Work is due on tomorrow (1/27/20) at 1600 hours (4pm eastern time zone). Work needs to be completed according to the APA writing style. 

Critically respond and answer the following questions for each of the stories in the attached document:
 

(a) what are the texts’ assumptions about the phenomena being discussed? 

(b)  What are the implications of the assumptions and/or the arguments? 

(c)  What is at stake in the text’s arguments for the authors and for you?

(d)  Who (or what) are the authors arguing for or against? 

(e)  How do the authors construct and articulate their arguments?

(f)  How do the texts “fit” (or not fit) in relation to your own thought and practice? 

(g) What questions did you find yourself asking after doing the reading? Please do not simply summarize the readings.

Math,struggles and slash pines

By Carlos Gonzalez

Story 1

She told me that she did not think she was going to pass her math class, that the teacher was confusing, that she worked full time, went to school full time, and she did not have the energy or time to go to tutoring. She saw herself taking the class once again, she said. It was five minutes before I was taking students on a tour of the Environmental Center. I was drawn into my student’s struggle and for a moment wondered what I had to offer her, if anything. In my work I see so many who juggle too much, who struggle and often don’t see a way through their challenges because they are so many. We walked toward the start of our tour, and I felt the heaviness of this conversation. To me it wasn’t just one more student merely giving up on a class, but hers was the voice of so many others. Math was not the real issue. It was life itself, life that seemed unfair, harsh, and impossible. Clearly I was hearing her story filtered through my own heaviness, my own sense of struggle, loss, and pain, the past nine years or so of seeing my mother lost to dementia, the break- down of family bonds, the loss of loved ones, and at times, the loss of hope.

The week before hearing my student’s story, I had read over 140 essays. Some of them detailed suicide attempts, painful separations, failed dreams, loss on a scale that surprised me and reminded me how we are more alike than we are different. And as I walked to the entrance of the Center, the air plant growing on the tree caught my attention. It did not do so in a subtle way. It spoke to me and asked me to tell a particular story. This beautiful being, although voiceless, was asking to speak to my student and to me. The clarity of the communication surprised me. It was now evident to me that I needed to have overheard my student mention her math class. It was also evident that what I was going to do for the next seven hours of teaching was to repeat the message, not so much because of my math challenged student but because I, too, needed to hear a good word. I needed a reminder. We needed a story, this story, as Barry Lopez reminds us, “more than food to stay alive” (1990, p. 8). The Environmental Center is a nine-acre preserve. One enters it through a colorful mosaic gate and is immediately presented with a radically different space. The Center is on the edge of campus, the edge of time, and a text that often is misread or not read at all. It is a reminder of what parts of South Florida used to be, of how the landscape looked before development. It offers a glimpse of a bygone era where slash pines covered the area and the human footprint was less obvious. It is also a clear reminder of the feeble efforts to preserve the often tenuous relationships between humans and other life forms. It is a place where one can experience great peace and also be in touch with a sense of deep loss. It is filled with life and reminders that death is also part of life and the cycle of beginning and endings is infinite.

So what did the epiphyte say to me? This was no joke. Adaptation = Learning. The rest follows. As I stood before my students, I told them how at some point, millions of years ago, I was guessing, the ancestors of this plant learned that living on the soil was not to its advantage, and somehow learned to live on the tree canopy, gathering food and water from the falling leaves of the host tree and in the process providing a home for small animals such as frogs and lizards. This particular air plant was about to bloom, and we could see the emerging structure of the flower, an elegant manifestation of perfectly adapted design. We looked at the plant, I caressed its leaves. Students looked at me as if I were on some kind of drug. I assured them I was not. I told them the message from my plant friend: To adapt is to learn and to take on life’s challenges and use them to create what is necessary for survival and the possibility to thrive. We took a moment. I answered some questions. We were quiet. Some were looking at their phones. I hesitated to take steps away from the air plant, but I knew then that I would be able to hear its message the rest of the day. And we walked to the little sliver of slash pine forest. It was only a hundred feet or so away. At the head of the trail, a beautiful specimen of a tree stands tall. It’s probably 60 or more years old. As I came upon it, I told them that this tree was a Ph.D. in South Florida; that it had learned this area so well that it had specialized in living here and nowhere else. This particular species of slash pine, Pinus elliottii var densa, is endemic to South Florida (Pine Rocklands—Miami-Dade County). Students looked at me funny. I stared back. I kissed the tree. I thanked it. By now, everyone had been pushed over the edge of weirdness, and they just looked at me and smiled.

