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August 31st, 2011 | Meera
I have always been stubborn, and I have never been able to run.
As to stubbornness: I have stood my ground, bruised and bloody-minded, so many times over so many things that the specifics blend into each other; a plate of vegetables I refused to eat at age six resides in the same part of my brain as an apology I refused to make at age twenty seven.
As to running: I have tried it so few times with such pitiful results that the specifics are horribly stark; a single night-excursion with A. through the stony streets of Jerusalem, ending mere minutes later in shame and sweat and heart palpitations, is as vivid as if it had been stitched into a medieval tapestry and hung on my wall.
A few years ago, when Ross and I lived in Boston and I volunteered as a gallery guide at the Harvard Museum of Natural History, we used to go there fairly often to listen to public lectures in the evenings. The details of most of the talks we attended—on, for instance, the physiology of singing insects or whether morality is learned or innate—are lost to memory.
But one event in particular impressed me so much that I still think about it from time to time, and it has been on my mind this week. It was by a Harvard researcher named Daniel Lieberman, an anthropologist who studies human evolution. At the time, Lieberman was obsessed with the question of how and why we run.
The conventional wisdom about locomotion, he argued—that early hominids whose bodies were more suited to bipedalism were the ones who survived when they left their shady tree-dwelling lives to forage for food on the open savannah, and that the human ability to run was simply a byproduct of the ability to walk—was all wrong.
Listen, he said: Our cousins the Australopithecines could walk on two legs, and their bodies—hunch-shouldered, short-legged—were nothing like those of the genus Homo. Plus, Australopithecines continued to lead a partially arboreal existence for millions of years, even after they evolved to be bipedal.
Walking, Lieberman announced to the room, didn’t bring us down from the trees, and it didn’t give us our human shape.
Only look: The human body is exquisitely well-designed to run. It has long, elastic tendons in its legs and feet that store energy like springs when compressed, something we do much more when we run than when we walk. It has large gluteus maximus muscles that pull our torsos backwards and keep us upright when we lean crazily forward into the off-balance pitch that starts each new step of a run. It is relatively hairless, and can sweat—both adaptations that allow us to release the heat of extreme exertion.
The reason we evolved to lope, dash, scamper, gallop, hurtle across this great green Earth?
Well, the anthropologist grinned, we hadn’t yet invented the bows and arrows that would enable us to kill over long distances; we hadn’t yet tamed the wild horses that would one day carry us close to fleeing animals.
We learned to run, he argued—and run, and run, and run—so we could hunt prey to exhaustion, track it for hours if necessary, past the point at which a quadruped (built to gallop only for short distances) would have to stop to pant. And then we would stop running, too, and have done with it.
I remember being struck, at the time, by how extraordinarily steely this seemed—how the idea of it made me simultaneously marvel at and recoil from my strange, inherited human self. If this was true then we were born to conquer; born to do it without tools, without thought, and without guile, but through a simple act of complete and total obstinacy. To run, it seemed, was to be stubborn.
I have always been stubborn, and I have never been able to run.
For thirty-two years I have lived with both these ideas about myself. But (ask a Harvard anthropologist!) being deeply contradictory truths, perhaps it should not so much surprise that one of them would someday fall.
So far this week, heart and legs and mind stronger than they have ever been from a summer’s worth of field work, I have run a total of nine miles—by the lake, at the gym, through the streets of my neighborhood in Hyde Park. It isn’t much, I know; nine miles is far from an endurance-run across the Kalahari. There is a long, long way to go.
But I have not stopped to pant. I am persisting. I am claiming my strange, inherited human self.
And one of these days I’m going to outlast whatever it is I’m hunting, and have done with it.
(This is the 3-mile route Ross and I have been running.)
August 11th, 2011 | Meera
I’m back in the lab on Thursdays, and this morning I walked into it to find that Dave had set out three beautiful little New World wood warblers for me to prepare. Although I loved every bird I encountered in Sweden, I found myself missing many North American species while I was away, including our vivid warblers. It was a delight, therefore, to work today on a turmeric-yellow Pine Warbler (Dendroica pinus), an Orange-crowned Warbler (Vermivora celata) with an especially large splotch of rust on its head, and a sleek Magnolia Warbler (Dendroica magnolia).
Male Magnolia Warblers always make me think of gentlemen who’ve dressed themselves in suits of the most conventional gray, white, and black—and then decided at the last moment that they simply must put on vests as bright as any daffodil.
The English word world can be traced, through only a few straightforward steps, to an ancient Germanic compound noun meaning “the age of man” (wer: “man”/ ald: “age”). Ald, in turn, is derived from an even older verb meaning “to grow” or “to nourish.” Thus, world: that place where human beings and their affairs flourish.
It’s a fine thing, friends, to be alive in such a place: whether Old or New. Ah; it is the only thing, you may remind me. But still—and despite all hardships—a fine, fine one.
August 5th, 2011 | Meera
The difference between mass and weight can seem slight, insubstantial—a fact (matter of fact) light enough to float away when textbook pages ripple crisply by beneath the thumb. We forget the two are not the same.
Packing for nine weeks in the pure blue unknown, you fit everything you cannot live without into a space too small to hold it all: roll shirts and shampoo into socks, slip pens and paper into corners. Tuck worry and desire into the spaces left by coat, camera gear, a single Polaroid photo. The whole seems too heavy to pass inspection—but at the airport you find two spare kilograms. Calculate what more you could have carried.
Packing to come home, you leave so much behind: bottles spent and emptied, boots in which you walked hundreds of miles, a feather from a bird you never met and didn’t name. The bag seems heavier than before—yet contains hardly anything of consequence. There was no way to fit a mountain or a friendship into its hollow, though you believed you had grown muscles enough to lift them.
The physicists have a measure for how much a body resists a change in motion. They call it mass; they say it is what we are made of. It is a universal constant, they tell me: I could travel anywhere and resist no more, no less. I understand I must live with this inertia.
The physicists have a measure for the force that attracts one body toward another. They call it weight; they say it is how much we tend to move closer to the thing that pulls on us. It is not what I am, but where I am, they tell me: on one planet I would be an anvil, on another a kiss. (Our language spoke this before our scientists; we knew, before knowing, that to weigh something is to move it.)
I understand the possibility exists to change this pull. But will you go in with me, friend, on a second-hand space shuttle?
A caveat: If troubled by a weight on one’s shoulders, never live on Jupiter.
If congenitally flighty, avoid the Moon.
Some things are heavy.