I have thought a lot about kindness recently. It started when reading a fiction book and the main character explains what she thinks the difference between kindness and niceness is. The fictional character (brought to life by Sangu Mandanna) suggests that “Niceness is good manners... Niceness is all about what we do when other people are looking. Kindness, on the other hand, runs deep. Kindness is what happens when no one’s looking.” People can be nice, kind, or both. The character says both is great, but if only one, she’d prefer kindness. In addition to kindness being what happens when no one’s looking, kindness withstands when you have differences from people you are interacting with. Whereas with niceness, the niceness typically disappears when the nice person interacts with someone who is different from them. Being able to interact with people who are different from us is important in all aspects of life. For me, this includes my work in forestry and natural resources. We all come from different backgrounds, have different opinions, and different priorities. Yet we all share our environment. My thought journey on kindness continued with several strangers showing me kindness towards the end of my PhD program that made completing my PhD that much sweeter. First, for my dissertation defense my spouse and I took an Uber to campus and in conversation it came up that the driver was taking us to my dissertation defense (basically a three-hour final exam). As a fellow graduate student himself, he immediately understood the importance of this event and kindly took us right to the door of my department building. As we were getting out he said, “I want to wish you luck, but I don’t think that is the right sentiment. So go amaze them.” His words brought the biggest smile, helped me go into my defense with confidence, and are still with me three months after my defense. Then, after graduation we were flying inter-island and I had many lei from friends and family. The flight attendants asked why, and my spouse quickly said it’s because she’s a newly graduated doctor. To which, the flight attendants excitedly congratulated me, and one attendant even went on the intercom to announce my graduation to the whole plane. He said “There’s a new doctor on board! A tree doctor, so ask her your tree questions!”. Later he brought our section on the plane complimentary champagne and we all toasted at ~14,000 feet. Post dissertation defense tree hug. These two strangers brought so much joy to my and my family’s lives during a stressful time of completing/defending/revising/depositing my dissertation, graduating, moving from Hawaiʻi to California for my next chapter, finding a home for a foster dog, the list goes on. I am very appreciative of the generosity and kindess received from everyone in my life including people I just met. It left me with hope for humanity and a stronger sense of a shared community. To bring this back to Braiding Sweegrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer talks about species loneliness as “a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors.” Humans are social beings, and I will argue our social nature is not just being social with other humans, but also being social with other beings, with nature, with our full ʻohana. The kindness of these strangers makes me feel like I can call out of my neighbords. It makes me feel less alone. All of this to say...let's be kind. So much life, kindness, and community at Kapiʻolani Park, Oʻahu.
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During a recent yoga class, I had a lightbulb moment. A concept connecting yoga, science, and personal development during my Ph.D. program. The connection being hulihia. Hulihia as a yoga student, as a researcher, as a person. Hulihia is a Hawaiian term that describes a massive change, an upheaval. First, yoga. Yoga has helped me grow and learn. To stay physically and mentally healthy for over a decade, including during graduate school. So, during this recent yoga class, the teacher guided us through a fun flow between the two asana (yoga postures), flip dog and fallen warrior. She giggled, “like a rotisserie chicken” and I thought “like huli huli chicken!” Huli huli chicken is rotisserie chicken in Hawai‘i since huli means to turn, and rotisserie chicken is consistently turned over. Her giggles made me laugh and smile. I laugh a lot during this teachers’ classes. It’s refreshing to laugh. And I’m grateful for yoga to help me laugh, stay healthy, and to huli huli my perspective figuratively and literally. Kolo is a good yoga practice buddy. Although, he seems to prefer sunbathing and chewing bones. Second, science. When deciding to attend the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa (UH) for my Ph.D., I did not foresee how transformed I would be by Hawai‘i. Western approaches and English-speaking institutions dominated my scientific training until my Ph.D. program. At UH, I learned about guiding principles that allow people to approach situations with multiple ways of knowing (e.g., Indigenous and Western knowledges). I learned about genuinely listening first and centering reciprocity in my life. While English is predominately spoken at UH, ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language – shout out to February being Mahina ‘Ōlelo Hawaiʻi) is gaining recognition and is critical to conducting culturally appropriate research. And while my dissertation is very much Western science based, I am grateful that my Ph.D. program has been far from that. Third, personal development. The most influential course in my doctoral studies, Pono Science, explored Hawaiian ethics, implications of research, and decolonizing methodology to better understand our role in culturing a pono (goodness, uprightness, morality) future. During the course, I truly began to grasp what different worldviews mean and how our ways of knowing guide our daily lives and research. I have incorporated these lessons directly into my life and work, such as following Hawaiian protocols (oli and kilo) upon entering my research sites, learning ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi, and emphasizing the use of Hawaiian place and plant names. There have been many changes for me and for my family. I think these changes have accumulated to a personal hulihia. And the yoga and science huliahia play into them too. I not only view my work with different perspectives but everyday life too. I have had many moves, including moving to islands in the Pacific Ocean. I’ve begun learning a new language and culture. I married my partner and worked through long-distance so we could both pursue our education/careers. My siblings have had children and two more niblings on the way. We rescued a puppy and are fostering another. I hope as my Ph.D. program comes to a close, I remember that hulihia can be good. As a new chapter begins, I hope to stay flexible and open to hulihia. Upheavals can be alarming, and they can be transformational. If I struggle with shifting my perspective, getting upside down helps.
