VIRTUAL “REALITY”…REALLY? – How Nature Can Save Us From Ourselves

“When I listened to developers talk about their eagerness to “immerse” audiences in multisensory experiences, I thought I detected a less savory desire 
to imprison them in programming — to leave them with no sensory exit.”
VIRGINIA HEFFERNAN – Virtual Reality Fails Its Way to Success – New York Times Magazine, Nov. 14, 2014

PASSIVE, TENSE
A vacuous reality star has managed to sucker the American media and a lot of citizens into paying attention to him as a possible presidential candidate. The Real Housewives of Fill-In-the-Blank continue to garner astounding cable TV ratings. Our kids and grandkids, exposed to advertising on every surface from the ubiquitous glowing screens, to supermarket floors, to people’s bodies, can identify hundreds of corporate logos, but not the trees and animals living on their own block.

We're being lulled, surely but not so slowly, into a kind of consumer torpor. We're allowing corporations—some would say machines—to not only decide what we see and how and when we see it, but in a very real sense control our comings and goings, the very tempo of our lives.

     They lure us ever closer to the end-game…
     making us think it's all our idea.

One social scientist recently asserted that the sci-fi plot line of computers taking over the world isn't really so far beyond the realm of possibility. They lure us ever closer to the end-game, all the while making us think it's all our idea.

A CLASSIC FAUSTIAN BARGAIN
Okay, so maybe that outcome’s a bit over the top, but the steps we’ve already taken in that direction are troublesome. In too many cases, something more or less tangible we once knew and loved has been stolen and stripped of at least one aspect of its reality, replaced, in a kind of Faustian bargain, with another quality the trend-makers would like us to think we asked for.

Among their cynical promises: convenience and other creature comforts; saving time and money; a competitive edge; safety; control; “connectedness.” And what are we left with? More time glued to screens and buying stuff we don’t need—a surrender we’re promised will make us happy, but which ends up doing just the opposite.

  It’s not reality; it’s entertainment. And we’re 
  raising a generation of kids who will no longer 
  be able to tell the difference.

Whether it’s information, entertainment, connection or inspiration, they’ve taken reality, with all its color, depth and imperfection, all its challenges to reflect and ponder, and repackaged it under a different definition of “reality.” Thing is, the new version was never meant to serve human needs, but those of the corporations and czars who control all that “content.”

Sped up, dumbed own, flattened, sterilized, lowest-common-denominator-ized, what remains is simply an illusion. From vapid sitcoms to children’s programming, to the news, it’s not reality; it’s entertainment. And I’m afraid we’re raising a generation of kids who will no longer be able to tell the difference.

What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, like pushers of other addictions, the trend-setting, faux-reality machine is no dummy. Start ‘em on a few seemingly harmless free samples; get ‘em hooked; they’ll come back.

DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS
It’s not until you step back and look at the big picture that you see the scope of the deception. Everywhere you turn there are examples of things and experiences folks are passively choosing no longer to actually experience or control first-hand:

• Fantasy football
• Virtual reality headsets and games
• Automatic bill-paying
• “Crowd-sourced” information and opinion
• The cloud
• Twitter-speak (communication reduced from something that once had tone and color—a heart and soul if you will—to the equivalent of primitive grunts.)
• Apps (For watching TV; ordering dinner—even when your wait person is within eye- and earshot; for dealing with your plumber…I could go on.)

• On-line dating
• Virtual medicine
• Telecommuting
• “Friending”
• Twenty-four-seven “connectedness”
• Seven-and-a-half hours a day on-screen* 
• Self-driving cars (and a bourgeoning field of other robotics)

For these activities and many more, we are now completely at the mercy of our computers and their ability—or willingness—to continue operating at our beck and call. It would take only one thing for any of these pursuits to simply quit and leave us helpless: the corruption of the vehicle.

We’ve already seen, albeit on an as yet less-than-apocalyptic scale, the signs of such betrayal. Power outages, air traffic control breakdowns, stock market crashes, data security breaches, service denials and an untold number of other hacks & whacks happen all the time, yet somehow we fail to put two and two together. Are these just tests, one might ask, of how much we’re willing to give up for our end of that Faustian bargain?

       The more technology-driven our lives 
       become, the more vitamin N we need to 
       balance the virtual with the real.

A DOSE OF VITAMIN N
Who are we? Where are the patience, the reflection, the curiosity, the heart and soul, the nuance, the character that have defined honest, self-aware, hard-working cultures for so many great generations? Where is the healthy tension between risk and reward?

In this age of Belviq and Botox, of Simbalta and Cialis, of more cures than there are maladies, there must be something we can take for this atrophy of mind, body and spirit that threatens to brainwash us. Right?

Turns out the remedy already exists. Always has, right under our noses. It is Nature. Or as Richard Louv so famously calls it in his best-selling book, The Nature Principle, vitamin N.

