Ecology

I mentioned in my last post that I'm reading The Sixth Extinction.  It's a book about the history of extinction and the many ways that humans are altering our planet and the effects on the other species with whom we share it.  Climate change is something that I am increasingly concerned about, so I appreciate this eye-opening look.  Part of that is getting closer to some of the species and their interdependencies that are being effected.  There is something very intimate about knowing the life of a particular ant, and the birds that follow in the wake of its destruction, and the butterflies that lay their eggs in the birds' droppings.  There are so many little worlds and lives going on that I have no knowledge of, so many realities in this one world, very different from my own day-to-day.  It speaks to an interconnectedness and a reason to patterns that might not have been present to the naked, or unreflecting, eye.  That one small thing may be the result of so much, or the impetus, or could be responsible for such change.  It's fascinating and beautiful and touching.  The world is going on around us, buzzing beyond immediate comprehension, spinning a texture for our backdrop.  It's wonderful to take it aside and see its magic a little more clearly.

And maybe because of this mindset, I discovered two new ecological systems of New York today.  Walking by Westside market as I'm sure I have now done hundreds of times, I finally figured out why people loiter around the entrance, crowding an already overcrowded space.  They are waiting for a bus.  They wake up, get ready for the day, and then walk to the bus stop.  And to avoid the cold and wind, they huddle inside the market.  Perhaps it took them a few times to figure out there was a place to be warm, but now this is a part of their system.  A small piece of my world, now better understood.

Later in the day, I took the train down to 14th St. and walked to Bethune St. to the Martha Graham school to take my first class in the city.  And I learned, or realized, that 10:50am classes on weekday mornings are likely not the ones that everyday people join, but rather are for the 20-year-olds at the school (I overheard one in the dressing room lamenting turning 22) or aspiring actors and dancers, looking for a class to help them audition and advance their professional career.  Dancers need classes the way I need my cello to practice in the mornings.  And this was it for them.  Luckily I had some experience and could roughly follow along, but this was not my school of fish.  I briefly got to live in the world of young girls on the cusp of forming a career in a demanding world, stressed and hard-working for it.

There are also many worlds in New York, like that of the ant/bird/butterfly, that I do not see.  Most of of them are invisible to me.  And many of them I realize I don't even look at, even turn away from.  There are so many people doing manual labor, delivering water jugs and groceries to homes, holding doors, taking care of other people's children, carting and lifting boxes of fruits/vegetables/anything, completing purchasing transactions, selling donuts in a little van, all for far less than I or many other people make.  Their lives are consumed by these actions, as well as the early morning commute to do them.  And there are the people that beg for money on the train, sometimes with a sign with pictures of their sons who they implore you to help them feed, or telling the story of a large tumor in their cheek, or the abusive relationship they are trying to bounce back from.  It is hard to face a reality in which we have little or no power to make a difference that seems meaningful.  But perhaps by trying to take a closer look, it becomes harder to turn away.  And perhaps that can awaken us to action.