Want to feel young? Stand beside an old redwood. At two to three millennia old, the towering trees are among the oldest living organisms on the planet. Want to feel even younger, stand beside a bristlecone pine. Possibly four to five millennia old, they were alive before the current redwoods were saplings by about the same amount of time that separates you from the first Christmas. To feel your youngest, stand beside the oldest baobab. It was a sapling a millennium before the oldest bristlecone pine or about the same amount of time that separates you from the Vikings.
That there are such old trees is remarkable, given the penchant of humans to destroy on a whim, for utility, or ideology.* When you consider how ancient architecture that was itself once a hope for a brighter future now lies in ruins, you might ask yourself how or why some human structures vie with those trees for the title “Oldest.” Truth is, if the pyramids and stone structures of Egypt, South America, and Central America weren’t so massive, they, too, would be reduced to rubble by someone or some group. Those Mayan and Incan walls had the added protection of hard-to-penetrate, isolating tropical forest or treacherous location. Consider, also, how ancient cave-wall graffiti of Lascaux that had survived in isolation for more than 17 millennia had to be re-isolated because thousands of curious visitors introduced destructive humidity and mold.
Size and isolation appear to be the only mechanisms that guarantee survival. Sorry. That might seem pessimistic. Redwoods and baobabs are big; bristlecone pines on tall mountains and Upper Paleolithic cave-wall paintings are isolated. The former two are the Egyptian pyramids of plants; the latter two are the analogs of Mayan cities hidden for centuries in inaccessible places. Those ancient redwoods, bristlecones, and baobabs have endured many threats, from changing climates to destructive animals. But all the threats of past humanity pale by comparison with the threats posed by you and your contemporaries armed with chainsaws. Keep in mind that just the visitors’ breath was enough to threaten those paintings at Lascaux.
Go to a redwood forest. You will probably take a selfie by a standing tree because as you pose in awe. You will also, on a summer’s day, take a selfie with a group gathered around the redwood picnic table on the redwood deck attached to the redwood house. One of the best ironic encapsulations that juxtaposes awe and destruction is a cartoon by Gary Larson: Two characters stand at the base of a giant tree they felled with a two-man tree saw. One of them ironically points to a tree ring that demonstrates how the downed tree had once survived a fire.
There’s no way of knowing how long redwoods, bristlecones, and baobabs will survive over the next two to six millennia. Sure, they managed to escape destruction from a time we call “ancient,” but we have really improved our ability to destroy, to change places according to our will, as slash-and-burn has demonstrated in Brazil, where vast tracks of virgin forests have been turned to smoke and ash.**
Awe and destruction: Look at the gawking that accompanies the destruction of a stadium, bridge, or building that was once considered “magnificent” and useful. Look at the delight people take in constructing dominoes just to knock them down. Come on, admit it: Like most people, you just can’t resist pushing over the end domino to watch the mesmerizing cascade.
Anyway, you can always reset the dominoes, right? So, what’s the big deal about the potential loss of a redwood, a bristlecone pine, or an ancient baobab? What’s the big deal about a loss of ancient art or architecture? What’s the big deal about introducing light and people, and thus, algae and mold, into a place where only darkness and isolation had preserved ancient drawings?
When I was a child, the US government allowed the televising of nuclear blasts in Nevada. Not understanding what the consequences of having atomic bombs meant for all that life, both plant and animal, had ever grown or built, I was eager to sit in front of the black-and-white, small-screen TV to watch a fuzzy picture of the explosion. Adults gathered in Las Vegas and elsewhere, supposedly at a safe distance—without realizing the effects of gamma rays—to watch. Since that time, the world’s nuclear powers have added thousands of such bombs to their arsenals. To what end?*** Will some future generation look in awe as skyscrapers fall like redwoods? New term: Destructive Awe.
So, that brings me to the famous words of Robert Oppenheimer about the world’s entry into the age of atomic destruction. “We knew the world would not be the same. Some people laughed; some people cried; most people were silent…I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita. Vishnu was trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and, to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, ‘Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.”****
Awe? Destruction? Awe and destruction? Our choice.
*Think of ISIS’s destruction of Syria’s ancient city of Palmyra or of the Taliban’s destruction of ancient Buddha statues.
** Vast tracks of forests have disappeared under saws and axes. In tropical lands, most of the nutrients lie in living matter and not in the rather barren soils. As many Brazilian subsistence farmers and ranchers have learned, once they cut and burn to alter the landscape for their use, they get only a few years of growth from those nutrient-depleted soils. And then, they move to slash and burn more forest.
***Mutually assured destruction would mean the end of the government that uses such weapons. Think of the absurdity of the current Iranian leadership threatening Israel, supposedly doing so in support of the Palestinians. If Iran were to acquire and use nuclear weapons, they would almost certainly destroy the very people they currently support (in addition to bringing on their own destruction). Nevertheless, no one can ever predict whether or not a pathological individual or group would invariably refrain from using those weapons. Precedent suggests that such individuals or groups of destroyers will continue to plague every generation.