Louv never says—nor do I—that we should simply quit technology like a bad habit. What he does say is that the more technology-driven our lives become, the more vitamin N we need to balance the virtual with the real.

Nature is hard-wired into us from birth. So we can never turn off the fundamental connections between us, the earth and other living things, our need for our senses take it all in and be nurtured, taught and inspired by it. But we can and do forget how vital those influences are to our physical, mental and spiritual well-being.

REAL, LIVE…LIFE  
For each excuse one might have for not turning off the incessant virtual-reality deceit and actually getting out there in Nature, the potential benefit outweighs manyfold our tendency—or should I say our conditioned response—not to. Because Nature does not exploit; Nature cares for and teaches human beings—especially little ones—in the most amazing ways:

• By facing risk, we learn caution, creativity, patience…
• By learning about our environment, we learn about ourselves.
• By facing new experiences, we get in touch with the timeless.
• By surrounding ourselves with the vast, the complex, we learn of our true place in it all, at the same time insignificant and scary-powerful.
• By tackling challenges we didn’t think we could overcome, we learn about our capacity.
• By learning how little control we have, we learn about letting go.
• By escaping our culture’s complex, hurried, embattled, often alienating influences, we discover the timeless, boundless, totally-authentic original community to which every living organism on earth shares an equal claim.

Before we willingly concede yet more of our own reality to this media-mad, “connected,” “content” culture, let’s stop, take a deep breath and think deeply about what remains in our lives that still is real, and decide—before it’s decided for us—where we draw the line.

“The sensory cacophony (of virtual reality experiences like the Oculus Rift headset) is so uncanny and extraterrestrial to suggest to the organism a deadly threat.”
VIRGINIA HEFFERNAN

* Sources FamilyEducation.com   /  BBC
 

ART OF THE AGES – Lichen Painting on the St. Croix

The canvas: eons-old basalt. The medium: lichen, some of whose individual organisms may well have been here when the first European laid eyes on these cliffs. The artist: well…the Artist was here before there was a “here.”

It takes a moment of reflection to grasp the age of these rocks. They date from the Precambrian Eon, somewhere between 500 million and a billion years ago.

         The brushwork...looks wild and free 
         for work rendered so patiently.

This bluish-gray, Keweenawan altered basalt is the hardest basalt-type rock in America—so hard that boulders of it were used by NASA to test the drills employed on the moon probe. Since this type of basalt is found almost entirely on ocean floors, these terrestrial outcroppings in the Upper and Lower Dalles of the St. Croix River (which forms 169 miles of the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin), are considered quite rare, if not unique.

Some lichen species*, incredibly, are nearly as old as these rocks. First appearing on earth some 400 million years ago, they are here represented in at least five colors—including jet black. (Since there are hundreds of varieties documented along the St. Croix Valley, I won’t pretend to identify them.)

The brushwork—ranging from broad splashes, to wispy dry-brush, to seemingly random spots and drips—looks wild and free for work rendered so patiently. For that trick of time, for the composition of form and color and texture, the technique is breathtaking.

I am in awe.

* There are more than 10,000 species of lichen. They are composite, symbiotic organisms often comprising both a fungus and an alga. The former provides structure; the latter, sustenance, through photosynthesis. Most species grow less than a millimeter per year, and, given a durable substrate like this primordial basalt, can easily live for centuries.

COMPOUND INTEREST – Seduced by Hydrangea

Tiny closed-fist buds festoon hydrangea’s translucent, pale-green stems. From bottom up they pop open in precious, fertile, ivory florets. 
Their stamens outstretch expectantly. Here, here, look at me!

But someone else has stolen the show. The much larger, neuter flowers, like crisp, white-linen butterflies, flutter 'round, perhaps overselling to the thirsty those scant nectar sips below.

(I spotted this spectacular compound flower of the “pee gee” hydrangea – hydrangea paniculata grandiflora – on my neighborhood walk this morning.)

CHASED BY ROOTS – A Snapshot of Survival

Maples usually don’t mind wet feet, but the roots of this twin-trunk beauty—spotted along the Wisconsin bank of the St. Croix River—tell a different story. Like an elderly couple, one’s frail arm wrapped tenderly around the other, they seem to have turned their backs to the water, struggling to escape up the bank.

Decades of repeated flood and drought, freeze and thaw, waves and current have clawed at the tree’s footing. Storm gusts, funneled up the valley along open water, seize its leafy crown, twisting, levering at the old couple’s tenuous grip on wet, sandy ground.

       Like twisted arms and legs, they reach 
       and strain. Among them, anguished faces 
       peer out of the shadows.

To the generous eye, those gnarly roots reveal the extent of the torment. Like twisted arms and legs, they reach and strain. Among them, anguished faces peer out of the shadows.

