that have appeared: sharp limits on food, energy and materials confront us at a time when most of the human race is still poor, and when much of it is on the edge of starvation.” The solution, as O’Neill saw it, was not to “retreat to a pastoral, machine-free society…” No, the future rather is in space colonies that should be free-floating in space and thus open to constant solar radiation supplying us with unlimited energy. Such space colonies, O’Neill wrote, will follow on as “an inevitable result of the large-scale development of space resources.” Space will ultimately become a “new Earthlike environmental range for humanity, bathed in continuous free energy…” — humans’ newest habitat.
I should note that in January 1976, O’Neill appeared before the Senate Subcommittee on Aerospace Technology and National Needs laying out a case for an Apollo-style program for building power plants in space. Ultimately, these plans were regarded as “nutty” and funding space colonization research was cut from NASA’s budget.
Space conquest has had a curious green tinge for decades. Colonizing space potentially extends the human project into its newest phase. For all its novelty, for all the ways in which space colonies capitalize upon emerging technologies, they nonetheless are an extension of the territorial expansionist impulse that has long been part of our species’ repertoire. Space colonies are besides—and this is really the main purpose of this short essay— the next increment in an explicitly urban project that began several thousands of years ago.
Although the term “colony” is used in the literature on expansion into space, many advocates preferring more neutral terms like “settlements” and “outposts.” Carl Sagan (1934 –1996), who remain the most famous space advocate referred to space “cities” rather than “colonies” to avoid the negative connotation associated with colonization. Sagan is being diplomatic— after all colonization has lost the luster of its heydays—but in calling them “cities” he is, at the same time, being terminologically accurate.
In imagining the earliest cities, we can ask how their small populations were sustained. How did they transform their hinterlands? There is a significant literature that reports on such investigations. The sustenance of space cities and the degree to which they will transform other planets should interest us. Since this is to be our remote future and not our remote past, the future of the humanity may depend upon it
Conceiving of these space cities (or town, hamlets and so on) and embarking on space-urban-planning is a useful thought-experiment. It not only draws out a definition of what a city is—a question that has a long, contentious, and unresolved history— but also tasks us with creating a list of what we would need to bring along with us in order to sustain life off planet. For example, an astronaut tripping across the lunar surface did not need to bring gravity with them. However, strapped to their back and pumped into the lungs is a tank containing a rough approximation of the Earth’s atmosphere. That astronaut will also have access to other physiological and psychological necessities to endure the trip. What, on a grander scale, will an entire colonizing community need to pack with them to replicate, even minimally, the accoutrements of civilization?
All colonized planets, and asteroids, and even space stations, will be urban in character.
There will be no hunter-gatherer phase on Mars, nor will humans need to reinvent agriculture there; we will load upon our space vessels our literacy, social hierarchies, capitalism, and all of the urban delights, excesses and disasters and take them along for the ride.
When or if cities are established on other planets the sequence of urban development will thus extend from Ancient/Classical cities (to around 1250), Mercantile/Colonial cities (to 175), Industrial/Imperial (to 1970), Post Industrial/Post-Colonial (to present), to Non-terrestrial/space cities. Since most of us live in post-industrial cities, we do not have direct access to other forms of urban development. Of course, there are remnants of previous stages accessible as either living fossils distributed across the landscapes of contemporary cities, or as ruins that we can visit or read about, but the more remote historical stages are obscure.
Image from Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Space_colonization
Saturday, July 21, 2018
Once upon a time, in a beautiful but endangered forest far far away a prince and princess met, fell in love and married. They were blessed with a hundred children. “I wonder,” said the princess, somewhat exhausted from her exertions, “how best to raise our dear ones to care for each other and their beautiful forest home?” “I have heard,” replied her husband “that reading to children matters.”
Being of a scientific inclination, the royal couple assigned twenty children to each of five experimental groups. They prevented these children for mingling—for keeping the groups apart was deemed good experimental practice—and assessed if reading matters asking following questions. Should one read aloud to children, or narrate stories of a parent’s own devising, or read and discuss plot points at length as one proceeds through storytime, or should one perhaps, as early as possible, cultivate the youth to read on their own and abandon them to their own devices? One group of children—“our little controls” as the happy couple called them—were raised without the benefit of any stories at all.
