Among the many issues I most cherish about science is the way in which it anneals curiosity. True curiosity is an open wonderment at what one thing is and the way it works with out emotional attachment to the result of statement and experiment. It is just after we cede emotional attachment that we might be actually free from judgment, for all judgment is feeling — normally some species of worry — masquerading as thought. And after we choose, we can’t perceive. True curiosity is due to this fact a type of love, as a result of, as the good Zen instructor Thich Nhat Hanh so plainly and poignantly put it, “understanding is love’s different identify.”
There have been few extra curious and loving observes of this world than Henry David Thoreau (July 12, 1817–Might 6, 1862). “Life! who is aware of what it’s, what it does?” he exclaimed on the pages of his journal — maybe the e-book in my library most populous with highlights and marginalia — a young document of Thoreau’s craving to know the character and workings of life in all its bodily and psychic manifestations, not as a scientist however as a poet. “Each poet has trembled on the verge of science,” he conceded as he learn books of ornithology to deepen his reverence for the birds he noticed, and but it was with a poet’s eyes that he noticed them, animated by the assumption that “the poet’s relation to his theme is the relation of lovers.”
As a result of curiosity is a supreme act of unselfing, it’s at its most troublesome and most rewarding when geared toward what’s most not like ourselves — as Thoreau’s is in his journal account of a singular encounter from the autumn of 1855.
One “uncooked and windy” October afternoon, paddling down a stream beneath the overcast skies, Thoreau sees a small screech-owl perched on the lee aspect of a three-foot hemlock stump, him with its “nice solemn eyes” and raised horns. An epoch earlier than science started illuminating the mysteries of what it’s wish to be an owl, he marvels at this creature so profoundly different:
It sits with its head drawn in, eying me, with its eyes partly open, about twenty ft off. When it hears me transfer, it turns its head towards me, maybe one eye solely open, with its nice obvious golden iris. You see two whitish triangular traces above the eyes assembly on the invoice, with a pointy reddish-brown triangle between and a slender curved line of black beneath every eye…. You’d say that this was a chook with out a neck. Its quick invoice, which rests upon its breast, scarcely initiatives in any respect, however in a state of relaxation the entire higher a part of the chook from the wings is rounded off easily, excepting the horns, which get up conspicuously or are slanted again.
After observing the chook for ten minutes, transfixed by its strangeness, Thoreau decides he should examine the creature carefully to raised perceive its umwelt. He lands the boat and thoroughly makes his strategy to the hemlock from the windward aspect, shocked to search out the owl unperturbed by his method. Not like the ornithologists of his day, who killed with the intention to know and diminished residing species to “specimens” — even Audubon, for all his tenderheartedness, shot each chook he drew and described — Thoreau units out to seize the residing chook. (“For those who would be taught the secrets and techniques of Nature, you need to follow extra humanity than others,” he writes in one other journal entry.) Sneaking up behind the hemlock, he springs out his arm to softly grasp the little owl, which is so shocked that it provides no resistance however solely glares at him “in mute astonishment with eyes as huge as saucers.” He swaddles it in his handkerchief, rests it on the backside of the boat, and paddles dwelling, the place he builds a small cage for statement. He marvels on the seemingly neckless owl puffing out its feathers and stretching out its neck, slowly rotating its head in that singular owl manner. He tries to mimic its hiss “by a guttural whinnering.” He provides his hand, to which the chook clings so tightly that it attracts blood from his fingers. He regards its “squat determine” and “catlike” face, the effective white down overlaying its legs all the way in which right down to the sharp talons.
When nightfall falls, he sits right down to document his observations and turns into the item of statement himself, the owl looking at him with its immense eyes, intent and completely nonetheless. Thoreau writes:
It will decrease its head, stretch out its neck, and, bending it backward and forward, peer at you with laughable circumspection; backward and forward, as if to catch or take up into its eyes each ray of sunshine, pressure at you with complacent but earnest scrutiny. Elevating and reducing its head and transferring it backward and forward in a gradual and common method, on the similar time snapping its invoice well maybe, and faintly hissing, and puffing itself up increasingly, — cat-like, turtle-like, each in hissing and swelling. The slowness and gravity, to not say solemnity, of this movement are placing.
[…]
He sat, probably not moping however making an attempt to sleep, in a nook of his field all day, but with one or each eyes barely open all of the whereas. I by no means as soon as caught him along with his eyes shut.
When morning comes, Thoreau units out to return the chook to its dwelling, rowing again to the hill with the hemlock. However to his shock, the owl refuses to go away the field and needs to be gently shaken out of it. With uncooked reverence for this creature, this thoughts so incomprehensibly different but so surprisingly kindred, he data their farewell:
There he stood on the grass, at first bewildered, along with his horns pricked up and searching towards me. On this sturdy mild the pupils of his eyes abruptly contracted and the iris expanded until they have been two nice brazen orbs with a centre spot merely. His angle expressed astonishment greater than something. I used to be obliged to toss him up slightly that he would possibly really feel his wings, after which he flapped away low and closely to a hickory on the hillside twenty rods off.
There’s something poignant on this account — a disquieting reminder of how accustomed we too develop to the false comforts of our traps, how unwilling to go away them for the phobia of freedom, how we too might have a delicate push to really feel our personal wings. Our ordinary manner of seeing can also be a consolation and a entice. In one other entry, Thoreau wonders what it is perhaps wish to “witness with owls’ eyes” the lifetime of the forest, then concludes that what we understand of the world is what we obtain on the earth and every particular person “receives solely what he is able to obtain, whether or not bodily or intellectually or morally.”
Complement with the unusual and wondrous science of how owls hear with sound, then revisit Thoreau on residing by loss, the Milky Manner and the that means of life, and his introvert’s area information to friendship.
