It was on those surveys that the prism of conservation first began to take shape.
Over time, I gained other prisms - husband, father, westerner, author, activist, businessperson - and each helped me see different aspects of the human/nature continuum as well as contemplate the question of well-being. My children, for example, are a powerful prism. The light they refract raises big questions: What sort of natural world will they inherit? How will they use it? Will they be well? Have I done enough to fill their future with the joy and curiosity that I experienced as a child? What will they remember? What prisms will they inherit? Which ones will they discover on their own?
And by watching them grow, I am reminded that memory is a powerful prism too, though often a highly distorting one.
It’s not just my prisms - I am constantly amazed how a single object or idea can be viewed in so many different ways by other people.
Take a tree in a forest, for instance. An economist examines it for its market value. An ecologist studies it with scientific intent. An environmental activist might chain herself to it. An artist might be inspired by its beauty. A farmer might rest in its shade. A hunter might creep through its shadow. An Internet-addicted urban kid might be awestruck by its majesty. A birder might see it as the home of an elusive species.
A tree is all of these things, of course, and none of them. After all, it’s just a tree. But that is what’s so fascinating about prisms - it’s not the tree that matters ultimately. It’s how we perceive it and
Take a national park - Yellowstone, say. In August, my family and I spent five days there soaking up the sounds, smells, and sights of that magnificent landscape. Sitting at a picnic table in a wooded grove near Old Faithful Geyser, I thought: Yellowstone is a prism too. Shine a light through it - America’s love affair with the great outdoors, for example - and watch what it reveals. Or shine the environmental movement through it, or our national obsession with cheap mobility, or climate change, or the Age of Consequences, or a personal biography, and study the illuminating colors that are created.
For example, take what I could see and hear from the picnic table that sunny day. Despite nearly $4 gas and $5 diesel (and a boatload of bellyaching across the nation this summer), I saw a huge parking area packed with cars, trucks, RVs, and motorcycles. It wasn’t just the lure of the famous geyser either, almost all of Yellowstone’s roads were jammed with vehicles. It took us nearly four hours to drive the ninety miles from Jackson, Wyoming, to our reserved camp site along the Madison River. And when we arrived we were greeted with a sign that read "Campground Full."
There were even long lines at the bathrooms!
Then there was the noise. While sitting at the picnic table I heard: a helicopter flying nearby, the plaintive siren of a police car, and the steady hum of cars coming and going. I also heard the low, unearthly growl of what had to be a herd of dinosaurs or trolls approaching the parking lot. It grew louder, and more menacing, causing my son to look up from his sandwich to say
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