I continued with my message and repeated the mantra the epiphyte gave me: Adaptation is learning. It is the means that all of life has to continue to exist. Change is a constant. Adaptation is a dance with change. It is the engagement of the core challenge associated with change. It is the “yes” in all creatures to life, possibility, and existence. I told them the little I know about slash pines, that there are other relatives of this tree, but that this species is only found here. I pointed out how this particular pine learned to use the wet and dry seasons, the poor soil conditions, frequent fires to manifest a beauty that is a gift to witness and appreciate. I celebrated the tree in front of me. Everyone did so as well. A little attention, at least, from the more hard to reach. We took a moment to breathe deeply and notice the scent the tree gives off. I was filled with won- der. Some were too. Others looked at their phones. They were receiving messages at the time, but not from the epiphyte, the slash pine, or me. So many unique elements of this tree’s knowledge and manifestation of life exude in this place, the fringes of this campus where concrete replaced its kin. Its bark is fire resistant, a useful trait given lighting strikes that in the past burned the under story. These fires took place in the wet season and were not destructive. They were energy deposits into the area that these trees knew how to use. The slash pine drops its seeds after a fire into the ash-enriched limestone and the seeds take root. The specialization worked well for thousands of years. It stopped working once large numbers of people moved into the area. The Dade County slash pine did not specialize in humans, however. It did not take us into account and our aversion to fire. Not surprisingly, the slash pine has lost out to our home building and fire suppression. In a matter of less than 100 years or so, about one to two percent of the endemic slash pine forest is left (Pine Rock- lands—Miami-Dade County). This tree adapted to the area but has not been able to adapt to our presence. The lesson in this is difficult. It presents us with many questions. Primarily, “What’s our responsibility and role in preserving those life forms that don’t have the capacity to adapt to the rapid change we are creating?” and “How do we address those who are not able to learn at the pace of change all around us?” These were big questions, but not the thrust of what I was hoping I was conveying to my students. The message of the air plant, though a species that supposedly lacks judgment, seemed more direct: To adapt means to learn. To stop learning or not learn fast enough means death. So about one to two percent of the original Dade County slash pine forest is left. Our campus has a couple of patches where once the entire area was dominated by these trees. We walked away from this small patch and felt ambivalent. The beauty of the trees is obvious; their fate also seems sealed. But. There is always a “but” that carries the possibility of surprise. On the way out of the slash pines, I spotted one solitary atala butterfly heading for its morning break- fast. This small dark blue butterfly with a red belly and metallic blue dots on its wings echoed the epiphytes message and gave it a slightly different intonation. We paused before leaving the forest and observed the atala dancing amongst the flowers. I mentioned how this exquisite creature was believed to have been extinct as of 1965 and that in 1979 a small population had been discovered in Key Biscayne (Pine Rocklands). The atala had almost disappeared because it, too, specialized and had adapted exclusively to the South Florida environment. Like the slash pines, it found itself challenged to live because we interfered with its environment and eliminated the coontie plant, a once prevalent plant of the hammocks and rock pinelands. The coontie, an ancient cycad, is the sole host plant for the atala. This specialization meant that when the coontie was virtually eliminated from the area, the atalas disappeared as well (Pine Rocklands). I told students to pay attention to this story. That it offered a detail that was not fully developed in the earlier message of the air plant. What was interesting about this story was that the atala did not die off. Against significant odds, it came back. It was not supposed to survive. But an effort to encourage gardeners to plant the coontie allowed the butterfly to return. This was not an all-out plan by a monied government agency or environmental group. Butterflies are not big money makers! And so I reminded them and me that not all is loss. Not all is a sealed fate. Sometimes we get surprised by the beauty of small miracle stories that don’t allow us to give up. More significantly, the atala reminded us that there’s always a possibility for the creature with the greatest ability to adapt, us, to do so and allow others who may not have the same capacity to survive and thrive. Our journey through the Environmental Center came to an end as we approached the chickee next to the lake. We sat there and felt the cool breeze. The pitched roof thatched with native palm fronds, the cypress columns, and the setting offered a perfect conclusion. We were sitting under a structure built by members of the Miccosukee Tribe of Indians. The structure was one last reminder of adaptation, where lessons from math, life’s struggles, and slash pine can collide.

