Go Outside and Watch Some Birds

I’ve been meaning for a few days to write this response to my good friend Evo, who published a very dark, disturbing post recently. Apparently, he’s been going through a rather bleak period, “filled with gloom.” Unfortunately, this is not a one-time event for him; he has regular bouts with what I’d characterize as cosmic angst. Some, maybe even much, of his problem is medical, and he says so. But a small part of it, I think, is philosophical.

In his post, Evo contemplates the awful eventuality of death and mutability. He asks how we can carry on, given the knowledge that we’ll ultimately be consigned to the dustbin of history. That’s a burdensome knowledge, and there are days when I, too, find it overwhelming. In my opinion, you’d have to be an idiot not to be troubled by the fact that you will, someday soon in the grand scheme of things, cease to exist.

There’s no life after death. The opera, ideally, is a long one, but it will come to an end. It may not be over until the fat lady, Death, sings; but when she does, it’s done. The music is finished and it’s time for everyone — except the corpse — to go home. I’m depressing myself just thinking about it.

Anyway, in what may have seemed like a flippant answer, I advised Evo to “go outside and watch some birds.” I meant it seriously, though, because that’s always a joyful experience for me, maybe the most innocently agreeable, life-affirming thing I can think of to do. The wonders of evolution surround us. Humans aren’t special; we’re part of an entire world that’s breathtaking to behold. And nature becomes much more awe-inspiring when you don’t fool yourself into thinking that some divine hand designed it especially for you. The myriad variety of life is mind-boggling precisely because it wasn’t planned. No gods gave us the multitude of bird species; natural selection did. The amazing thing is that we’ve been evolutionarily “programmed” to recognize the simple pleasures of watching other living things as they go about their business — of living.

So I was having a fairly down afternoon myself, sitting at my computer and silently bemoaning the fact that, as I get older, hardly a day goes by when some part of my body doesn’t ache. I never made that fortune, never became famous, never got as learned as I thought I would. And when I look in the mirror, yikes! I see my own grandfather.

But spring has just about arrived where I live, and the birds are busy. My yard and the nearby thicket is filled with them. Our ten or eleven feeders are doing their job, attracting many of my favorites. A good friend phoned today and I decided I’d talk to him from my screened-in porch. Being a good friend, he has a vocabulary not unlike mine, and it didn’t take him long to interrupt the conversation to say, “Holy shit! It sounds like you’re in the middle of a fucking aviary.” And he was right.

Titmice calling for “Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter.” Cardinals proclaiming “What cheer! What cheer!” Carolina wrens asking to be recorded on “video, video, video.” A score of goldfinches signaling to one another that they had the munchies: “potato chip, potato chip, potato chip, potato chip.” Somewhere in the trees a great-crested flycatcher, the first of the year, whooping it up: “wheeeeep, wheeeeep.” Mourning doves flying over to the birdbath, their wings whistling as they took off. A pileated woodpecker gleefully cackling in the distance. A trio of prissy fish crows flying overhead, telling each other, “uh-uh, uh-uh, uh-uh.” A barred owl rousing himself way too early to wonder “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

And the colors, flitting and fluttering here and there, making abstract pictures in the trees for someone like me, lucky enough to be nearsighted when he lowers his binoculars. The deep red of male cardinals. The blue of jays. The bright yellow of American goldfinches coming into their seasonal plumage. The Crayola box of painted buntings with reds and blues and greens in assorted shades.

At about three o’clock, a red-shouldered hawk landed on an extremely thin branch of a naked sycamore near the back of my house. He was relatively small for the species: a male, no doubt. He widened his tail and pumped it up and down a few times, trying to catch his balance, while the other birds, suddenly confronted with the possibility of a swift and unexpected death, flew into the thicket, a short but safe distance away. The bravest of the cardinals and goldfinches peeked out from time to time to see what the hawk was up to. Not much, as it happened. After a few minutes of watching the ground — waiting hopefully for some rodent to come for the spilled seed, although none did — he coursed away.

In less than ten seconds, everybody was back at the feeding posts. A lone jay perched not far from where the hawk had been, and imitated his call: keeeee-yer, keeeee-yer. It was a pretty good performance, but no one was fooled. The bird-ensome knowledge that they would soon be consigned to the dustbin of history had passed once again.

For me, too.

Evidence of Cedar Waxwings

At our favorite atheist-theist battleground, Matthew said:

It isn't quite true that the burden of proof lies on individually proving something using our individual senses. If a color blind person were to use the same criteria, you would have a real problem proving to some people red is different from green.

