When I was a kid, I climbed a giant fir tree to look inside the nest of a morning dove. What I remember most about the experience was the deep silence among the branches 50 feet off the ground, and the intensity of wildlife sounds set against that silence. The rush of wind through the branches. The sweet falsetto of the spring robin. Cicadas' squawks piercing the sky. From that perch, I heard in my backyard the sounds of the serenity my childhood lacked in other places, and that moment probably inspired for good a preference for the pleasures of outdoor science. Another inspiration came when I made the mistake of creeping far out on the limb where the nest perched, convinced the mother bird would sense my benevolent nature and welcome my approach dearly. Of course, her instinct to flee was ineluctable, and she took off, leaving two stone-white orbs to rot in her absence.
The lesson learned when the poetic yearnings of a country girl met the reality of science stuck. Distance is the only way to express one's intimacy out there.
This morning, I thought about that moment in the tree-top while hiking along a surprisingly silent Corte Madera ridge on Mt. Tamalpais, which rises up above my current backyard. For some reason, whether the breeze blew a certain direction or the cool air slowed the wakings of wildlife, the otherwise more subtle tones of nature were particularly magnified in that early hour. The rustle of drying overgrown grasses against my bare legs. The clicking jaws of munching caterpillars in the oaks overhead. The ghostly wail of a hungry hawk beyond the canopy. And bees. Where ever I went, the sound of bee swarms followed, as though this was a day of some great feeding frenzy on the nectar of new April blooms.
At one point on a narrow deer path, shrubs of Rock Rose and Pride of Madiera crowded the thoroughfare. I stopped when I realized they were alive with the urgent beating wings of bees hovering over the pistals of the blue and purple blossoms, and from the waist down, I stood in the middle of one of nature's most primal events. Bees, in their hysteria, darted on and off their flight paths, occasionally plunking loudly against my legs, and then hurling themselves back into the shrubs to join the others desperately drilling their proboscises deep into the flowers' styles to penetrate the nectar-filled ovaries. Considering their mission, it was easy to see why this was one time nature might overlook my presence so up close and personal. So I took advantage of the moment, letting the chainsaw sound of their spasms surround me and defying the potential danger of a sting or two.
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There are so many reasons to listen to this interview with Michael Pollan, journalism professor at UC Berkeley and author of books including "In Defense of Food" and "The Omnivore's Dilemma." If you care about the planet, community farms, local labor, your health, go for it. But, here's the journalism genius to this guy: count the sound bites. His talk is riddled with them. Genius PR comes from journalist turned accidental avocate.