Story 2

Generation Connect Variation “ Om Namah Shivaya”

By Carlos Gonzalez

I began to write this piece above as I was listening to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees in the valley below. I’m sitting on a grassy knoll, under the overhang of what serves as the front porch of the Straw Bale Lodge donated to Narrow Ridge, a retreat in Tennessee, by Mac Smith, a former professor in Miami who taught for 30 years at the college where I’ve worked for 22 years now. He also launched a series of programs that have blossomed into a several communities that focus on Earth literacy. I’m not sure why I need to write the paragraph above, but it seems important to name him, name the place where I’m working, and in doing so remind myself that the work I do is somehow tied to others who have come before me. This “before me” part has been important in the past. Connecting to the ancestors has been a lifeline that in some of the more challenging times of teaching has allowed me to find my way when the path was unclear or encumbered by my own confusion. What I’m noticing more and more is that those who follow are becoming more relevant. What is dawning on me is that I am now becoming more of an elder or lifeline to those who come after me. I’m also realizing that I’m coming to the end of the summer of my teaching life. I sense the beginning of the fall season and note a number of things. One that stands out vividly is the notion that the kind of education that I’m interested in is not one that easily translates into objectives and goals. I realize that I’m interested in the ancient notion of education, which the word itself suggests, is to draw out, to invite into awareness. This is what I consider to be my role as a teacher in relationship to my students. It’s also the type of role, that when I’m at my best, students invite me to play and they play as well. Together we draw out for one another what is already there but may be overlooked. And the drawing out is not exclusive of learning a skill. It involves and requires so much more than merely writing an essay, resume, or figuring out a complicated calculus. These reflections and my writing came after spending an afternoon touring Narrow Ridge, an Earth Literacy Center and community in East Tennessee in the foothills of the Smokies, where my school sends students every spring. I came up this time as a chaperone. As I live among 13 young people for this short time, I’m challenged to hold the tension of living from one’s ideals while often finding that the choices made don’t come close to reflecting those. Like the young people I have accompanied, I live with the disorder of my own mind and life, wanting to live consistently within my ideals and coming up short time and again. This understanding does not jive well with my notion of being an elder. The disconnect and discomfort in my own mind regarding elderhood is part of the generational gap and chasm that has existed for far too long. The young and old don’t relate to one another enough by living and working close together. The segregation that started with industrialization and children being put in schools that were away from their grandparents and parents most of the day, and that were modeled after the factories the parents worked in, planted the seeds of a wisdom deficit that we keep bumping into and find no real way to address. We have become an uninitiated culture unaware of how to be. This is true of young people and of those who are not quite old but getting there. These particular 13 students remind me in their youthful exuberance of wanting to be, and of being aware of life itself, of exploring the