I want to continue building off from the nā pilina (the relationships) theme of the last two posts but continue through the world of plants. For the last three, going on four, years I have worked very closely with ‘iliahi, also known as Hawaiian sandalwood, and specifically with one ‘iliahi species, Santalum paniculatum. ‘Iliahi has a unique relationship in the plant world as a tree that requires other plants to thrive. ‘Iliahi physically connects its roots to the roots of other plants with specialized root structures. These connections allow resources to flow directly between the plants, adding an extra dimension to the underground plant networks. ʻIliahi (Santalum paniculatum) is front left with its friends ʻaʻaliʻi (Dodonaea viscosa) front right and koa (Acacia koa) back left. One of the biggest things this relationship means for ‘iliahi is that it not only can it make its own food by one of the coolest natural processes out there (aka photosynthesis) - it can also acquire food and resources from other plants. That’s not even considering the relationships it has with fungi where ‘iliahi and fungi exchange goods (think of a kind of potluck). Plants, like humans, have a very colorful relationship scene. Plant relationships can be dominated by competition and a bit strife. They can be more cooperative and facilitative in nature. They can be parasitic or symbiotic. They can be promiscuous or more solitary. Like ‘iliahi - plants have relationships with other plants. Like the corpse plant – plants have relationships with humans. Like orchids – plants have relationships with insects. Like hāhā – plants have relationships with birds. And so on! Before my Ph.D. I hadn’t thought much about plant relationships, and now I feel like my doctorate work focuses on plant relationships. And now I can’t stop seeing the parallels between plant and human relationships. The need to be independent and dependent. Growing your own roots as well as connecting roots directly and indirectly by intertwining with others. We can connect our shoots too, where we branch off to. I’ve been asked several times why I chose to study ‘iliahi so closely, and I feel like I haven’t been able to provide satisfactory answers. Part of why I think they’ve been unsatisfactory is because I’ve tried to find a complete rationale behind my choice that isn’t fully there. I don’t feel like I chose ‘iliahi. Rather we found each other; it was the right timing. I was looking to expand my horizons of forest restoration, and ‘iliahi was/is at a critical tipping point. Some ʻiliahi seedlings have gorgeous symmetry that leaves a very balanced impression. For ‘iliahi, the tipping point to a future of abundance rather than scarcity depends on a relationship change with people. ‘Iliahi has a dark history of exploitation and hurt. There is a lot of trauma with ‘iliahi in Hawaiian history as the first tax on the people of the Hawaiian kingdom. Many people in present times thought ‘iliahi were extinct. I wonder, can we view ‘iliahi with potential to be an important partner in native forests? Can the value of ‘iliahi be respected, sustainably harvested, and help fund restoration and conservation efforts to further perpetuate itself and other native plants? If we know more about ‘iliahi’s relationship status, can we better mālama (take care of) this kumulāʻau (tree)?
I think the answer to these questions can all be a resounding “yes.” Especially if we understand that relationships are complex and take time to tend to the beautiful complexity. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday growing up. For my family, it was purely about being together, reflecting on the year, and giving thanks. And I think that is a beautiful thing. However, like how relationships between people change over time, my relationship with Thanksgiving has changed. And over the past few years, my relationship with Thanksgiving has become a bit strained. My relationship strain comes in many forms, but primarily from learning more about Indigenous history of Turtle Island. I grew up thinking Thanksgiving was a time when Pilgrims and Indians shared a beautiful, peaceful meal. Like how everyone is invited and included in our family Thanksgiving dinner. However, this is only part of the story. Like many historical events, a single perspective has dominated the narrative, only capturing part of the perspectives. Here are two resources for learning more 1. All My Relations Podcast Episode ThanksTaking or ThanksGiving 2. NPR article The Indigenous Stories Glossed Over In The Typical ʻFirst Thanksgiving’ Story One new tradition I have added to celebrating Thanksgiving and Native American Heritage Month is reading theHaudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address. I first read the Thanksgiving Address in Braiding Sweetgrass - yes, back to Braiding Sweetgrass :). The address has many names and has been summarized in over 40 languages! Dr. Kimmerer shared while the heart of the Thanksgiving Address is gratitude, the address is also a scientific inventory of the natural world. Acknowledging and giving thanks for each element of the ecosystem and each element’s function. Dr. Kimmerer asks us to imagine raising children in a culture with gratitude as the priority and recognizing that everything we need to sustain life is found in nature. The Thanksgiving Address shifts minds from a scarcity perspective to a recognition of abundance. And Dr. Kimmerer adds, “That[gratitude, abundance, reciprocity, and respectful mindset]’s good medicine for land and people alike.” The Haudenosaunee, from whom the Thanksgiving Address originates and who share their words as gifts, have a long history as master negotiators and diplomats. Dr. Kimmerer writes, “Most everyone knows the tension that squeezes your jaw before a difficult conversation or a meeting that is bound to be contentious.” Every time I read that line that feeling runs through my body. I know that strain. I know that feeling of being ready to fight. But then imagine, before debating or reacting to situations, all parties give the Thanksgiving Address. Asking everyone to join their minds as one for the many gifts of the world. You can imagine how tensions and strain begin to release and common ground is found before diving into the disagreement at hand. For any relationship with strain (between people or organizations or with holidays or within ourselves), we share what we are grateful for and seek some common foundations. I share these thoughts this November to share a gift that was shared with me. I am not Haudenosaunee. I am not Indigenous to the places I have called and call home. Yet I strive to be a respectful and welcomed guest, neighbor, and ally. Perhaps if more people know and practice the Thanksgiving Address, all of our relationships will be stronger and healthier. A few places I’ve called home over the years that I am grateful for.
p.s. an update from Hawai‘i Island. Today is Lā Kūʻokoʻa (Hawaiian Independence Day) and Maunaloa, one of the five shield volcanoes comprising the island and the volcano I live and work on, is erupting for the first time in 38 years, exciting days! Have you thought about how a spider smiles? I had the pleasure of showing nananana makaki‘i, also known as the happy-face spider or Theridion grallator, to people during an open-house event at Hakalau National Wildlife Refuge. Nananana makakiʻi are known for their color polymorphism (meaning there are many color appearances within populations because of genetic variation) and most famously known for the color polymorphism resulting in markings that resemble a smiley face on their abdomen, hence the English name, happy-face spider. Hakalau National Wildlife Refuge is not regularly open to the public and has not been hosting events for many years for a variety of reasons, most recently due to the COVID-19 pandemic. So, for the first time in a long-time, people were welcomed to Hakalau and I was able to be there as a volunteer guide. Nananana makaki‘i (also known as the happy-face spider or Theridion grallator) on the underside of ‘ōhiʻa lehua leaves. The nananana makaki‘i on the left has the well-known red smiley face markings. The nananana makaki‘i on the right is a different color polymorph and is next to an egg sac holding keiki spiders. While I am not an entomologist expert, I was asked to share what I do know, and thankfully, I was paired with an expert entomologist. Many locals know about nananana makaki‘i, but few people have seen them in person. We found a few spiders where we were stationed along the trail, and it was an absolute joy watching smiles emerge and see happiness spread from the nananana makaki‘i to the people. Happy face spiders, happy face people. It reminded me of how much joy we can experience when in good relations with nature. Including how much joy people experience when experiencing something for the first time. And how much joy people experience when re-connecting with a place. There was a mixture of visitor experiences. For some people, it was their first visit to Hakalau. For others, it was their first time visiting in years since Hakalau was last open to the public. Having relationships with places and nature are so important in caring for places and caring for nature. Specifically, at Hakalau, even refuge staff say that the community created Hakalau National Wildlife Refuge because of community involvement and drive. My experience at Hakalau leaves me wondering how do we facilitate conservation and ecological work that invites people in and prioritizes building relationships. The more I learn, the more I realize how critical relationships are. Nā pilina with place. Nā pilina with nature. Nā pilina with plants. Nā pilina with humans. Walking down the trail at Hakalau National Wildlife Refuge. Imagine loud bird calls from many native birds including several endangered native birds. The sounds were stunning.
