INature: Biodiversity

biodiversity (or "biological diversity")
    -the variety of life in the world or in a particular habitat or ecosystem
   -degree of variation of life forms within a given species, ecosystem, biome, or planet


Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. (Ps. 150:6)

.    .    .

I caught this bumblebee hovering over this unknown plant.

Considering biodiversity from a scientific perspective, it is the foundation for what we consider healthy, whole, natural systems. Biodiversity implies resilience, flexibility, complexity in the face of changing climates, invasive species, and stochastic events. If there are more species in the mix, it is less likely that any given event or change will fundamentally change or damage a particular system. The chestnut blight of the 20th century and Emerald Ash Borer infestation now spreading across Indiana are not to be celebrated, but the forests themselves will (generally) be okay in the long term. There are still many species of trees to provide cover, food, water filtration, and erosion control. Losing an entire forest to development or agriculture is far more detrimental than to lose a single species. This is why it is recommended that people plant a diversity of tree species in homes and public places. We cannot predict the next big disease, so we hedge our bets with biodiversity.

Besides all the birds and the bees that thrive in biodiverse systems, a human-centered, utilitarian perspective also shows that they are vitally important. They provide ecosystem services that we won't ever be able to fully engineer our way around. Natural cover (say, prairie or forest) allow much greater groundwater infiltration than bare agricultural soils, and certainly more than impervious surfaces. It also is worthwhile to point out the obvious: we chose from the incredible diversity of wild plants and animals to build a library of domesticated species for food, fuel, and fiber. Also, we know that we breathe out carbon dioxide, which photosynthetic organisms use as building blocks for sugars and such, spitting out oxygen as a by-product. Kind of handy, since that's what we need to breathe in every few seconds.

A thirsty butterfly licks up salt from my sweaty hand (I think)

Aesthetically and culturally, biodiversity is variety. It is "the spice of life." Vast fields of Zea mays may be beautiful to the indebted farmer, or the starving peasant, but we generally don't travel great distances to see even larger fields of a single species. We like variety, patchwork amalgams of colors and textures. Even the iconic images we hold of family farms (which have by-and-large been outdated for decades) show a diversity of animals, fields of multiple crops broken up by fence rows, ponds, outbuildings, and windmills.





And the diversity is stunning. 3.5 billion years of evolution, tectonic plates, climate change, and meteors have bequeathed us some 10 million species. We've only formally cataloged about 12% of that.

Another one of the 100,000+ kinds of insects native to N. America.

We have Monarch butterflies making a multi-generational migration from Canada to Mexico, sometimes over the Gulf of Mexico.

Black swallowtail (Papilio polyxenes) caterpillar found on our dill plant.

We have the Arctic tern, a 3.5 oz flying package of feathers who flies more in a single year as most American will probably walk in their lifetime - 44,000+ miles.

We have microorganisms deep in the Earth that will never see the sun, yet do just fine with chemosynthesis, earning a living straight from hydrogen sulfide.

North America used to be (until ~10,000 years ago) home to a cheetah, a lion, mammoths, horses, sloths and beavers the size of black bears, and a 9-foot-long sabertooth salmon.

If that doesn't get your blood moving, I'm at a loss at how to help. I'll just suffer the strange looks and go about my business.

Yeah, I know. It doesn't make sense.

The best way that I can think to celebrate this heritage is to name it, know it, explore it. 

In other words, to be like Adam.


Aldo Leopold wrote in his must-read book on ecological restoration, A Sand County Alamanac:  

If I were to tell preacher of the adjoining church that the road crew has been burning history books in his cemetery, under the guise of mowing weeds, he would be amazed and uncomprehending. How could a weed be a book?

My effort here with "INature," and in my professional career and parenting, is to explore this vast natural library, book by book.


And like all great pursuits, this joyful enterprise is tinged with more than a bit of sorrow. Leopold also wrote:

One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise.

It's taken my about three decades to realize that bitterness, cynicism, and name-calling are no way to live, even if you happen to be right now and then. It's no way to do a family, or a church, or a business. I have to constantly remind myself of that. No matter where we are starting from, a better dawn is always possible.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.  (Ps, 30:5)

And thankfully, the sun has risen for me over 10,000 times.



And now, time for my Plant Taxonomy lab...