possibilities of living in a way that affirms rather than denies life. They are able to do this so freely and quickly as they step away from the constraints of the classroom and find themselves in a quiet space meant to invite awareness rather than distraction. When joining them at meals, it is clear as I hear them share that they also search for ways to live with the brokenness and disjointedness of life. Our lives are lived in the up-rootedness of urban spaces, where neighborliness is often absent, where green spaces are islands engulfed not only by roads and buildings, but surrounded and steeped in the “always on” culture of social media and smartphones. What’s different, it seems, for them is that their desire for wholeness has not yet spiraled down through the challenges of living long enough to experience many of the obstacles inherent in existence itself. They haven’t yet experienced the tendency that happens as we grow older to give up or grow disillusioned and disheartened by the alienated culture. Narrow Ridge is named after a line in Martin Buber’s book Between Man and Man (2002). It’s a pertinent thought that can serve as a signpost for all of us: “I do not rest on the broad upland of a system that includes a series of sure statements about the absolutes, but on a narrow, rocky ridge between the gulfs where there is no sureness of expressible knowledge but [only] the certainty of meeting what remains, undisclosed” (Buber, 2002, p. 218). The narrow ridge of which Buber and this place remind us is that tenuous spot where we meet all of life not as objects but as subjects. It’s a tenuous spot because we do not stay on the ridge easily. We walk it with great care and humility, honoring and becoming aware of the ultimate mystery of existence and life itself. Too much effort or too much trying, and we fall off the the bridge. Too little effort and too little awareness and the same thing happens. I’m not even sure that we can use the word tenuous. The narrow ridge is a point that seems out of reach for most. For me, I don’t know if I’m on it for more than mere moments, and then off again. On this particular day, without the use of a textbook or PowerPoint, my students and I got a small glimpse of living in that balance and awareness, of living as Daniel Berrigan says in his introduction to Dorothy Day’s autobiography The Long Loneliness, of living “. . . as though the truth were true” (Day, 1981, p. xxiii). This happened as we walked up and down hills and saw and heard the story of Narrow Ridge. We spent a couple of hours not only walking, but seeing first hand a physical manifestation of a vision where humans attempt to live in conscious awareness of their own place in the Universe. Through its relationship to the land, built structures, and governance, the Narrow Ridge community shows visitors how a small community tries to walk the ridge together, to navigate between a culture of mass consumption and one of great care. As we walked, we visited with a number of the human residents of Narrow Ridge. Each offered us a part of their story. Each left us with a bit of the stir- ring that happens within when we meet another person who has tried her best to live life in service, in love, in truth. In the process with these 13, I was reconnected with the question of what happens when young and old gather to intentionally learn from one another. And all along the ridge, I’m thinking again and again about the lifeline of ancestors and my own role as an emerging lifeline to others. As often hap- pens from these gatherings when we invite the ancestors, ourselves, and the young together on a journey, we learned the unexpected.

