Neuroscience has made progress in deciphering how our brains think and perceive our surroundings, but a central feature of cognition is still deeply mysterious: namely, that many of our perceptions and thoughts are accompanied by the subjective experience of having them. Consciousness, the name we give to that experience, can’t yet be explained — but science is at least beginning to understand it.
Silent observers of our lives, trees are on most peoples’ radar only at moments of transition or death: We mark springtime’s budding and autumn’s flamboyance; note somberly the tree felled by a storm or by the tiny, ravenous ash borer. Although emblematic of nature, they nonetheless are seen with the goggles of our human-centered vision, and thus barely seen at all.
With a rush of popular fiction and nonfiction on the sociality of trees, we are starting to recognize the extent of what we’re missing. Whether the simplest details—the plain fact of their presence more below ground than above it—or the awareness of their constant inter-arboreal communications, trees have officially entered our contemporary awareness as more than just a background to our human dramas.
Trees and tree colonies—including an 80,000-year-old grove of aspens in Utah—are among the oldest living things on Earth. There is wisdom in longevity, if only we knew how to listen to it. What, for example, would tortoises and bowhead whales have to say about what they’ve seen over a century? The typical way of “reading” trees for their knowledge used to be to fell them: In the rings bared at the gash, the years of drought, the years of sickness, the years of plenty are plainly visible.
[Read: A force that has shaped the history of the world]
Two new books, by Noah Charney and Tristan Gooley, take a less destructive approach and present us with trees on their own terms, before turning to what they have to say about the state of nature today and our place in it. Neither author is making the single claim that your life, your brain, and your mood will improve if only you immerse yourself in the natural world, as is so often touted. Although surely concerned about climate change, they also avoid presenting their books as primers in how to treat the Earth better. Instead, they advocate for something more radical: the simple expansiveness of becoming a “citizen of nature,” literate in a world to which we have all but closed our minds.
Both authors are keen seers—sometimes seeing the same signs—but their desires differ: to know the past or to find yourself in the present. In Charney’s These Trees Tell a Story, he takes the reader with him to 10 wild landscapes, treating each as a constellation of clues that give us a lens into the site’s history. Gooley’s How to Read a Tree also ambles in the woods, deconstructing the meaning of the size, shape, location, and shadow of each tree for the sake, merely, of knowing trees.
Charney, an assistant professor of conservation biology at the University of Maine, presents his book as a kind of multi-modal jigsaw puzzle, where each piece is capable of telling a small story on its own, and a larger story when combined with the pieces around it. Retracing field trips to sites across New England that he took with the students in his “Field Naturalist” course, each chapter of These Trees Tell a Story opens with photos of these varied puzzle pieces: an insect-damaged leaf, a fallen log, an animal footprint, a cut stem. Each, read closely, is a clue to the history of the place up to the moment before Charney and his students arrived at it.
He’s an amiable host, and soon the reader realizes we’re following the stream of consciousness of an ecologist driven by extraordinary zeal. Charney is the kind of fellow who shimmies into the foot-wide opening of an old beaver lodge to sit inside its muck-and-stick sanctum; who lived one summer in college in a wigwam in the woods, navigating to it at night by its smell. His stroller-age children are brought along and implicated in many of his explorations (and used in photographs for scale).
Charney sees the details of a landscape less for their aesthetic qualities than for their contributions to the record of a place. He connects the seemingly unrelated, showing how salamanders in the Northern Hemisphere can trace their existence to a fluke of plate tectonics; how a meandering river has created a staircase along an embankment; and the effect of deer on mice, who in turn affect the spongy moth and oak trees, which in turn affect the deer. The cumulative effect of his book on the reader is the realization that, as much as we talk about “managing” nature, nature has been managing itself for eons just fine without us. The constituents of what we might see as a simple plot of land (including the slopes and the sphagnum) have a history and complicated existence that is completely independent of us.
How to Read a Tree, by contrast (and befitting its title), looks at the trees, not the forest—and looks assiduously at each part of those trees: bark, trunk, roots, and so on. The U.K.-based Gooley is renowned for his skill in practical geography, or “natural navigation,” which is on display in each of his several books about reading nature’s signs.