Cheers to a year of blog posts! And cheers to starting the 4th year of my Ph.D. program. I am grateful to Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens for their support and guidance during my time as a Botany in Action Fellow. The encouragement to try different things, like creative writing about my work and scientific experiences, has been insightful and fun. As I flew back to Hawai‘i, I reflected on my visit to Phipps for Science Engagement Week. Last year I couldn’t visit in person, but the coordinators kindly worked with me remotely. When I received another year of funding, I couldn’t wait to meet folks in person and see Phipps, especially the new Hawaiʻi Tropical Forests: Aloha ‘Āina exhibit. I had three full days with incredible fellow Fellows, outreach opportunities, and trainings. We all participated in improv (who’d have known 9 scientists would have so much fun with improv) and a Storytelling seminar. It was gorgeous weather, Pittsburgh was showing off, and the Aloha ‘Āina exhibit gave me a little taste of Hawaiʻi even being so far away. In the exhibit, I even spotted the plant I shared about for Herbs in Action with Pittsburgh’s Saturday Light Brigade in 2021, māmaki (for 2022, I shared about uhaloa). Māmaki, Pipturus albidus, in the Hawaiʻi Tropical Forests: Aloha ‘Āina exhibit at Phipps. As Science Engagement Week came to a close, I said goodbye to some wonderful people who taught me many lessons and who I shared many laughs with. Since I was already on the East Coast, I extended my trip and made my way to Baltimore for the Society of American Foresters conference. Here I presented one of my dissertation chapters and practiced new skills gained at Phipps. View of Baltimoreʻs Inner Harbor. My visit in Baltimore even included an evening leadership reception at the National Aquarium. Here I was reminded of the interconnectedness of our world and how it takes collaborative effort to tend to our planet home. In Hawaiʻi you hear ma uka and ma kai a lot. Sometimes heard in a directional sense (towards the mountain or towards the ocean – a constant reminder to our natural surroundings), sometimes heard in a philosophical sense (the relationships and interconnectedness of our mountains and oceans). I love plants and trees, I think they are amazing, photosynthesis alone deserves more accolades. And I also love water. This love has only grown since living in Hawaiʻi and being with an incredible and supportive partner who has a blue mind. Quote wall in Baltimoreʻs National Aquarium by Sylvia Earle, "With every drop you drink, every breath you take, youʻre connected to the sea". Informational placard about how forests support streams at the National Aquarium. Sign at the Hawaiʻi Tropical Forests: Aloha ‘Āina exhibit at Phipps, "He moku he waʻa, he waʻa he moku". Mahalo, Phipps for everything! And mahalo nui to Drs. Maria Wheeler-Dubas and Sarah States who are incredible science education, communication, and outreach teachers.
I love podcasts. If you survey people in my life, they will all say at some point I have sent them podcast episodes. What these friends, family, co-workers likely don’t know is I didn’t know what a podcast was until AFTER college. I had heard of podcasts, but I didn’t know what they were or why I’d want to know, let alone listen to them. However, this changed during my first job after undergrad, as we would drive a lot to access remote streams and rivers to survey. A lot of time in a work truck with a co-worker means lots of time for talking, music, audiobooks, and of course, podcasts. My long-standing favorite podcast is 99% Invisible. It covers all kinds of topics about “all the thought that goes into the things we don’t think about — the unnoticed architecture and design that shape our world.” including a recent episode titled “The Rights of Rice and Future of Nature”. This episode is memorable for me. It touches on many topics near to my heart, shares things I have learned since moving to Hawai‘i for my PhD, and is so neat to hear the 99% Invisible team discuss. At the heart of this episode is differing world views - Indigenous ways of knowing and western ways of knowing. While I have learned more about tropical forest restoration during my Ph.D. program, I have also been grounded in learning Hawaiian culture, Indigenous perspectives, and the Hawaiian language. Part of this process was solidified during a graduate course in Hawaiian Studies, HWST631: Pono Science, with Dr. Noelani Puniwai. Pono means goodness, uprightness, morality, etc.. An objective of this class is, “By understanding Native Hawaiian religious, cosmological, and genealogical conceptions of and relationships to the ocean and ʻāina, students will be empowered to understand their connection to Hawaiʻi and their role in culturing a pono future.” During this class, I truly began to grasp what different worldviews mean and how impactful ways of knowing are on our daily lives. I was also introduced to the concept Etuaptmumk, or Two-Eyed Seeing. Figure 3 from Reid et al., 2020 illustrating a conceptual framework of the flow of knowledge, including Etuaptmumk (Two-Eyed Seeing). Mi’kmaw Elder Albert Marshall first brought forward the guiding principle of Etuaptmumk (Two-Eyed Seeing) which can be described as, “the gift of multiple perspective treasured by many aboriginal peoples and explains that it refers to learning to see from one eye with the strengths of Indigenous knowledges and ways of knowing, and from the other eye with the strengths of Western knowledges and ways of knowing, and to using both these eyes together, for the benefit of all.” (Bartlett et al., 2012). Mi’kmaw citizen and poet Rebecca Thomas gave a Ted Talk highlighting Etuaptmumk. She eloquently begins by sharing how the language we speak shapes our worldview and how recognizing and honoring different worldviews simultaneously can lead to beautiful outcomes. Rather than seeing worldviews as “either, or” it is “and, both at the same time”. Etuaptmumk facilitates transcultural collaboration grounded in reciprocity, accountability, and co-creation. Figure 4 from Reid et al., 2020 showing a stepwise framework to apply Etuaptmumk (Two-Eyed Seeing). I think so much positive, pono change could happen if more people at least consider there are many different ways of knowing. Pono change in plant and forest science and pono change across disciplines. As I continue learning from plants and trees I hope to do so in a pono way. And I think that positive and pono change would be greatly magnified if people used the guiding principle of Etuaptmumk or other approaches to weaving or braiding ways of knowing.
Resources: Bartlett, C., Marshall, M., Marshall, A. 2012. Two-Eyed Seeing and Other Lessons Learned Within a Co-Learning Journey of Bringing Together Indigenous and Mainstream Knowledges and Ways of Knowing. J Environ Stud Sci, 2:331-340. DOI 10.1007/s13412-012-0086-8 Reid A.J., Eckert, L.E., Lane, J-F., Young, N., Hinch, S.G., Darimont, C.T., Cooke, S.J., Ban, N.C., Marshall, A. 2020. “Two-Eyed Seeing”: An Indigneous Framework to Transform Fisheries Research and Management. Fish and Fishereies, 2020;00:1-19. DOI: 10.1111/faf.12516
Here are 15 moments in my science career thus far that have been very memorable. Most of these moments are not directly related to the plants I was studying but tangentially related; life experiences that happened during my science career. I am very grateful and humbled by all of these opportunities. Working with plants and science has taken me to incredible places resulting in experiences I could not have imagined growing up.