The results of this longitudinal study were alas inconclusive. The prince haughtily accused his wife of surreptitiously reading to the control group; the princess icily retorted that her husband’s monotonic voice had lulled everyone asleep thus undermining the study. “I’d sooner stab myself in the ears than listen to another word from you.” Their scientific paper was rejected for publication; the couple lost their funding. They all lived happily ever after.
An experiment, such as the one in my fairy tale, evaluating the importance of storytime, may strike us as rather unseemly. There is indeed an ample scientific literature on the efficacy of reading to the young, though it has developed using less drastic research protocols. Since storytime is a cherished practice and therefore omnipresent in schools, libraries, and homes it has been the subject of many rigorously designed “natural” experiments (where scholars simply evaluate ongoing practices without deliberately manipulating them in the lab). This research evaluating outcomes in different settings affirms that reading aloud to children enriches a child’s vocabulary, enhances general literacy, entices the child to persist in reading for pleasure, and can, besides, increase empathy, tolerance, reflection and a range of virtues. Besides, time spent reading is time not spent watching television, the baleful implications of which are routinely mentioned by researchers in this field. Reading can, under the right circumstances, also help children become more attuned to the natural world. Less attention has been paid to this environmental desideratum of reading and storytelling than to other aspects of reading. Because of this gap, I have devoted a considerable part of my research time in the past few years to thinking about how bedtime can cultivate the environmental sensibilities of the child.
It is a rare parent, of course, that gears up for the arrival of their infant with a preparatory review of the academic literature. Yet even without the benefit of this prefatory labour and even without having the benefit of a hundred children with whom to experiment most new parents and guardians quite intuitively surmise the virtues of storytelling. A bedtime story is as much a part of the institution of the family as birthday parties and early morning snuggles. The benefits seem self-apparent, and the methods, are adaptively applied. Parents simply go with what works and will improvise a strategy that best suits them
Storytime can settle a child down, and prepare them for crossing that often fraught threshold between daytime and nighttime. Those of us in our middle years often employ the expression “sleeping like a baby” to indicate our nostalgia for those magnificent slumbers of earlier life phases. However, to do so is to forget that enticing the child to relinquish the day, and submit to sleep is an enduring domestic battle. A story can help that process along and can, besides, provide comforting fodder for their reveries as the child nods off to sleep.
One might hesitate before intruding upon the soft but potent comforts of the bedtime story ritual by adding, say, the burden of vocabulary lessons, or ethical training, or even the tutoring of environmentally salutary behaviour. There may indeed be those guardians who can with didactic resolve turn the nighttime routine into a lesson of sorts. However, one imagines that this approach can be soporific. Thus, instituting pedagogic programs at bedtime may end up satisfying another less exalted ambition and the child will be gently snoring before the second bullet point of the crepuscular lesson plan.
More realistically, parents and teachers, aware of what reading aloud, or storytelling more generally, can achieve can make laudable choices in the books they read to children—and let the books do the work. Many books, ABC books most conspicuously, have this design in mind. In addition, a parent can fortify this oblique lesson by incorporating commendable themes into bedtime chats with their child. No need for PowerPoint slides!
Though one surely never retires as a parent, but since both my children are now adults, the heavy lifting seems to be done. Our children are unleashed upon the world; we did the best we could. Though it has been some years since I read to them nightly, it is only quite recently that we’ve moved their libraries from their bedrooms to the basement. The process has been a slow one, because as I moved them I was drawn again to these books and started to reread. What I noticed almost immediately was that many of the titles they loved were nature-themed. A hefty percentage were about animals.
As an ecologist, I had, of course, purchased books that I thought would provide especially valuable lessons about the environing world. Some of these books appealed to them—Paul Geraghty’s The Great Green Forest (1992), for example, is a delight—others were duds. More often than not the books my children were attracted to were the standard fare of enduring classics (The Hobbit (1937), Heidi (1881), The Secret Garden (1911), Winnie-the-Pooh (1926), and so on) as well as more recent books (The Harry Potter series, The Hunger Games series, etc.). It became apparent to me that even stories that were less obviously environmental contained profound lessons about nature.
After some fitful progress on this reading project—for the first time I was reading Harry Potter books on my morning train commute—I gave myself a couple of years to systematically excavate the environmental themes in children’s books. The results are reported in a book called Beasts at Bedtime: Revealing the Environmental Wisdom in Children’s Literature (2018). What I found is that arrayed across classic children’s literature is a hidden environmental curriculum. This really should not surprise us, since many writers for children’s were quite explicit in their green sensibilities. JRR Tolkien—whose enduring fondness of trees is well known, and Beatrix Potter—an animal enthusiast and amateur mycologist—are merely the most obvious among these.