Out tumble reams of appealing facts that make one itch to get outside and right up close to the rough surfaces and shady cover. Are, indeed, most of the knobby eyes on a tree facing southward? Are the thickest roots typically on the windward sides? And how could I confirm his claim, borrowed from Leonardo da Vinci’s musings, that the thickness of all of a tree’s lowest branches and twigs combined equals the thickness of its trunk?
[Read: Trees are time machines]
Although clearly besotted, Gooley is no romantic, reminding us repeatedly to think of the successful tree’s selfish genes, which prompt them to elbow out smaller trees reaching for the light—or even poison their neighbors. But the bevy of detail he presents does prompt “a quiet joy rising in your sap”: the satisfaction of simply seeing something in plain sight that was previously overlooked. Charney’s book inclines one more toward the pleasure of realizing the depth of the story that is being told by the environment, without taking us into account at all. As Richard Powers wrote in The Overstory, “This is not our world with trees in it. It’s a world of trees, where humans have just arrived.” Charney would agree, I think—although he might also point out the ways humans have left our mark on the landscape. As much wilderness as it may appear still surrounds us, it all bears scars of the “disturbance,” to use the authors’ term, of our presence: including the logging, the land denuded, the species extinguished, the invasive species released. Quietly optimistic, Charney takes the long view, pronouncing the idea of perfectly stable, balanced nature as a mirage. Nature is dynamic, self-disturbing. Seeing the effects of our contribution, though, might allow us to fit ourselves back into nature.
As strong as the authorial voices in these books are, after reading them, one senses the human voice fading and the voice of the trees rising. In ethology, the science of studying animal behavior that I practice, one gradually learns to strip away the human descriptions that we instinctively place on our subjects, and to stop talking of their lives in terms of our own. The idea is not that nonhuman animals are entirely unlike us, but that the glancing attention we usually give to them disables our ability to see who they really are. We walk into nature, similarly, sure that we understand the categories of objects found there, our gaze dismissive as we plod along the path. What if, Charney and Gooley hint, we instead go off the trail, linger, and listen?
It feels ironic perhaps that we gain these insights about trees via the words printed on the dried, pressed, macerated pulp of trees. Nonetheless, we would be lucky to be lost in a forest with either of these writers. Not just to find our way out—something they could surely help with—but to find our way in: to see what the trees are telling us about the Earth we all find ourselves a part of.
Twenty years ago, one would have been labeled as “anti-psychiatry” for acknowledging that: (1) psychiatry’s treatment outcomes are “abysmal” and “not getting any better”; (2) the serotonin imbalance theory of depression is untrue; and (3) psychiatry’s diagnostic manual, the DSM, is scientifically invalid. Yet today, these acknowledgements—which don’t threaten the ruling class—are stated by the psychiatry establishment and reported by the mainstream media. More
The post Once Radical Critiques of Psychiatry are Now Mainstream, So What Remains Taboo? appeared first on CounterPunch.org.
Chronic pain is not just a result of car accidents and workplace injuries but is also linked to troubled childhoods, loneliness, job insecurity and a hundred other pressures on working families.
The laws of physics allow time travel. So why haven’t people become chronological hoppers?
Consider where, when, and around whom you cry.
Here is a non-exhaustive list of things that have made me cry: Any time I must chop, dice, or mince ingredients; a group of sea lions barking in the sun; sad music; receiving a free hot dog; the film 500 Days of Summer; a messy house.
The one emotion tying all of these experiences together, according to Ad Vingerhoets, an emeritus professor at Tilburg University and one of the world’s preeminent experts on crying, is a sense of powerlessness. Even in the context of positive tear-jerking events — like encountering a very small puppy or watching your best friend walk down the aisle at their wedding — there is a feeling of overwhelm, Vingerhoets says. “You also feel small and helpless and humble,” he says.