Approximately the last minute of this three-minute song linked above repeats the chorus questioning “What’s in a name” and oh it can get stuck in my head. Good thing I like The Shins (it also makes me think of Romeo and Juliet “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet…” but let’s stick with The Shins). Over the past year, I have thought about this song in a different context. In a context, I think quite different than The Shins’ inspiration. In the context of plant names. Not a surprise to friends and family, but for the record, I fall into the nerdy person category. Growing up, I willingly took years of Latin during middle and high school. When I share this with people, they are surprised that I willingly chose to learn Latin. And I LOVE Latin! It is a beautiful language. Even with this love, I was not in love with learning scientific names (which are sometimes also referred to as “Latin names” as they are primarily based in Latin and Greek) for so many plants and animals. Why do I need to memorize all of these names? Well, the first international conference I attended helped me see the value of scientific names. With dozens of countries represented and many different languages, a commonality we had was the trees we all love and work with. The trees may have many different common names specific to the places they grow, but the trees have one scientific name. Pictures from the 2017 3rd IUFRO Restoring Forests Conference in Lund, Sweden. It was a small enough conference that all talks were held in one room with everyone present (upper left), North American scientists trying to identify a Swedish tree outside of the conference building (upper right), and the whole group attended a fieldtrip together visiting forest restoration sites (bottom). Bonus! Scientific names are organized in such a way (i.e., binomial nomenclature) that we can understand relationships just from a name. So even if I didn’t know the specific tree species people were talking about I could think of other trees I know that are in the same genus, that is, related. So why not just use scientific names? Why also have common names? Common names can carry a lot of information too. Common names help us understand more about the tree, the place it grows, and the culture of that place. Since living and working in Hawai‘i, I learned the importance of Indigenous common names. During my Hawai‘i plant identification class, we had to learn three names for every plant: 1. Scientific name 2. Hawaiian common name 3. English common name As I memorized THREE plant names for class, I could hear echoes of students’ laments of students I taught tree identification to a few years ago in the Midwest and their frustration on memorizing TWO names for trees. Payback. All of this to say, names have mana. Names are meaningful and powerful. What names we use are reflective of worldviews. Two papers published in 2020 on this topic that caught my attention are titled “Restoring indigenous names in taxonomy” and “Indigenous plant naming and experimentation reveal a plant–insect relationship in New Zealand forests”. Both papers share how much meaning and insight indigenous names hold. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer shares, “Names are the way we humans build relationship, not only with each other but with the living world. I’m trying to imagine what it would be like going through life not knowing the names of the plants and animals around you. Given who I am and what I do, I can’t know what that’s like, but I think it would be a little scary and disorienting—like being lost in a foreign city where you can’t read the street signs.” She even has an appendix at the end on names! Yet, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer also warns that when, “And when they [students] put more energy into memorizing Latin names, they spend less time looking at the beings themselves.” Names can be so much more than the name of some historical explorer or scientist (like French circumnavigator Freycinet who has an entire plant genus named after him as well as plant species like Santalum freycinetianum, endemic to Hawai‘i). Or more currently, named for famous people (there is now a dicaprio tree, Uvariopsis dicaprio). So, while I am currently living in a place where plants have Scientific, Hawaiian, and English names, can we choose to use names that are reflective of the place, people, and Indigenous culture? Can we honor different names and officially change names for plants that have names that are reflective of a colonizing culture? For example, naio is an Indigenous Hawaiian tree that has a not nice historical English name (bastard sandalwood or false sandalwood) and a scientific name (Myoporum sandwicense) based upon the Earl of Sandwich (reflective that the Hawaiian Kingdom was known as the Sandwich Islands in the UK). Can naio have a more appropriate and descriptive common English name of sweetwood? And can we change its scientific species name to something more descriptive or reflective of its Hawaiian name, naio (e.g., Myoporum naio)? Naio flowers, naio seedling in the nursery, and naio trees in the foreground of Hualālai, one of the five volcanic mountains comprising Hawaiʻi Island. Photo credits: Vaina Barton, 2021. I am not sure if we can. But, it is an idea. I honestly would not have thought changing plant names was possible until I read an article last July 2021 on changing insect names. The Entomological Society of America announced they are changing the name of the gypsy moth and gypsy ant because insect experts agree the names are inappropriate and offensive. The article reads, “Words matter, and what we call something matters.”
So, what’s in a name? Is a name just a name? Or is a name so much more? Can you hear pre-school teachers asking, “Do you have your listening ears on?” My question is, “Do you REALLY have your listening ears on?” Can you hear the plants? Can you hear the wind? Can you hear the soil? In building off of my February blog post titled - Language., I want to reflect on concepts from a chapter titled Learning the Grammar of Animacy from the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer. Kolo may be a small dog, but he has big listening ears. In the chapter Learning the Grammar of Animacy, we are asked to listen in nature, to be audience to conversations in languages not our own. Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer shares her love and frustration in learning Potawatomi, the Indigenous language of her ancestors. One frustration is the sheer quantity of verbs! Many Indigenous languages have a lot of verbs. For Potawatomi, she shares that 70% of words are verbs, as compared to 30% of words are verbs in English. As discussed in the All My Relations podcast episode titled Can Our Ancestors Hear Us?, the hosts share that the practice of verbing instead of nouning in Indigenous languages creates a sense of interconnectedness. That we are not alone as beings, that we are connected and dependent on other beings. A sign that languages have worldviews imbued into it. And for Indigenous languages, part of that worldview is viewing what we call “things” in English as alive. As beings. As persons. For example, in Potawatomi the word for “a bay” is a wiikwegamaa, a verb meaning “to be a bay.” “Ridiculous!” Dr. Kimmerer ranted in her head. “…A bay is most definitely a person, place, or thing—a noun and not a verb.” As Dr. Kimmerer sat with her frustration, she began smelling the water of the bay, watching the bay rock against the shore, and hearing the bay sift onto the sand. She was viewing the bay as alive. She realized a bay is only a noun if water is dead. The water confined to only being a bay. But we know that water can be a bay, or an ocean, or a river, or a lake, or a snowflake. If we want to get nerdy about it, think about the water cycle. Every drop of water on its own journey in the water cycle. Waters of Kealakekua Bay, Hawai‘i Island. As the chapter progresses, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer shares that in Potawatomi and other Indigenous languages, we use the same words to address the living world as we use for our family. Because they are our family. Indigenous languages use a grammar of animacy when discussing the natural world (e.g., verbs, pronouns, who rather than what, beings rather than things), just like we use a grammar of animacy when discussing our family in English.