In one of his more peculiar essays, Creative Writers and Day-Dreaming (1908), Sigmund Freud drew parallels between the creative processes of the mature artist and the play of children. Both involve the spinning of phantasms. In that essay, Freud proposed that daydreams, like sleeping dreams, are wish fulfilling. Daydreams have the following structure: they link in the mind a recollection of the past with some impression from the present moment, and impels us towards some future ambition, the fulfillment of the wish.
A mature artist will have a reservoir of experiences to draw upon, whereas the child is mainly futurally inclined. The reason that stories are so compelling and important for children—and this, I should say, is my theory not Freud’s—is that they enlarge the repository of experiences that the young mind can draw upon. Children in their day-to-day world are already attuned to nature—loving their pets, splashing in puddles, collecting random scraps found in nature (pebble, branches, spiders in matchboxes), and so on. Thus, the stories read or told to them by an environmentally adroit parent can combine a compelling fictional experience, with the child’s immediate interests, and can prepare the child for the future.
Just as it is necessary for a parent to be conventionally literate themselves in order to ensure their children growing literacy, a parent must be environmentally literate in order to ensure their young charges get the most from their books. A parent turns to the written page for conventional literacy, but to inculcate environmental literacy they need to incline towards the out-of-doors. A well-prepared parent must read not just stories alone, but must be prepared to read the book of nature.
Once upon a time in numerous forests both near and far, dozens of princes and princess, met each other, fell in love, and had many, many children. Now, these royals lived at a time when vast swirling forces imperiled their forested dwelling, and the parents worried for their children’s futures. So the parents read to the children. Some of those children loved hungry caterpillars, some loved a simple but very thoughtful bear, some loved hobbits, some loved a rambunctious boy with a companionable tiger, and others loved a little girl living in the Alps with her grandfather…. And when those children grew up, lo and behold they found they were equipped to protect their forests from injurious activities. They all lived happily ever after.
Liam Heneghan is professor of environmental science and studies at DePaul University. He is a Dubliner, and a father of two grown children to whom he read every night of their early years. His book Beastsat Bedtime: Revealing the Environmental Wisdom in Children’s Literature in now available.
Friday, July 20, 2018
A writer’s path is paved with the flagstones of their unread essays. Years ago I wrote an essay entitled “Soil and Myself” for the collection Irish Spirit (Wolfhound, 2001). I was attempting there to come to grips with my youthful loss of religious faith and my growing enchantment with the earth as a source of inspiration and solace. This spiritual crisis occurred in the early eighties, an era when the dimensions of our global environmental problems were becoming apparent. I fell in love with a damaged world.
My turning to nature was a physical one to be sure, but my late teen years were also a time of reverie inspired by those Irish writers that cared about both people and wild landscapes: Liam O’Flaherty, W.B. Yeats, and Lady Gregory, for example, and by all the earthy shenanigans recorded in the Irish mythological cycles. An apposite ratio of nature hikes and of literary contemplation provided me a foundation for optimistic living.
“Soil and Myself” was published, the world turned, and I moved along as writers are wont to do. Several years later, I got a letter from a reader—perhaps the essays only one—who remarked on how the piece had moved her. She was getting on, she wrote, and was latterly attempting to draw consolation from the same sources I had. As a codicil, she noted that she had elected not to have children because of her worry about nuclear armageddon. Why bring a child into this damned world? She concluded wistfully that had she had a child that child would be my age now. By the time I got that letter I had survived nearly four decades without facing down any real calamities.
This small but arresting exchange came to mind on reading a number of recent pieces that assume a bleak environmental future. For example, a recent Onion headline quips dolefully “Sighing, Resigned Climate Scientists Say to Just Enjoy Next 20 Years As Much As You Can.” In in a less droll fashion, the Climate Change and Life Events app allows users map their future against projections of future temperatures (https://climate-life-events.herokuapp.com/). The future will not look like the past. The New York Times reports on some couples’ deliberations about their reproductive future in the light of such realities: “No Children Because Of Climate Change? Some People Are Considering It” (New York Times, Feb 5, 2018). A new generation considers the prospects of raising children in perilous times. Unlike nuclear annihilation, which, so far, has failed to materialize, the bombs of climate change, so to speak, have already left their bunkers, though there is some uncertainty about their yield. Facing an uncertain environmental future, and occupying a planet that horrifyingly may be unable to sustain its burgeoning human population, determining to have, or not have, a child is a fraught decision.