Humans come into the world crying, and we never really stop. As babies, we cry in order to get attention from our parents, signaling to them that we’re angry or scared or in pain or hungry or tired. In childhood and adolescence, we cry from physical pain, like a scraped knee, but as we develop empathy in our teenage years, external catalysts — like books, movies, and other people’s pain — elicit tears. As we get older, we may be moved to tears by beauty, awe, wonder, and sentimentality, says Lauren Bylsma, an associate professor of psychiatry and psychology at the University of Pittsburgh.
For some people, the well of tears has run dry. The stereotype that criers are seen as weaker or less masculine contributes to the well-trodden notion that boys (and men) don’t cry. Indeed, women report crying more frequently than men and with shorter gaps in between crying episodes than men. Then, there’s that thorny feeling of vulnerability associated with sobbing; to betray the veneer of stoicism is deeply uncomfortable for some, to admit you need help can be seen as a failure.
But have you ever stopped to consider why you’re crying? The root cause of the sadness or overwhelm? What about what you can learn from your tears? Mining the depths of your emotions can shed light on deeper insecurities, fears, pleasures, and relationship complications.
The presence of tears signals one basic message, says Randolph Cornelius, a professor of psychological science at Vassar College: I need help. “We’re asking other people to aid us,” he says. Research suggests tears are so effective at eliciting help because criers are seen as sadder, more helpless, less aggressive, and in need of interpersonal connection. According to one of Vingerhoets’ 2017 studies, people are more likely to offer help to a crying person compared to just a sad person with a dry face. “Recognizing that people [are] crying and in need of help is a pretty automatic process,” Cornelius says.
Throughout the entire lifespan, some of the most common triggers of tears, Vingerhoets says, are bereavement, heartache, and homesickness. (Though women do cry more often in general over more mundane and conflict-driven situations, “the difference between the sexes is not that big” when it comes to these main motivators of crying, Vingerhoets says.) Then there are the positive cries: Weeping not just over a separation, but a reunion; crying out of relief and not fear; shedding tears when receiving a gift, not only when having it taken away. “All of these negative situations that provoked tears, they all seem to have their opposite,” Vingerhoets says, “which also induces tears.”
We receive the most support when we cry in front of a partner or a friend, Bylsma says, someone who is best equipped to console and emotionally support us. Research shows that the presence of visible tears can also bring people closer together and promote social bonding. “If you are stressed, it’s important that you receive social support from others,” Vingerhoets says, “because that can buffer the negative effects of stress on your well-being.”
Subliminally or not, we may realize that turning on the waterworks gets us what we want. “I have a 10-year-old grandson and he can turn crying on and off,” Cornelius says. “Kids learn how to manipulate adults and so that stays with us.” Much has been written about the weaponization of tears, especially by white women, in order to protect privilege and garner sympathy. Research finds that fake criers are seen as manipulative, less reliable, less warm, less competent, and less accepted as friends, colleagues, or neighbors. But usually, Cornelius says, adults keep their tears in check, having learned the socially appropriate places to cry (in private, on the side of the road when you have a flat tire) and opting not to cry at our desks at work when we feel frustrated. That is, unless the situation is uniquely overwhelming, Cornelius says, like in the face of an unexpected tragedy.
Popular convention maintains that crying is a cathartic experience, that we feel cleansed and weightless following a good weep. “That’s not always the case,” Bylsma says, “and it really depends on various contextual factors.” We’re likely to reap the most benefit from crying if we can shed a few tears in a safe place, Bylsma says. “We found in research if someone were to cry in a place where it might be embarrassing, where people might react in a negative way, like crying in front of people you don’t know well in a workplace setting, for example, someone’s going to feel worse after crying,” she says, “versus if you cry in a more supportive environment, like in front of a partner or friend that you’re more likely to have a benefit from.”
In one of Vingerhoets’ and Bylsma’s studies, they found that people who are depressed, anxious, or experiencing burnout cry more, but they did not feel relief after crying. Those who felt shame and embarrassment were less likely to feel better following a cry, too. People find more catharsis after crying when the situation that made them weepy was controllable — like a fight with their partner — as opposed to an uncontrollable event, like a death.