Dr. Kimmerer shares that when she is in forests with students, she tries to be mindful of her language, to be bilingual between the lexicon of science and the grammar of animacy. She teaches the scientific roles of plants and their Latin scientific names, AND she teaches that the natural world is a community of beings. Beings that are alive and that human beings are just one type of being. I strive to be a bilingual scientist that uses the lexicon of science and the grammar of animacy. In another book I am reading, Atlas of the Heart, a book about the language of emotions and emotional intelligence by Dr. Brené Brown, she shares about our need for language to forge connection. She asks, if we do not have the vocabulary for how we are feeling or learning, how can we share? How can we share with ourselves? How can we share with others? This lack of access to words/language is perhaps one reason why my nephew and nieces throw temper tantrums. One day when I was exhausted by a 2-year-old temper tantrum, my mom asked me to imagine how I would feel if I had a quickly growing vocabulary, but it was not quick enough to help me completely convey what I wanted to? To get the adults in charge to understand me? And imagine if that 2-year-old is learning more than 1 language? Now that is impressive and temper tantrum worthy because language is our way to share about our world. Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer shares that we already know the grammar of animacy, but we forget. She writes, “Our toddlers speak of plants and animals as if they were people, extending to them self and intention and compassion—until we teach them not to. We quickly retrain them and make them forget. When we tell them that the tree is not a who, but an it, we make that maple an object; we put a barrier between us, absolving ourselves of moral responsibility and opening the door to exploitation.” So, can you remember your pre-school teacher asking if you have your hearing ears on? Can we have more empathy for language learners, including 2-year-old temper tantrums? Can we remember what we knew as toddlers and use the grammar of animacy? I think we can. What do marathons, rock climbing, and Ph.D. programs have in common? Obstacles. I was advised that a Ph.D. program can be compared to running a marathon. I have kept this advice in mind from before I began my Ph.D. to today, more than halfway into Year 3. Trying to remember that it is a long, tough road. That it is okay that it is a difficult process. While I am not a marathon runner, I have heard about “hitting the wall.” Hitting the marathon wall sounds awful. It often happens around 20 miles into the race, and a friend has said it can feel like running face-first into a brick wall. Or like your legs are simultaneously locked-up and melting. A different, yet I think similar, term in rock-climbing is the “crux” of a climb. The crux in rock climbing is the hardest part and most challenging section of a climb. Whether the marathon wall or rock-climbing crux, this is often where people find themselves stuck and sometimes eventually stopping. Lately, I have frequently questioned why I signed up for an academic marathon. Parts of experiments did not go according to plan, back-up plans required back-up plans, continued personal sacrifices, and translating the language of plants into our language is arduous. From what friends have shared about marathon walls, to my experience with rock-climbing cruxes, these difficult points are where self-doubt creeps in. I believe I have hit my Ph.D. marathon wall and crux. And to add another obstacle metaphor, today, there was literally a tree blocking the path forward to the native plant nursery. Friend and assistant, Giovanna, standing at the top of the downed tree that blocked our way this morning. While we waited for a friend to bring a chainsaw, a group of ~15 people coming for a huakaʻi (fieldtrip) to the property joined the sitting and waiting game. Once the chainsaw arrived, we began cutting the obstacle into smaller pieces, and all together, we quickly removed the obstacle. We decided to oli together there rather than further up the road because this was the spot where we came together and set a group intention. The huakaʻi alakaʻi shared this ʻōlelo noʻeau (Hawaiian proverb or poetic saying) with us: ʻAʻohe hana nui ke alu ʻia This ʻōlelo noʻeau means that no task is too big when the task is done together by all, that many hands make light work. Laulima also comes to mind as it means cooperation, joint action, a group of people working together, many hands. We cleared the road incredibly fast with everyone working together. To cope with my Ph.D. marathon wall and crux, I have remembered and recommitted to my Ph.D. goal. I have reached out for academic and emotional support. Finding and remembering many supporting hands. Even though it feels like the wall I am currently at will not budge, nor can I climb past the crux, I think I can see glimpses of light coming through the cracks in the wall. My advisors, mentors, committee, friends, and family help me see glimpses of light too. And with some recalibration, I think I can see a few creative moves that can help me climb past the crux. A critical part of my Ph.D. studies with ʻiliahi (Hawaiian sandalwood, Santalum paniculatum), the primary tree I study, is the development of specialized root organs where ʻiliahi connects its roots to the roots of other plants. The root organs did not develop when anticipated, which brought a few experiments to a screeching halt. It was a massive bummer of day. I was really upset, but I had good people around me. They helped me re-focus and finish the work we had that day, even though I didn’t want to. This led to a late night. A bonus though was seeing the milky way and a shooting star. Nothing like a cosmic perspective. Then today, we saw the benefits of time and the biggest haustorium, the specialized root organ, I have ever seen! A haustorium of an ʻiliahi seedling that is part of one of my Ph.D. experiments.