Even if the world’s population stabilizes in the next century (which seems likely) and does so within the limits of our finite planet (which is less certain), one might still hesitate before choosing to offer up your notional child to this crammed, tempestuous, and warmly steaming world.
Faced with such prospects—and as an environmentalist I was an early adopter of cataclysmic thinking, despite the sustaining quality of my early nature-reveries—my wife and I had our first child twenty-six years ago. Since she and I never dated and simply got married (don’t try this at home kids) we never had that conversation about kids that others seemingly do. I rather assumed we would not have children, regarding this as bad environmental practice, she rather assumed we would, regarding this as something that humans just do. We added another child to our reproductive tally four years later.
Had my wife been of the same mind as me, I might not have ever thought of the matter again. There are times now, when reexamining my cavalier indifference to parenting that I shudder to realize how blithely I might have set aside my life’s greatest pleasure. Not to have children would have seemed a failure of optimism. Not merely a failure to hope that crises can averted—perhaps they cannot— but a failure to imagine our children as being capable of loving this planet, however besmirched it may be.
Environmental calamity puts food on our family’s table. Thus, our kids grew up being aware of the full panoply of planetary horrors. Both boys are cognizant of what they are facing. My joy in parenting them notwithstanding, it’s fair to ask if we did them a disservice in birthing them into such a world.
I texted our boys to ask if they remain enthusiastic about the ambiguous gift we presented them in the light of what they now know about the world. Both answered in a way that reflects their adult interests. The eldest, a philosophy graduate student, texted: “There is no standpoint from which to sensibly ask whether life is going well, like a poker game, because there is no external standpoint.”
The younger child, an economics graduate student, took a more pragmatic approach: “I’m good with it…,” he wrote, “…although it’s difficult to say because it may get harder in the future. Right now, I good though. I’m content with this whole existing stuff.”
I suggest you try this sobering exercise with your children.
When both our children left home, the nightly task of locking up our, now empty, nest continued to fall to me. Instead of securing our children, ensconced in their feather beds, in the home, I lock them out instead. Since they left, I have been giving thought to the question of how prepared these kids are for the world that awaits them beyond the lintel. They certainly seem open to those perennial and perplexing gifts this battered world can offer: love, friendship, the joys of reflection, the joys of creativity. Like me, at their age, they draw solace from wild nature and interactions with non-human beings. Both have a warm regard for animals.
What else, I wondered, embolden them to be (cautiously) hopeful?
I got a partial answer as I moved the boys’ childhood library from bedrooms to basement. Or rather, my wife moved them, and I reread them. As I glanced at these books—from the classics to contemporary titles—on these short ambles through the house, it struck me that both boys’ optimism had been cultivated by the stories they read as mine had been years before (and continues to be). The world, even a fictional one, has its frightful moments undoubtedly. Yet powerful lessons abound in both life and in stories about how we can persist in loving and caring for the world.
After I lost my religious faith, and turned to the soil, and to stories rooted in the soil, it was not to lose myself there and ignore the breakages of the natural world. One can remain aware of such troubles, and yet be content to endure with all this “existing stuff.” Surely, we are not such latecomers to the world that we feel incapable of cultivating awe, love, and hope.
By all means, have a child in these precarious times. Hell, have two. Or don’t have kids at all. However, neither climate change, nor nuclear threats, nor even the heat death of the universe, for that matter, should stop you.
If you do have children, help them fall in love with the world. Immersion in nature and in quiet repose with books can help. Someday your kids may begrudgingly thank you for their existence if you care to ask them about it. Unless, of course, they haughtily refuse the very premise of your question. Cheeky, hopeful, blighters that they are.
Liam Heneghan is a professor of environmental science and studies at DePaul University. His book, Beasts at Bedtime Revealing the Environmental Wisdom in Children’s Literature (University of Chicago Press) will come out in May 2018. (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Saturday, April 15, 2017
You've been warned: "Although Bosch’s Paradise is undeniably a garden, and hell is a garden of a hideous sort, the Earthly garden is neither perfect, nor is it horrifying. It’s an amalgam of sorts. The garden we live in may be what we make of it: if your life is not sensual, pleasurable, or fruitful enough, you have just a moment of two to repair the situation, for one may not tarry in the Garden of Earthly Delights."