Bylsma also notes that chronically suppressing tears is associated with negative emotional effects, like less empathy and emotional support, based on surveys. So if you feel the need to cry in the middle of a work meeting, try to get yourself to a bathroom and let it out. On the contrary, for those who have no reason to cry and forgo weeping for a long time, even years, there’s no harm in that, Vingerhoets says. However, persistent bouts of crying and ruminating over the same issues might be a sign you need to change your approach to crying, Bylsma says. Try seeking the help of a therapist or mental health professional who can help you cope.
Regardless of what made you cry, whether it be a sad movie or a beautiful sunset, there is a deeper meaning. The presence of tears reveals what matters to you. “Sometimes our tears are signals to ourselves about the significance of events,” Cornelius says.
Consider the last time you cried. Was it an argument? An exhausting day? A delicious cupcake? What about those situations stirred up emotions? In the moment of the crying episode, try to process what, exactly, is making you cry, Cornelius says. “We do have an inner drive to know ourselves,” he says. “I think recognizing our emotions, giving them their due, allows us to do that.” Over time, you may recognize patterns in your emotions: I feel resentful in these situations, those comments make me feel embarrassed.
Having this bit of insight can help you reframe the situation: This isn’t an argument about taking out the trash, it’s an argument about respect. Sometimes tears can help reveal these underlying messages.
“When you have a realization about yourself, and that allows you to see yourself in a different way, you do feel empowered,” Cornelius says.
The strange phenomenon of quantum tunneling has been observed in a chemical reaction that defies classical physics
Insider Brief An Imperial College-led team of researchers were able to create a time-domain version of the double-slit experiment. The team used a beam of light that was twice gated in time — and discovered many more oscillations than predicted, suggesting a rise time that approached an optical cycle. Results could yield practical advances, such […]
Researchers say there are interlinked benefits across mental and physical health from prescribed time in green spaces or near bodies of water
Prescriptions encouraging people to spend more time in nature are linked to reduced blood pressure and improvements in anxiety and depression symptoms, according to new analysis.
Doctors sometimes use nature-based social prescription programs – sometimes described as “green prescriptions” or “blue prescriptions” – to advise patients to spend time in green spaces or near bodies of water.
When they’re dehydrated or get parts of themselves cut off, plants, like humans, appear to make sounds akin to crying — and scientists say they’ve now caught it on audio.
A new study published in the journal Cell and aptly titled “Sounds emitted by plants under stress are airborne and informative,” describes how plants aren’t just ambiently wailing into the void, but rather make quiet, sad little popping sounds when under stress.
As Nature noted in its write-up of the new paper — which also includes the audio of these stress noises — there’s still some question as to how, exactly, plants make these sorts of noises given that they have neither vocal cords nor lungs.
As scientist Lilach Hadany told Nature, the researchers’ predominant theory is that the sounds come from the plants’ xylems, which are “the tubes that transport water and nutrients from their roots to their stems and leaves.”
“Water in the xylem is held together by surface tension, just like water sucked through a drinking straw,” Nature notes. “When an air bubble forms or breaks in the xylem, it might make a little popping noise; bubble formation is more likely during drought stress.”
To record the pops, researchers at Tel Aviv University busted out flower boxes “knitted out” with microphones and found that the popping noises seemed to increase when the plants had recently been cut or hadn’t been watered in a while.
Like the “singing” of mushrooms or the “screams” of trees thirsty from climate change, the sounds that the tomato and tobacco plants studied in this research emit are ultrasonic, which means humans can’t detect them with just our ears alone — but other animals might be able to, the research suggests.
Led by plant scientist Itzhak Khait, these researchers noted that while there have indeed been prior studies and recordings of plants issuing stress calls, “airborne sounds emitted by stressed plants have not been investigated” — or classified — until now.
Those classifications were made in part by machine learning, which taxonomized the sounds the plants made and “succeeded in identifying the condition of the plants, including dehydration level and injury, based solely on the emitted sounds.”
“It is a bit like popcorn — very short clicks,” Hadany told Nature of the sped-up and pitched-down noises included in the study. “It is not singing.”
More on environmental sadness: They’re Dumping $30 Million of Funko Pops Directly Into a Landfill
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