Have you ever had one of those days where you have a bunch of random thoughts, but they all seem to make sense together? I tend to have these days while working outside in the field. For this month’s blog post I want to share some random thoughts from fieldwork today and attempt to share how I think they connect for the more linear thinkers out there. Today I measured seedlings that were planted six months ago for restoration. As I measured, I listened to Braiding Sweetgrass yet had to keep my attention divided because thunder and lightning were in the forecast. Yes, I am still listening to Braiding Sweetgrass (shout out to my first blog post back in October). I could’ve listened to the book faster because it’s beautifully written, but I’ve been purposefully listening slowly. Going back to read the physical book, taking notes, and then discussing with friends. There is so much ʻike in the book to process and savor. Interestingly, today I listened to the section titled Collateral Damage. Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer poetically discusses and links the collateral damage of our societies. Innocent salamanders killed by rushing cars. Collateral damage of human infrastructure. Innocent people killed in war. Collateral damage of human conflict. As I listened to this section, my ears picked up distant rumbling. Thunder? Perhaps. I pause the audiobook and listen for more. Oh, I realize, I am hearing bombs. This guessing game between thunder and bombs frequently happens where I work. On the western slope of Maunaloa, I am measure and tend to native forest seedlings. On the northern slope of Maunaloa, a U.S. military base regularly practices live-fire trainings, munition drills, and bomb dropping on the ‘āina. These two areas on this beautiful Mauna are not far apart yet have such different realities. One area is recovering, on the way to being forests again. The other is still caught in abuse. View of Maunaloa from today’s fieldsite. Hearing bombs is so common here that back in October, when the 6.2 earthquake shook and roared (again, shout out to October - Stories From a Fieldwork Weekend.), my initial thought was that it must be a rogue bomb that missed its target. Only after thinking it was a bomb did my thoughts turn to the possibility that the volcano was just erupting. And lastly that maybe it was an earthquake. Unfortunately, hearing bombs is so common this is the thought process I work through. I also experience this at my M.S. field sites in coastal Georgia. And while helping a friend with wildlife research in Indiana. And several times during my first job after undergrad in the western U.S. And I am not the only field ecologist who has had these experiences with hearing bombs. Even though the bombs spook and upset me, typically, I just carry-on taking care of the trees. But today, I cannot. I take a break and reflect. I take deep breaths. I think of the people in Ukraine who are constantly hearing bombs in their own homes. Not knowing if their home will be next. For me, a practice bomb coming too close would be a mistake. But for many Ukrainians, they know there is no mistake. Then I think of people worldwide who have heard bombs in times of war. Loud messages of death. I think that this is something far too many living beings have heard. Something that unfortunately connects us, a commonality across languages. As usual, my dog, Kolo, is with me in the field today. He is a rescue with some trauma and quirks, one of which is he does not like having his nails trimmed. When I took Kolo to the groomer, she asked me to spell his name. She wondered if she misheard me and that his name was actually Cola, and that she had misheard me. No, K-o-l-o I say. She smiles and says, “Kolo means circle in Ukrainian. That’s where I am from.” So, now when Kolo goes to get his nails trimmed she asks how her circle puppy is doing. Since the most recent invasion of Ukraine started, I often think about her and Kolo meaning circle in Ukrainian. I think about how connected we all are. Sometimes connected in circles, sometimes more like webs, other times direct line connections. Afternoon clouds covering view of Maunaloa, Kolo the dog standing on a rock by a seedling to be planted. This thought reminds me of a lesson our Kumu shared with my graduate cohort in class. She drew two dots on the board and proceeded to show us different ways to connect the dots. First, she drew a straight line, this is what I was expecting. Next, she connected the dots with a circle. Lastly, she connected the dots with crazy, squiggly, roundabout, web-like lines. Our kumu didn’t put any restrictions on connecting the dots. She didn’t ask for the shortest distance or the most “efficient” way. She summarized by saying that the direct line can symbolize a western culture approach and worldview for getting from point A to point B. The circle can be the indigenous approach and worldview for connecting point A to point B. And then the squiggly line/web design that seems to go all over the place from point A yet still comes back to connect to point B, is the kūpuna approach and worldview.
Maybe kolo or circular thinking can help us humans emerge from conflict. Maybe we need kolo kolo or a crawling (Kolo in Hawaiian means to crawl) circle thinking where we think way outside the lines like kūpuna to emerge from conflict. Maybe if we accept that life is complex and interconnected, that we are all beings from this beautiful planet, and that we all have kuleana to do our best and spread aloha, we can emerge from conflict. So those are my thoughts. I know they may seem random. But I do think there is a connecting theme in there and they come full kolo, aka full circle ;) My relationship with languages has changed exceedingly through the years. I remember walking my dog with a childhood friend during middle school and sharing that I wish everyone could speak the same language. That there was just one language so we could all communicate. I thought this would bring peace and understanding. I had recently learned about United Nations interpreters and figured that we all couldn’t have those specialized headpieces in to communicate. My friend disagreed. She said there is so much culture and beauty in different languages. We need to work to keep all languages alive and spoken. At the time, that sounded daunting. About 15 years later, I am now really grasping the depth and importance of languages. So much so that during my Ph.D. program, I am learning a new language. Something I did not foresee happening, let alone during a Ph.D. program. Pictures of my childhood dog named Homer. He brought many smiles and laughs. Walks with dogs have led to many great conversations in my life. And dogs are great communicators themselves, able to break through different language barriers. So, why learn ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language)? I am going for a Ph.D. in Natural Resources and Environmental Management. Not a Ph.D. in ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi. A language primarily spoken on only a few islands in the whole world and even on these islands, ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi is not widely spoken. I am learning ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi because I am trying to speak the language indigenous to this ‘āina. I call home. Learning the language of the land that is taking care of me. Backyard view. Languages and words have exceptional mana. As discussed in the All My Relations podcast episode titled Can Our Ancestors Hear Us?, languages are a tool for communication AND a dwelling place for ideas, identity, culture, tradition, memory. I want to help normalize a language that was very close to going dormant. To me, learning ‘ōlelo Hawaiʻi, in addition to my work with plants, are ways I can contribute and give back to the local community. I contribute to outreach work with the local Hawaiian language immersion school, and I want to show the students that I care about their work. Imagine being a Hawaiian immersion school student and not being able to regularly use the indigenous language you practice every day because most people you interact with outside of school do not speak or understand the language of the ‘āina. How can I share with students the importance of learning and trying and growing without showing them I learn, try, and grow too? Views from Kaloko-Honokōhau, a national historic park on Hawaiʻi Island. ‘Ōlelo Hawaiʻi, the Hawaiian language, is kaona, meaning one word has layered meanings. For example, in addition to mālama meaning to care for, it also means to protect, maintain, support, and many more concepts. Another word I have learned is kuleana, meaning responsibility, privilege, etc. I have a strong kuleana to mālama our shared forests. And as a forest ecologist and forest restoration practitioner on Hawaiian lands, I believe it is highly important to perpetuate the indigenous language. This benefits the community, and it enriches my life and understanding of the plants and forests. Pictures of the Hawaiian forests I work in. Kolo pup featured on the left in a tropical dry forest. A hāpuʻu (Cibotium spp.; tree fern), featured on the right in a tropical wet forest. In addition to knowing and learning human languages, I am learning the language of plants and the language of the land too. Contrary to most people's view of plants, I do not view plants as beings without language. I think they communicate and are in relationship with one another and their environment. Their language is just different than ours. Part of my job is to try and listen to the plants and trees. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer shares that “Experiments are not about discovery but about listening and translating the knowledge of other beings.” I use my physical senses, cultural knowledge, intuition, tools, and technology to bridge the communication gap between humans and plants. Every day I kilo, some days I also use a caliper and meter stick. On other workdays, I use stable isotopes and technologies like a LI-6800 (LI-COR). In my first blog post (October - Stories From a Fieldwork Weekend.) I wrote about using a LI-6800 to instantaneously “hear” how a plant is photosynthesizing and respiring.