I'm going to answer you, Matthew. For now, I'll assume that we're having a dialogue and not a debate. Maybe you'll learn something about the atheist position if you read what I have to say. I'm not attempting to turn you into an atheist, only to get you to understand what one atheist — me — does and doesn't claim. If you're game to listen and ask honest questions, without trying to score points, I'll try to elucidate my position as best I can. Bear in mind that I speak only for myself.

I don't think I said that the burden of proof always depends on our using our individual senses.

However, even assuming I did, a person afflicted with red-green color-blindness can use his or her senses to detect a real, physical difference between the colors, at least in practical situations. He or she just can't use color vision to make the distinction. But there are many other criteria in addition to pure color, depending upon what red-or-green objects you're referring to. Think of red peppers/green peppers; red traffic lights/green traffic lights; red wine/green wine; red strawberries/green strawberries. If you learned that red meat was good and green meat was rancid, you could perceive the color through your sense of smell and, if it came to that, your sense of taste. You would be able to substitute other senses for the deficiency in your color vision. You wouldn't need to rely on faith.

I'll give you a concrete example of a sensory deprivation that I myself suffer, and how I can still require — and get! — proof. Each year, songbirds called cedar waxwings migrate through my area.



These cheery little creatures travel in small- to medium-sized flocks. While flying, they give a very high call, which is way out of my range of hearing. Mrs. Exterminator, however, can hear that call perfectly. If we're outdoors, she might cry, "cedar waxwings!" and I'll look up in the sky, or at a tree across the street, or over at a bush in someone's backyard, or wherever she's pointing. Sometimes she doesn't even have to point because I'll know that there are some berries nearby that cedar waxwings just can't resist. Anyway, I'll look, and there they'll be. I don't have to hear them, but I can prove to myself that they're there.

If, after enough cases, I decide that whenever Mrs. Ex says "cedar waxwings," there are actually cedar waxwings, I may decide to trust her — trust, not have faith, because I'd be relying on actual past empirical experiences. So maybe I could accept that cedar waxwings are somewhere around even if I can't see them. But, to tell the absolute truth, much as I love and trust my wife, I probably wouldn't believe her, because she has been wrong three or four times. In those instances, her cedar waxwings turned out to be other birds that I either saw or could hear. Or not birds at all.



Sometimes, of course, she might say "cedar waxwings" and they actually would be there, even though I couldn't see them. But she wouldn't have proved their existence to me, because, although I trust her cedar-waxwing-spotting ability, I don't trust it blindly.

And that's all an atheist says. Your bird may be there, but you'll have to prove it. Because 99.9% of the time, there are no cedar waxwings around. Sometimes you're gonna say something is a cedar waxwing that isn't. Sometimes, maybe, you will hear a real cedar waxwing. But if you want me to believe there's a cedar waxwing there, you'll have to give me some evidence. Because, as far as I'm concerned, until you show me otherwise, it's probably just a mosquito.

I Resolve ... Not to Make Any Resolutions

Welcome, 2008. Despite the title of this post, I couldn't resist. That's one resolution broken already. Here are the rest of my resolutions.

• Eat more Brussels sprouts and fewer Hostess Sno Balls. If possible, invent a way to fill Brussels sprouts with cream and cover them in coconut and marshmallow.
  


• Be nastier to people who come to my door selling god. They're trespassing, both physically and psychically. Continue to respect their right to speak freely, but not on my property.
  


• In elections, resist the strong temptation to vote for the “lesser of two evils.” Anyone who mixes large doses of religion into politics is sufficiently evil for me not to want him or her in a position of responsibility. Our Democratic “friends” may turn out to be more insidiously harmful than our Republican “enemies;” at least we have our atheistic guard up when the latter are in power. If necessary, swallow hard and write in “The Exterminator” for every single race.
  


• Don’t publish philosophical space-fillers on No More Hornets. Most philosoblogging, even that with which I agree, is mental masturbation masquerading as deep thinking.
  


• Challenge other atheists whenever they make statements not supported by evidence. Also, challenge other atheists whenever they say stupid things. Expect to be challenged myself.
  


• Keep away from situations that may “trigger” my urge to smoke. Look into renting a giant bubble.
  


• Try to be more tactful. Oh, fuck that. Who am I kidding?
  Always be honest, because tact is overrated.


