I've been reflecting on a wonderful book called Nature and the Human Soul by Bill Plotkin in which he contends that most humans in contemporary Western culture do not mature into true adulthood. As I was hiking in Ocala National Forest this past weekend, I came across some hunting dogs whose qualities seemed to mirror human psychological neoteny. They followed me around for some time, seeming unsure about their humans' instructions, and frequently looked at me with "puppy dog eyes" that seemed to beg for help or affection or both. I once read that dogs retain certain puppy behaviors into adulthood which their ancestors, the wolves, did not. I have been wondering if our human evolutionary track is reinforcing a genetic pattern which makes it less common or possible to mature into adulthood, similar to the evolution of dogs from wolves. I have no idea if this is a useful comparison, but it feels poignant to me, since they have served as our "best friends" and therefore the most intimate non-human relationship in the lives of contemporary Western humans. Perhaps they are a fitting mirror for our developmental state, since humans have been training them to meet our emotional and survival needs for the past 15,000 years.
...which leads me to also wonder if the human species could be considered "domesticated" in relation to our wild state. It's disturbing to read about behaviors associated with animals in captivity (oddly called "stereotypical behaviors"), which seem to parallel our modern mental health disorders, such as aggression, self-injury, depression, etc. I'm fascinated by the animals (zebras, wild cats, wolves, etc.) and people (like the Hadza of Tanzania) who resist domestication in spite of numerous attempts. I admire the species who have gone feral, like horses and wild pigs, after long periods of domestication of their ancestors. Can humans go feral?
I recently rewatched a favorite movie, "The Secret of Roan Inish," which shows a wide range of characters on the continuum between wild and domesticated, several of whom shift their position during the course of the story. I found myself so moved by the intimacy between the family and their island of origin, Roan Inish. One of my favorite scenes is when the selky, a woman who is part seal, puts her baby in a cradle on the sea to be rocked by the waves. In her gentle gaze, I can imagine what it might be like for a mother to consider nature as one of the primary caregivers for her child.
What struck me most was the character of the grandmother, who seemed plagued with shame about her kinship with nature, as she repeatedly condemns others for any signs of wildness. "Superstitious old man!" she complains after her husband tells a story about the importance of giving in to the sea's demands. She makes dismissive comments about the past, as if the old ways no longer have a place in the world. "Love of the sea is a sickness, and you'll come to grief for it," she says. Rather than admit her belief in an ancient story about their family's descent from seals, she says, "There's some as tells it like that," with a troubled look on her face. And she stands out as the only devout Christian in the story, which strikes me as her way of redeeming herself from her pagan heritage.
But in the end, she leads the family to return to the island to be reunited with her grandson, Jamie, who is living wildly with the seals. The child is afraid to return to the family, being afraid of humans, but when the seals press him to go, the old grandmother kneels down and calls out, "Come on, Jamie boy." With her round, heavy body wrapped in her black shawl and dark -colored dress, low down to the ground, I noticed how much she looked like a seal. And Jamie finally runs to the old woman's arms and gets wrapped up and returned to his human family. She is the only one whose presence didn't spook Jamie, the only one who could call into that wild world and say something familiar and welcoming to it.
It brings tears to my eyes to consider how our natural kinship with the earth, while it gets plenty of lip service, is something so shameful in our world that those who have retained the old intimacy are somehow forced into hiding and exile, even from themselves.
...which leads me to also wonder if the human species could be considered "domesticated" in relation to our wild state. It's disturbing to read about behaviors associated with animals in captivity (oddly called "stereotypical behaviors"), which seem to parallel our modern mental health disorders, such as aggression, self-injury, depression, etc. I'm fascinated by the animals (zebras, wild cats, wolves, etc.) and people (like the Hadza of Tanzania) who resist domestication in spite of numerous attempts. I admire the species who have gone feral, like horses and wild pigs, after long periods of domestication of their ancestors. Can humans go feral?
I recently rewatched a favorite movie, "The Secret of Roan Inish," which shows a wide range of characters on the continuum between wild and domesticated, several of whom shift their position during the course of the story. I found myself so moved by the intimacy between the family and their island of origin, Roan Inish. One of my favorite scenes is when the selky, a woman who is part seal, puts her baby in a cradle on the sea to be rocked by the waves. In her gentle gaze, I can imagine what it might be like for a mother to consider nature as one of the primary caregivers for her child.
What struck me most was the character of the grandmother, who seemed plagued with shame about her kinship with nature, as she repeatedly condemns others for any signs of wildness. "Superstitious old man!" she complains after her husband tells a story about the importance of giving in to the sea's demands. She makes dismissive comments about the past, as if the old ways no longer have a place in the world. "Love of the sea is a sickness, and you'll come to grief for it," she says. Rather than admit her belief in an ancient story about their family's descent from seals, she says, "There's some as tells it like that," with a troubled look on her face. And she stands out as the only devout Christian in the story, which strikes me as her way of redeeming herself from her pagan heritage.
But in the end, she leads the family to return to the island to be reunited with her grandson, Jamie, who is living wildly with the seals. The child is afraid to return to the family, being afraid of humans, but when the seals press him to go, the old grandmother kneels down and calls out, "Come on, Jamie boy." With her round, heavy body wrapped in her black shawl and dark -colored dress, low down to the ground, I noticed how much she looked like a seal. And Jamie finally runs to the old woman's arms and gets wrapped up and returned to his human family. She is the only one whose presence didn't spook Jamie, the only one who could call into that wild world and say something familiar and welcoming to it.
It brings tears to my eyes to consider how our natural kinship with the earth, while it gets plenty of lip service, is something so shameful in our world that those who have retained the old intimacy are somehow forced into hiding and exile, even from themselves.
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