I am also learning the language of hula in the hālau I participate in. Our Kumu shared with us that hula brings our collective human experience and relationships with the environment and ‘āina to life. Imagine how much more effective our caring of plants can be with this perspective. Again, in the book Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer wrote, “We Americans are reluctant to learn a foreign language of our own species, let alone another species.” This quote resonated with my reluctance to learn a foreign language all my life. I am intimated by human languages, and often times I can get by with English. Growing up, I took 7 years of Latin. I’ve dabbled in Italian, Spanish, and German. I did not stick with any of them and never was confident in my abilities. I have even struggled with English and took years of speech therapy at school. Yet here I am, viewing the ability to learn Ph.D. level plant language and an indigenous language as gifts, a privilege, and an honor. There is so much depth to languages and I look forward to continuing to learn. p.s. shout out to Pepeluali (February) being ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi month! It feels even more appropriate that language is the theme of this February blog post. Did you know you can learn ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi on Duolingo? Here are some additional ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi resources. For this blog post, I am going back to natural phenomena. Was the earthquake I experienced in October a form of Pele (Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes, lava, and fire)? No, turns out the earthquake was just the weight of the island settling. Who knew! However, many earthquakes in Hawaiʻi are a result of volcanic activity. Part of what it means to be living in Hawaiʻi, and part of what it means to be a scientist working in Hawaiʻi, is knowing about the volcanoes. The Hawaiian Islands are on a volcanic hot spot. With the Pacific tectonic plate slowly moving to the northwest, existing islands are moved away from the hot spot, and new islands continually form over the hot spot. Photo I took while visiting the current eruption at Kīlauea, specifically at Halemaʻumaʻu Crater, in Volcanoes National Park. My friend and I visited just before sunset and enjoyed the transition through dusk until it was dark and the lava lit the sky! Similar to how city lights light up the sky. Hawaiʻi Island and the nearby new submarine volcanic island called Kamaʻehuakanaloa currently reside above the hot spot and have a lot of volcanic activity. I live and work on Hawaiʻi Island which is comprised of five major shield volcanoes. From oldest to youngest, they are Kohala, Maunakea, Hualālai, Maunaloa, Kīlauea. In September 2021, coincidentally just 10 days before the October 6.2 magnitude earthquake, Kīlauea began erupting again. Creating new island mass. New ʻāina. Since moving to Hawaiʻi, this was the first time a volcano erupted. I was excited and began experiencing a new part of life here. Rather than people asking, “What is the volcano activity today?” people ask, “How is Pele today?” To me, this is a much more personal way to communicate. Indicating that the volcano is more of a family member than just a geologic formation. On my first visit to the eruption, my friend and I also saw a moonbow that night! As the night progressed and less people were visiting, you could even hear the lava crackle as the lava fountained high into the sky. Pele has so much depth, and I am only just beginning to scratch the ʻike surface. There are many moʻolelo, oli, mele,kaʻao, and hula about Pele. I actually learned a hula about Pele in the hālau (traditional Hawaiian school) I am part of. This hula (example of this hula by a charter school on Oʻahu, final hula starts minute 20:15) is part of the hālau’s foundational curriculum because everything we do on the landscape has to do with who is under our feet. This energy of Pele is under our feet, she created the volcanic landscapes not just in Hawaiʻi, but the land all over our earth. The sheer amount of material about Pele is one indication of how important she is. Pele is central to Hawaiian Island formation which is central to island biogeochemistry and biodviersty of both flora and fauna. Pele is the name of the Hawaiian goddess, and pele is also the Hawaiian word for lava. There are two main types of pele, 1. ʻaʻā and 2. pāhoehoe. A way to remember that ʻaʻā is the sharp and spiky lava type is if you step on it you exclaim, “ah!”. In contrast, pahoehoe is smooth and easy to walk on. Many walking pathways of Hawaiians follow pahoehoe flows. Two other lava types I think that are of interest to note are 3. Pele’s hair and 4. Pele’s tears (page 40 on hyperlinked pdf). I had no idea these lavas existed until hearing people talk about them during this current eruption. Pāhoehoe flow in Volcanoes National Park along the Puna Coast Trail. There is so much to learn about where we live and work. Who knows how long Kīlauea will erupt this time, but I plan to keep learning about Pele. Whether we are somewhere new or somewhere more familiar to us, it is important to ask questions, engage with the landscape you are in, and learn about the cultures present. Silhouette of visitors taking in the spectacular eruption at Halemaʻumaʻu Crater of Kīlauea volcano.
Root Down to Rise Up. Root down to rise up it's a theme of my life remembering my roots my family, values, friends, beliefs to rise up and reach out far to grow my shoots my branches and leaves to go out on a limb all while learning about and from trees learning how trees start from seed go through transplant shock if grown in a nursery transplant shock much like me when moving my roots to location b ...and onto locations c, d, and e learning how trees feed photosynthesize, oh what a dream and how trees have relationships the give and take the ebb and flow the ups and downs just like you and me sometimes life hurts bumping a knee or tree canopies resiliency is the key recognizing the interconnectedness the relationships the pulse of life the complex yet simple beauty nature from the forests to the lakes from the mountains to the bay from the rainforest to the reef from the desert to the river from ma uka to ma kai no matter what through it all remembering to root down to rise up. A photo of a live oak (Quercus virginiana) tree from my M.S. research site on St. Simon's Island, Georgia. A little context for this poem. A labmate during my M.S. program at Purdue University also enjoyed poetry, and we would write poems summarizing talks from our weekly departmental seminar series. Writing poems helped me stay engaged during seminar talks, especially during talks that were out of my field of study, with most of the content going over my head.