How many more storms and floods will this denizen of forest's edge abide? Will it be these battle-worn roots that first give way…or will they hold while aging trunks snap?

I'm struck by the parallel to the human condition, to how we of warmer flesh and blood bear life's torments and burdens, and persevere. How those who best survive are those able to put down more roots, deeper roots. For, tormenting as those challenges may be, they are the very legs we stand on.

DANCES WITH WATER – How to Paddle a Canoe

I feel sorry for those who want or need a motor to propel their boats. Sure, it’s fast and easy, but it’s so remote, so…well…soulless. Not to mention loud, smelly and rushed.

PHOTO: boattest.com

I don’t remember who taught me how to paddle a canoe—very likely it was my dad. During his late teens and early twenties, he’d spent months canoeing in the magical lakeland wilderness now comprising northeastern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW) and southwestern Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park.

I’m sure my counselor at YMCA Camp St. Croix must have helped. At age ten I was part of an ambitious canoe trip that was—and likely still is—the longest ever launched from the camp: 360 miles down the St. Croix and Mississippi to East Dubuque, Illinois.

       I want my five- and nine-year-old grand-
       children to know and love canoeing—
       Minnesota style—too.

After that, I canoed for many years in the BWCAW and Quetico myself, first at YMCA Camp Widjiwagan, and then on expeditions I and my friends organized and outfitted ourselves. I still paddle—in my precious little 13-foot wood-and-fiberglass Mansfield Osprey—as often as I can.

Now this is by no means competitive—nor even especially athletic—canoeing; it’s just basic mobility for traveling, exploring and getting to my favorite fishing and photography locales. At least for now I’ll leave the racing, the tricks, to others more fit and able than I.

I’ve written about canoeing here before—how quiet, beautiful and spiritual it is; how efficient it is; how I feel more comfortable paddling my little Osprey than I do walking on dry land. But recently I’ve been thinking about another aspect of this elegant, ancient mode of travel: how paddling a canoe actually works, and how to teach that.

My motivation? My nine-year-old granddaughter is getting immersed by her closer-by fraternal grandparents in all the fun New-Englandy conveyances they grew up with—sailing, skiing…even surfing, for God’s sake. While I celebrate those opportunities, I also want her and my five-year-old grandson to know and love canoeing—Minnesota style—too.

PHOTO: Rockbrook Camp

THE PIVOT POINT
So how does one begin? I’m sure there are many wonderful, effective approaches, but here’s a teaching idea I’ve been thinking of for years—and have yet to actually use. I can’t wait to put it to the test with my grandchildren next time they come to Minnesota.

Think of the student sitting in the canoe’s stern seat with a paddle. (Typically, the bow paddler provides power while the one in the stern provides both power and steering.) Now imagine the very tip of that curve in the canoe’s bow attached to a dock (or simply held in place by someone), allowing just the stern to swing freely back and forth.

The essential trick in steering a canoe is to think of the stern paddler’s moving the stern back and forth, not the bow. Kind of like driving a car whose steering wheel turns the rear wheels, not the front ones. All the basic canoe steering strokes operate on that principle; when you move the stern to your left, the canoe turns to the right—and vice versa.

With this pivot point setup, I’d have the student practice moving the stern left and right—first simply experimenting on their own, and then using proper strokes. Then I'd untether them and let them practice integrating those strokes with forward motion, perhaps even following a simple slalom course.

    An expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and 
    even make it sidle to one side or the other 
    while moving neither forward nor back.

DIFF’RENT STROKES
Given that background, the kid’s ready to learn the actual strokes. There are dozens of them—for basic leisure canoeing, cruising, racing, whitewater, freestyle exhibition and more. You can learn about them here: Wikipedia   /   Knights of Dionysis    /   YouTube

ILLUSTRATION: Knights of Dionysis

Many folks think a canoe has to be moving in order to steer it. While movement does facilitate the stern paddler’s basic steering strokes, an expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and even make it sidle to one side or the other while moving neither forward nor back. (The latter involves either the draw stroke, the push stroke or, more elegantly, sculling—what I like to call the figure-eight stroke.)

A word about rhythm or stroke rate. This is generally up to the bow paddler, as is when to switch sides. But even if the stern paddler is an expert, steering takes a bit of extra time out of each stroke. And since a proper balance of both power and weight depends on the two paddlers paddling continually, in unison, a good bowman will allow a second or two of rest between strokes for the stern man to execute the steering strokes.

This is also a very efficient way to paddle, taking advantage of a certain amount of coasting after each stroke and enabling experienced paddlers to cover great distances over the course of days or weeks with a minimum of fatigue.

Speaking of efficiency, one of many fine points few leisure paddlers seem to understand is feathering the paddle between strokes. This means, after each stroke, rotating the paddle so the blade is horizontal while swinging it forward for the next stroke. This minimizes the amount of air resistance, which, especially on long trips and/or windy days, is no small consideration.

