Tag Archives: stewardship

What I Noticed Watching an Octopus

Wildlife & Plants, , ,

I watched a documentary the other night called My Octopus Teacher.

My son Eric suggested I watch it. I’m glad he did.

I didn’t expect much more than an interesting look at life underwater.

I certainly didn’t expect to feel anything.

But somewhere along the way, I found myself watching—not just an octopus—but a life. A living being making decisions, solving problems, adapting, hiding, exploring… surviving.

And at one point, I realized I had become emotionally invested.

In an octopus.

That caught me off guard.

What I Noticed

I noticed that the more time the filmmaker spent observing the octopus, the more the octopus seemed to become… someone, not something.

It wasn’t just reacting.

It was choosing.

It was learning.

It was living.

And the more I watched, the harder it became to see it as just another creature in the sea.

What It Made Me Wonder

How many lives do I pass by every day without ever really seeing them?

Not just in the ocean—but in my own backyard, along the roadside, in the woods, even in the air above me.

How often do I notice something briefly… and then move on?

And what would happen if I stayed a little longer?

A Thought to Ponder

Maybe the difference between indifference and care is simply this:

Time spent paying attention.

I’m glad Eric suggested it.

It reminded me how much there still is to notice.

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Rediscovering Old Memories

Communities, , , ,

A Field Note from the Archive

For the past few days I have been slowly working my way through a banker’s box full of old files, folders, envelopes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. In truth, it is only one box among several boxes and file drawers that contain pieces of my life from roughly 1970 to the present.

Opening the box felt a little like opening a time capsule.

Inside are decades of letters, articles, notes, photographs, and documents connected to projects, people, and places that shaped different chapters of my life. As I sort through the folders, I keep rediscovering things that I had completely forgotten about. Some of them bring back a flood of good memories. Others remind me of moments that were difficult at the time.

But what has struck me most is how differently many of those experiences look now.

Some things that once felt frustrating, disappointing, or even like failures eventually turned into something positive—sometimes years later. Other things that once seemed incredibly important now feel much smaller when viewed from a distance of decades.

Time has a way of reshaping our understanding.

Going through these files is not really about reminding myself of things I once did or said. Instead, it has become an opportunity to reflect on the past with a little more perspective and a little less emotion. It allows me to ask simple questions:

Was this really as important as I thought it was at the time?
Did it matter in the long run?
What did I learn from it?

In many ways, this process feels similar to walking through a familiar natural area in a different season. The landscape is the same, but your perspective changes depending on when you return.

What I once saw one way, I now see another.

So far, I must say that this little “file exploration” project has been a lot of fun. Each folder is like turning over a stone along a trail—you never quite know what you might find underneath.

Of course, it also raises another question.

What in the world am I going to do with all of this stuff?

For now, I’ll keep exploring.

After all, there are still a lot of folders left in that box.

But as I sit here looking at these old papers and photographs, another thought occurs to me.

Each piece of paper represents a moment when something seemed important enough to save. At the time, I probably had no idea how that moment would fit into the larger story of my life.

Now, decades later, I can begin to see the connections.

Projects that led to other projects.
People who opened doors at just the right moment.
Ideas that took years to grow into something meaningful.

In a strange way, this old banker’s box is not really a box of files at all.

It’s a map.

A map of the winding path that brought me from where I started to where I am today.

And judging by the number of folders still waiting to be explored, there are still plenty of dots left to connect.

A Beginning on the Bank of the Vlomankill

biodiversity, Communities, ecosystems, nature conservation, ,

I was standing on the bank of the Vlomankill in Henry Hudson Park a few days ago when a simple thought struck me with surprising force:

I need to understand the history of the land and water around the place I call home.

I’ve walked this stretch of the Vlomankill many times, but that morning something felt different. The stillness of the water, the stripped branches of winter, the muted light—together they made me feel as if I was standing in the middle of a story I didn’t yet know. A story shaped by geology, ecology, people, and choices made over centuries.

That’s when I realized: if I’m serious about stewardship, then this is where it begins. Not in theory, not in distant landscapes, but right here—learning the natural and cultural history of Bethlehem, New York, one walk, one question, one discovery at a time.

And as I thought about doing this work locally, it occurred to me that I could do the same in Indiana and Florida, the other places I spend part of each year. Three regions, each with their own story. Three places where I feel connected. And perhaps three starting points for a process that anyone could use to better understand the land beneath their feet.

So this Field Notes entry is the kickoff. A line in the sand—well, mud—where I begin documenting my observations, questions, and discoveries.

This is step one.

Where this leads, we’ll find out together. I already sense a larger article forming for The Nature of Things, one that explores not only this place but the broader idea of “discovering where you live.”

More soon.