This practice helped me realize that I enjoyed writing poems about scientific topics, which led to me incorporating scientific and nature topics into more personal poems. The “root down to rise up” phrase comes from my yoga practice. I cannot remember the first time I heard it, but several teachers have shared it during yoga classes, and this phrase has become a foundation for how I view my life story. This poem is a product of seminar poetry and yoga practice. Today is December 21st, marking the winter solstice. I recently learned that the winter solstice is a time of release, letting go, honoring relationships, and reflecting deeply. I was going to post a different topic for this month’s blog post, but upon reflecting on this winter solstice, I decided instead on remembering and sharing this poem. I think my current commute to work is one of the best commutes I have had so far. I have the honor of working on a 9,600-acre property on the slopes of Maunaloa in South Kona of Hawai‘i Island. Most ‘āina ma uka (land upland of town - in this context, specifically the mountainous slope of Maunaloa) in South Kona is private property; therefore, many people who live in South Kona, are not able to experience the ‘āina ma uka. Here I share photos of my commute to work, hoping that someone who has not been able to experience South Kona can have a little glimpse of the area. Step 1, from the main South Kona road, turn ma uka. This marks the beginning of driving up. Our starting elevation is 1,800 feet. Step 2, drive up through a neighborhood mixed with small agriculture lots. Some look more like typical homes, while others are more like coffee shacks. Step 3, keep driving ma uka. Once we reach 2,700 feet in elevation, we drive through a 1,900-acre coffee farm. When the coffee is flowering, the countless small white flowers look a bit like snow from a distance. Around this point of the drive, the back seat passenger looks like the photo below. Chilling in the upside-down relaxed state. Step 4, keep driving up through the coffee farm to reach the last gate marking the beginning of the property I work on. Step 5, at this point (2,900 feet), I pull off the road and offer an oli. An oli is a Hawaiian chant often used to set an intention and/or ask permission to enter a space (whether a physical space or a state of mind). The oli I most often share was written by a professor in the department I am a part of, and it honors the communities and places in which we learn and work. Dr. Mehana Vaughan encourages its use to welcome, ask permission to enter, or request guidance for educational and research efforts, that they may bring pono for Hawai‘i’s ‘āina and people. Sometimes I am eager to oli, while other days, I am in more of a hurry or just want to get to work. However, I turn off the work truck, get out, stand on my feet, and orientate myself to the forest. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually connecting to the ‘āina. I share these words. With time and repetition, it now feels disrespectful to not oli when driving to my research sites. It feels like walking past a beloved family member without saying hello, or even making eye contact. In a chapter from Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Kimmerer describes ceremony. She shares a ceremony her family would give at the beginning of summer canoeing days. She writes, “…I imagined that the land heard us (in reference to their ceremony) – murmured to itself “Ohh, here are the ones who know how to say thank you.”...” After an oli, you wait for a response, permission to enter. Typically when I oli, I give the oli to the ʻāina rather than to a specific human who can provide a verbal reply. Even though I speak a different language than the ʻāina, I feel the makani, I hear the manu sing, I smell the nahele/ulu lāʻau saying aloha. I hope, and imagine, that the ‘āina murmurs in response, “here is the one who asks permission, acknowledges, and gives thanks.” Step 6, hop back into the truck and drive up through remanent mixed native and non-native forest. Below are photo examples of some mixed forest species we pass. ‘Ōhiʻa lehua (Metrosideros polymorpha; large tree trunk), ʻieʻie (Freycinetia arborea; vine on the ʻōhiʻa trunk), ginger (dominant dark green, large leaf plant in the understory), hāpuʻu (Cibotium menziesii; tree fern above the ginger). Up close of an ʻieʻie flower. Step 7, arrive at the nursery. Sometimes my drive stops here at 3,600 feet, while other times, I keep going up another 1,000 to 1,500 feet to reach field sites where we plant and kilo (observe) seedlings. Only thing that would make my commute better is if I could bike rather than drive.
In Braiding Sweetgrass, Dr. Robin Kimmerer shares that ceremonies, such as my commute to work and sharing an oli, “have the power to focus attention to a way of living awake in the world...(that) ceremony is a vehicle for belonging - to a family, to a people and to the land.” She goes on to ask, “What else can you offer the earth, which has everything?” So for now, I will offer my thanks, my words, my time, my intentions, in the form of an oli. A ceremony of kanaka maoli (native Hawaiian people). Mahalo. Did you know earthquakes can roar? Wait wait...we will come back to that. This was quite an exciting weekend. I try to not work on weekends, rather protect it as personal time (it is far too easy for me to work all of the time). However, with current research demands and equipment availability, working on the weekends has to happen. A nerdy aside, I am borrowing a fancy machine that captures gas exchange of plants and, in turn, can approximate photosynthesis rates. I have 81 plants to capture this data for. The type of data I am collecting (light response curves) takes about 10 minutes at each plant. I can only collect this data between 10am and 2pm (peak photosynthesis time), and I need to return the equipment in two weeks. All of that to say, I have a timeline crunch. So on Saturday, I found myself at one of my fieldsites, hanging out with two-year-old tree seedlings that we planted last year and my one-year-old dog (yes, a covid puppy). After taking a few measurements, I find myself in a flow. The mountainous scenery and the raucous ʻio (Hawaiian hawk) are incredible entertainment. While I love this natural entertainment as is, sometimes I mix it up and add additional pizzazz. I began listening Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer. Kolo (one-year-old pup) along side two-year-old 'iliahi (Hawaiian sandalwood, Santalum paniculatum) seedling with a LI-6800 (LI-COR) machine (mahalo to the Muir and Heyduk Labs!) clamped onto its leaf to capture leaf level gas exchange. I have read parts of this book before. Still, I have yet to read (or listen to) it in its entirety - even though I’ve had both the physical book and audiobook for over a year now. Finally, I began listening, a little nervous, a little excited. Not even a half-hour in, I found myself crying. The writing is beautiful, poetic, honest. The line that caught me was, “Since 1492, most here are immigrants as well, perhaps arriving on Ellis Island without even knowing that Turtle Island rested beneath their feet.” I think this line evoked such emotion because before starting this Ph.D. program two years ago, I would not have understood what this sentence meant. But now, I do. Or at least I am beginning to understand. And the meaning, to me, is heavy and personal. In this quote, Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer is sharing The Skywoman story, a Creation story from and of the lands where I was born and raised, the ancestral lands of the Haudenosaunee. I am a descendant of immigrants, a descendant of colonizers, born in Western New York. Growing up, I did learn a little bit about regional Indigenous culture. I was taught about Iroquois, only learning the Indigenous name, Haudenosaunee, after living in Hawaiʻi. In my family, there are both recent immigrants and older immigrants from several generations back. I feel pretty confident in saying when my relatives arrived at Ellis Island, they did not know that Turtle Island rested beneath their feet. Now, as their granddaughter/great granddaughter/great great granddaughter etc., I am pursuing a Ph.D. in Hawaiʻi focused on restoring native forests, and learning of the Indigenous culture of the land I was born and raised on. I am also learning of the Indigenous culture and language of the ʻāina where I currently live. Trying to live a pono life. To do pono research. At times, it can be overwhelming and feels earth-shattering (or earth-quaking if you will), but most of the time, this learning process is rejuvenating, refreshing, and healing. Then today, day two of weekend fieldwork, while conducting the same measurements, I felt my first earthquake. Auē, did I feel this earthquake. The ground shook so intensely I almost fell over. My dog was alarmed and started barking. As my heart rate quickened and flight, fight, or freeze instincts ramped up, I began processing the incredible sound. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before. Loud, deep, intense roaring rumbling from all around me. The lava rock shifting below my feet. The sound blended into the physical quaking. Turns out, it was a 6.2 magnitude earthquake with an epicenter not far away off the coast. I imagine I will experience and feel many more earthquakes (from the geologic physical earthquakes to personal epiphanies and research high/lows) while living on this young volcanic Hawaiian island. Perhaps earthquakes can be a metaphor for all of the learning I am experiencing. Often earthquakes are viewed with a negative connotation. Destructive in nature. Why not take the perspective that they are a natural phenomenon that can lead to constructive growth and new foundations? I hope and strive to continue to be present and open-minded so I can hear the roars of earthquakes. Over the next year, I intend to write about some of these quakes and various aspects of life as a graduate student plant scientist once a month. We will see where the stories go. |
AuthorI started this blog as part of my Botany In Action Fellowship through Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens Archives
June 2023
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