****Oppenheimer’s version of the passage.
That there are such old trees is remarkable, given the penchant of humans to destroy on a whim, for utility, or ideology.* When you consider how ancient architecture that was itself once a hope for a brighter future now lies in ruins, you might ask yourself how or why some human structures vie with those trees for the title “Oldest.” Truth is, if the pyramids and stone structures of Egypt, South America, and Central America weren’t so massive, they, too, would be reduced to rubble by someone or some group. Those Mayan and Incan walls had the added protection of hard-to-penetrate, isolating tropical forest or treacherous location. Consider, also, how ancient cave-wall graffiti of Lascaux that had survived in isolation for more than 17 millennia had to be re-isolated because thousands of curious visitors introduced destructive humidity and mold.
Size and isolation appear to be the only mechanisms that guarantee survival. Sorry. That might seem pessimistic. Redwoods and baobabs are big; bristlecone pines on tall mountains and Upper Paleolithic cave-wall paintings are isolated. The former two are the Egyptian pyramids of plants; the latter two are the analogs of Mayan cities hidden for centuries in inaccessible places. Those ancient redwoods, bristlecones, and baobabs have endured many threats, from changing climates to destructive animals. But all the threats of past humanity pale by comparison with the threats posed by you and your contemporaries armed with chainsaws. Keep in mind that just the visitors’ breath was enough to threaten those paintings at Lascaux.
Go to a redwood forest. You will probably take a selfie by a standing tree because as you pose in awe. You will also, on a summer’s day, take a selfie with a group gathered around the redwood picnic table on the redwood deck attached to the redwood house. One of the best ironic encapsulations that juxtaposes awe and destruction is a cartoon by Gary Larson: Two characters stand at the base of a giant tree they felled with a two-man tree saw. One of them ironically points to a tree ring that demonstrates how the downed tree had once survived a fire.
There’s no way of knowing how long redwoods, bristlecones, and baobabs will survive over the next two to six millennia. Sure, they managed to escape destruction from a time we call “ancient,” but we have really improved our ability to destroy, to change places according to our will, as slash-and-burn has demonstrated in Brazil, where vast tracks of virgin forests have been turned to smoke and ash.**
Awe and destruction: Look at the gawking that accompanies the destruction of a stadium, bridge, or building that was once considered “magnificent” and useful. Look at the delight people take in constructing dominoes just to knock them down. Come on, admit it: Like most people, you just can’t resist pushing over the end domino to watch the mesmerizing cascade.
Anyway, you can always reset the dominoes, right? So, what’s the big deal about the potential loss of a redwood, a bristlecone pine, or an ancient baobab? What’s the big deal about a loss of ancient art or architecture? What’s the big deal about introducing light and people, and thus, algae and mold, into a place where only darkness and isolation had preserved ancient drawings?
When I was a child, the US government allowed the televising of nuclear blasts in Nevada. Not understanding what the consequences of having atomic bombs meant for all that life, both plant and animal, had ever grown or built, I was eager to sit in front of the black-and-white, small-screen TV to watch a fuzzy picture of the explosion. Adults gathered in Las Vegas and elsewhere, supposedly at a safe distance—without realizing the effects of gamma rays—to watch. Since that time, the world’s nuclear powers have added thousands of such bombs to their arsenals. To what end?*** Will some future generation look in awe as skyscrapers fall like redwoods? New term: Destructive Awe.
So, that brings me to the famous words of Robert Oppenheimer about the world’s entry into the age of atomic destruction. “We knew the world would not be the same. Some people laughed; some people cried; most people were silent…I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita. Vishnu was trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and, to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, ‘Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.”****
Awe? Destruction? Awe and destruction? Our choice.
*Think of ISIS’s destruction of Syria’s ancient city of Palmyra or of the Taliban’s destruction of ancient Buddha statues.
** Vast tracks of forests have disappeared under saws and axes. In tropical lands, most of the nutrients lie in living matter and not in the rather barren soils. As many Brazilian subsistence farmers and ranchers have learned, once they cut and burn to alter the landscape for their use, they get only a few years of growth from those nutrient-depleted soils. And then, they move to slash and burn more forest.
***Mutually assured destruction would mean the end of the government that uses such weapons. Think of the absurdity of the current Iranian leadership threatening Israel, supposedly doing so in support of the Palestinians. If Iran were to acquire and use nuclear weapons, they would almost certainly destroy the very people they currently support (in addition to bringing on their own destruction). Nevertheless, no one can ever predict whether or not a pathological individual or group would invariably refrain from using those weapons. Precedent suggests that such individuals or groups of destroyers will continue to plague every generation.
****Oppenheimer’s version of the passage.
RSS Feed