AROUND THE BEND...
Of course, there are other important chapters to any canoeing primer, like getting in and out and moving around the craft safely, loading, etiquette, bow paddling—including steering from the bow, flipping and portaging, maintenance, paddle selection, safety and others. While too involved to undertake in one post, perhaps I’ll dip my paddle into those waters in a future post or two…or when I write the book.

PARTING SHOTS – Images of Late Summer

It's been a spectacular summer here in Minnesota. Blessed with warm days, yet very few 95-degree steam-bath stinkers we usually sweat our way through. Blessed with both ample sunshine and sufficient rain to keep most everything lush long after it usually wilts and turns brown—and to keep river levels high enough so I could navigate my favorite backwaters without my having to drag my canoe over mud flats and sand bars.

PHOTO: Phil Champion - http://www.philchampion.co.uk/ 

LAST LEGS
Hard to believe, isn't it, that just four months ago we were watching anxiously for the arrival of some sign, any sign, that another long, cold, grey winter was releasing its grip on the ground—and our spirits.

Eventually, though, summer did manage to take hold as it always does, and the profusion of rich, saturated color sprouted and spread over the grateful landscape. How I love all those shades of breathing green, the blankets of true, dense blue from early-blooming Siberian squill, the piercing reds of geranium and canna, the ravishing yellow-orange of goldenrod!

  I made up my mind...to see all these wonders 
  as if I'd never seen anything like them before.

But no sooner had this glorious season started than I could hear it ticking away. I made up my mind—as my posts here on One Man's Wonder and in the social media implore—to soak it all in, to see all these wonders of color, texture and pattern as if I'd never seen anything like them before. And I think I've done a pretty good job of it; I must have stopped a thousand times, as it were, to smell the roses.

But suddenly here we are; another Labor Day. The State Fair ends today, and ragweed's got me stuffing my pockets with Kleenex. At least symbolically, summer is over. Our window box plantings sense the cooler, drier air and, seeing right through our best efforts to fool them into thinking it's still June, have started to thin and shrivel. Everything else too—with the exception of those good old late-season standbys, like zinnia and chrysanthemum—seems on its last legs.

LETTING GO...NOT!
So, as I set out on my walk along the Mississippi yesterday, I was feeling kind of melancholy, almost anticipating an experience of loss. I was already mourning all the shrinking, browning plants and spent flowers I knew I'd come across. What made me even more blue was the looming prospect of five or six months devoid of all that fresh, living, breathing color.

      At least I'd have these poor excuses for the 
      real thing to comfort my color-starved soul 
      till tiny buds pop once again.

Of course, this wasn't at all what I found. Summer is indeed still alive here in growing zone four. But, as if to convince myself of this, I brought my camera. At the very least, I figured, that would help me notice and appreciate even more these resolute colors of late summer.

What's more, even if the dead of winter were somehow to slam down on us tomorrow, at least I'd have these poor excuses for the real thing to document the fleeting summer of 2015 and comfort my color-starved soul till tiny buds pop once again.

I hope you'll forgive the indulgence.

PHOTOS THIS GROUP: Jeffrey D. Willius

NOT A CHANCE – The Inevitable Reward of Expecting Wonder

This afternoon I had a clarity rush, one of those rare flashes of awareness and understanding you experience when you suddenly see—and just totally get—everything.

This time I was driving, sitting at a stop light. I glanced around at the far-from-remarkable surroundings: the Quarry shopping center with its Target and Home Depot; the McDonald’s and Taco Bell across the street; the other cars and drivers.

Somehow, on the median next to me, a narrow strip of waist-high weeds caught my eye. Again, quite unremarkable, right? But as I watched them sway gently in the breeze, a flood of wonder and joy washed over me. And gratitude, that such a fine little community of herbal drifters had managed to put down roots here—even those pariahs, goldenrod and ragweed—and that I was here to behold it.

           In that one extraordinary moment, 
           I knew everything there was to know 
           about those weeds.

I understood completely what a gift from God those living wonders are—and how much I would miss, if no longer able to receive such simple gifts in my daily comings and goings, merely setting eyes on them once again.

In that one extraordinary moment, I knew everything there was to know about those weeds. I mouthed words of thanks for their colors and textures and smells and movement. For the sweet, life-giving oxygen they produce. For the tiny biosphere they form, and all the bugs that dwell in, on and under them. And even the family of bunnies I knew, somehow, must live in there.

At the very instant my lips pursed for the “b” in “bunnies,” a young cottontail hopped out of the underbrush onto the adjacent patch of grass, turned and looked up at me.

Coincidence? Not a chance! Not today!

And then the light turned green.

PHOTO: Pixabay