Grasshopper Mindfulness

Walking along the Sycamore Greenway, or other trails through natural areas, has always been calming. "It's cheaper than therapy!" I've chirped on more than one occasion when discussing my outings. On days that are particularly calm and sweltering, when the birds are loafing hidden in the shade and there isn't much going on in the flowers, I snap on the macro lens and shift gears into a walking "grasshopper meditation."

In the summer, almost every step in the grass sends tiny critters hopping or flying for cover. I walk slowly, watching my feet, and following one of the tiny hoppers with my eyes. Then slowly, carefully, I drop into a deep squat and inch closer...closer...closer until the lens is right up on the hopper and snap photos.

I notice the tiny nubs of wings indicating it's not yet an adult. I notice the speckled compound eyes and the segmented antennae. I see the fine downy hairs on its face and body, and the delicate pads on its feet flanked by itty-bitty pointed hooks that help the nymph cling to foliage. I see their powerful hind legs poised to launch the hopper 20 times the length of its little body, and I see the slender tibiae of those legs armed with an array of pointed spines that can be used for defense if a predator gets too close.

While I'm down there, I listen to the rhythmic buzz of a nearby katydid, hear the wind rustle through dogwood leaves, feel the sun on my skin as it peeks out from a passing cloud. I look around and see other grasshoppers clinging to the tips of blades of grass, or a quick beetle awkwardly scuttling through a mass of plantain leaves toward cover, or a diligent weevil digging at a leaf with its marvelous snoot. 

I see the speck on a rough, broad Prairie Dock leaf that turns out to be a slender moth, with metallic patterned scales glinting on its neatly arranged wings. I inspect a leaf with holes chewed around the veins, searching in vain for the insect that caused the damage. Sweat trickles down my back as I drop one knee to the ground to lean closer, looming in with the invasive lens until my target leaps away, or I start to feel silly snapping dozens of photos of the same motionless hopper and force myself to stand.

Then on to the next grasshopper, this one green with a dark stripe flanking its back on either side. As it attempts to hide behind a blade of grass, peeking out first one side, then the other, I smile at how clever and effective this simple evasion tactic is. When it tires of peekaboo, it springs away to safety. 

I can't identify the different grasshopper species I see. There are little brown ones, and little green ones. There are the "gravel" hoppers with their mottled brown and gray coloring to blend in perfectly with rocky gray alleys. There are grasshoppers with round, bulbous heads and grasshoppers with angular, slanted heads. I can see the same type of grasshopper over and over again, and each encounter is new. 

While I'm stalking grasshoppers, I'm not thinking about all the ills of the world, or the work task looming in a few days, or the chores left undone at home. I'm not thinking about anything at all, really, except this moment in time, with this one grasshopper that I'll never see again. Am I the only human it will encounter this closely? Will this little nymph survive to reproduce, or will it be snatched up and eaten by a bird later that day? 

It's a type of walking meditation, a lesson in mindfulness combined with communing with the minuscule individuals that are, any other day, overlooked as nothing more than a hopping speck swept aside by an unaware, unhesitating step.

It's All Connected, Part II

A recent trash cleanup
along McCollister Blvd.

Everything is connected. We're all connected, to each other in our communities, to the trees, grasses, forbs, algae, and other photosynthesizing organisms to provide both oxygen to breathe and food to eat, to people down the block and around the world in the people we elect to pass laws and the decisions they make.

These connections have been a common refrain on this blog, particularly when it comes to water quality. Given the Sycamore Greenway's purpose in collecting and moving stormwater from our neighborhoods to its constructed wetlands, and beyond to the Iowa River and Mighty Mississippi, all the way to the Gulf. Each drop of water that lands in your yard has the potential to move along these water trails. 

1 Mississippi shared an amazing "River Runner" visualization that allows you to follow the path of that water drop: zoom in on your neighborhood, or even your backyard, and you can see how water drains and moves through neighborhoods, flowing into rivers and streams. 

The path of water to the Iowa River via the Sycamore Greenway

Now imagine you're a plastic bottle taking the same path. The Greenway and other stormwater management systems can sometimes filter out large pieces of litter to prevent them from getting into our waterways (allowing them to be collected by the wonderful volunteers at events like the in April), but sometimes a heavy rain washes trash directly from roadsides or parking lots into the Iowa River and other waterways.

That's why Sycamore Greenway Friends regularly patrols some of the more "litter-ary" streets around the Greenway to pick up trash before it has a chance to move along into the stormwater system. Not only does it do a small part to protect our aquatic wildlife and water quality, but it also helps keep our neighborhoods looking nice. And maybe even reduce some of the trash that finds its way into the Greenway cells throughout the year. It's win-win-win! 

Is there an area in the South District that could use a cleanup? You can do your part with a trash bag and pair of gloves, but if that's not an option you can request a small cleanup via this form.

A recent trash cleanup near
Whispering Meadows wetlands

Romance Among the Silphium

The lady, with meal

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

- William Butler Yeats

A glittering jewel of an arachnid, sparkly gold against the bright green leaf of a Cup Plant, holding a shriveled prize--perhaps an aphid. From below, a swift fellow approaches, waving his decoratively tufted forelegs as if flagging down a passing motorist for assistance. The glittery gal flees with her lunch, leaving the male dancing with himself. 

I first met the elegant dancer few years ago, a male Tutelina elegans jumping spider, but this was the first time I've encountered the object of his passion. I can see why he adores her, with her brilliantly robust abdomen and intense array of eyes. Not to mention her no-nonsense attitude: who has time for courtship when you've got a delicious aphid ready to devour? 

The gentleman

The gentleman below,
lady in upper right

Once she disappeared into the foliage, the male continued his dance over and around the leaves, first sidling to the left, then the right, all the time brandishing his forelegs in what one can only assume to be a beguiling display of arachnid choreography and masculinity. 

The video below doesn't do justice to his moves, but I assure you it was quite alluring.