• Don’t waste time reading modern screeds about atheism, by atheists, for atheists. Older books and essays are great for their literary value and historical interest, but no atheist writing being done today can make a difference in my own god-free life. I don’t need to have my atheism bolstered. Anyone who does need his or her atheism bolstered is a closet theist.
  


• Now that I’ve stopped smoking, I should exercise once in a while. Exercise has many plusses in its favor: it’s good for my health, it helps clear my mind, and it gives me an excuse to buy more music for my iPod.
  Screw exercise. It's boring, and it uses up time that could better be spent snacking.


• Remember what David Hume said: Truth springs from argument amongst friends. So I'll never shirk my duty to disagree with a pal. It’s intellectually dishonest to “play nice” all the time.
  


• Find some way to earn a living through my atheist writing. Or through saying “fuck” a lot. Or both.
  


• Remind myself often that blogging is fun. Despite what I’d like to believe when I’m in Grandiosity Mode, I’m not going to change the world through my rants on No More Hornets. I might get a handful of people to laugh once in a while, or to think about something in a slightly new way. That’s great. But I’m not posting because I have any compelling atheistic mission. So if the writing process isn’t enjoyable, why do it?


• Do not, under any circumstances, post images or videos that I think are cute. “Cute” is antithetical to everything I stand for. However, do use more graphics.
  

I included that last resolution mostly to please Phillychief. I admit, though, that a picture is worth 1,000 words, especially if they’re all “tweet.” So here are two images of my favorite backyard bird.



Yes, he looks like he flew through a dye factory, but he didn’t. He’s a painted bunting, and I’ve got three males living in the botanical mess behind my house, and frequenting my feeders. (Five females or juveniles are also back there; they’re colored in various shades of green, and look something like pudgy parakeets.) If I were a religious person, I’d point to the painted bunting as a prime example of a godly creation with the sole purpose of giving humans pleasure. Because I think that’s a load of crap, I have to acknowledge that these bird’s don’t give a rat’s ass whether I think they’re beautiful or not. Their adaptations in plumage serve a purpose for them, not for me.

Still, their selfish genes, without any altrustic motivation whatsoever, result in my great joy. I’d like to share that feeling today with all my friends in the Atheosphere. So these images are my way of saying Happy New Year.

Of Gods and Birds

Hamlet says: “There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.” But he’s wrong.

The battle between religion and science is a common theme on atheist blogs. I tend to take an extreme position — science and religion are polar opposites. A person, no matter how much science he knows, can’t really be scientific at heart while giving any credence to supernatural phenomena. Yes, he can call himself a scientist, perhaps even practice some science at a high level. But if there’s a god in the mix, that person has bought into an illogical, unscientific explanation of something.

I suppose I’d call myself a “science-ist,” not a scientist. I’m not employed in any of the scientific fields, and I must admit that my knowledge of many of those fields is meager, at best. I do admire scientists immensely, and enjoy reading science books and articles — if they’re written for an unspecialized audience. But there are certain subjects I have difficulty wrapping my head around. I don’t have a particle of sense about quantum physics. Oceanography strikes me as unusually dry. Chemistry and I don’t seem to mix. My intellectual abilities and the skills needed to understand the complexities of astronomy are light years apart. There are so many scientific trails that my brain can’t seem to blaze.

Once in a while, though, I actually get to be a scientist, if only in a small way. Tomorrow, for instance I’ll gleefully spend the hours from 3 a.m. until 7 p.m. identifying and tallying birds as a participant in this spring’s North American Migration Count. This event is held throughout the U.S. on a specified Saturday each May; myriads of birders (they’d be called “twitchers” in the U.K.) take a 24-hour “snapshot” of our nation’s bird life. While the spotting abilities of individual birders vary widely, and the weather conditions change in each location from year to year, trends do lend themselves to mathematical analysis. We “citizen scientists” submit our data, and, with proper statistical analysis, a picture of avian existence emerges.

I can’t find words to explain why I love birds. It has something to do with flight, with song, with physical beauty, and with my awed appreciation of their amazing adaptations. When I was growing up I could recognize only two bird species: pigeons and not-pigeons. I was pretty sure, though, that god created neither of them. Today, I’m reasonably competent at using visual and aural clues to pick out perhaps 100 species without difficulty, and I have a pretty good shot at using deduction and a good field guide to lead me to the correct identification of maybe 150 more. I’m not a scientist, but I play one during the migration. Not surprisingly, I still find no evidence that any god can claim credit for giving us humans the gift of birds. Thus, there is no special providence in the fall of a sparrow, nor any divine hand in the flight of an eagle.