Near the end of our week at Narrow Ridge, we took a day trip to Eagan, just south of the Kentucky border. Eagan is a border town, on the margins so to speak, and as such has been a mining town since the early part of the twentieth century. As we approached the town, it was clear to see that we were entering another America, one that was rich in beauty, culture, and so-called resources, but one that had been used as the source of cheap energy for more than 100 years. All around us we could see the effects of coal extraction, sides of mountains cut in perfect angles, exposing veins of coal that were the remains of our prehistoric ancestors. Our bodies also knew we were in a different America. Many of us had difficulty breathing the air. It was as if the air had become heavy. In reality, the air was heavy with the coal dust of the mountain that was being removed right in front of our eyes The point of this trip was to visit the site of a mountain top removal. This is a euphemistic term for something much more gruesome. We were there to witness the decapitation of a mountain, a slow execution fueled by my own, our own, desire and need to cheaply power our modern way of life. I say cheaply because none of us have paid the full cost of the coal that has been extracted from the mountains there. But the mountain and the whole communion of beings who call it home have and are paying the full price. Eagan felt like a developing country where large landholders control most of the land and do with it what they will, even when this means that area residents suffer dearly with the poisons that are the detritus of extracting energy—either in the form of food (always in the form of some kind of monoculture) or of fossil fuel to keep the economy running. It was raining on this day and what we could see was the torrents of brown runoff coming down from the side of the mountain. Every barren or almost barren hillside was a flowing river of milk-chocolate-colored water, all flowing to the bottom where mountain streams brim with a cocktail of chemicals and dirt that kills most if not all of the fish and wildlife who call these streams home. The effects on humans of this runoff is equally disastrous as flash floods because the erosion is now commonplace. No trees on the mountain means no roots to hold the soil in place. We are an uprooted culture in so many different ways. We tried getting to the top of where the coal company had removed the mountain, but we could not. The rain was too much and the road was becoming impassable. Instead, our guide, Gary Garret, a resident of Eagan, an elder in training, and a volunteer at the Clearfolk Community Center, showed us a cemetery on the side of the road. It was the part of the mountain top that had not been carved out for coal. The cemetery stripped of the mountain all around was left as an island of the dead, a monument to short sightedness on all levels. That it had not been carved out like everything else was a miracle. We suppose that it was left there to respect the remains of the residents who once called the mountain home. But what we witnessed was obscene. The dead in that cemetery like the living have no real resting place as the mountains continue to be chopped up and killed. Chief Seattle’s words rung in our ears: And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children’s children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the high- way, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone (Smith, 1887 As we left Eagan, we more fully recognized the value of the solar panels we had noticed in Narrow Ridge during our first tour of the retreat. They are a small response to the mountain top removal/decapitation/execution. As we traveled back to our little oasis, many of us thought and talked about memory and the loss of memory that our culture is based upon. The key to the complete loss of this memory is tied to the disrupted way we learn or don’t learn from one another. Without the generations coming together and sharing what’s of value, what’s of interest, all we have left is a flattened ecosystem both outside and inside of us. For the youth in the group, the anxiety and questions of what to do with the gift of life in light of the enormity of the challenges before us, how to live in a world that feels out of sorts in its speed, focus, and ultimate goals were offered as the base of much of the conversations during the week. The elders and elders in training, who clearly did not have any specific answers to these heartfelt questions, but, who, because of the grace of sometimes living with some awareness, could point out sign posts that have kept them close to the narrow ridge. The opportunity to be in communion with these young people served as a balm for the achiness of spirit that too often plagues those who have awakened from the dominant culture’s hypnotic spell to merely consume and forget. For me, and I suspect for the others above 40 in the group, coming together to enter into dialogue with young people offered the blessing of renewal, a reminder to remain vulnerable, open, and strong all at once. Walking the narrow ridge in this regard has something to do with that blessed space that is described by many spiritual traditions as sensing the divine presence not in some far off place but in the midst of the current time with its mixture of beauty along with the oppression, hurt, and ugliness of a human constructed system bent on domination of the many for the benefit of the few. Walking the narrow ridge is a movement from disconnection to communion and awareness. When together we face the youthful not knowing, the pain of the current moment, and the elder’s understanding of the inherent incompleteness of all of our efforts, we can sense, if there is honesty and grace in the container of sharing, that we offer one another what is needed. We bring ourselves with all of our limitations into a space of healthy interrogation of life’s ambiguity. Any uncertainty about the future becomes an entry point to the mystery that all we need is right before us, that we are the ones we have been look- ing for all along. In this meeting place, or narrow ridge, the now of this moment allows all of us, young and old, to be fully ourselves and stop the continuous effort to cover over our inherent qualities as Homo sapiens, a species among many, a species with a deep desire to reflect upon its own place in the family of life. As I look back at my own teaching life, I realize that my development and growth as a teacher often takes off as I enter or create the kinds of diverse communities where the old and young come together in a spirit of listening and sacred sharing. These communities have never been committees. They have always involved effort in either joining or creating them. Sometimes they emerge suddenly and with great force. Their intensity brightens up the path for all who participate. They exist in the margins, in moments—lasting long enough to serve as reminders to all who are there to witness to wake up to possibility, empathy, and action. Over the years, this practice of not just stepping outside of the classroom but outside of the philosophical underpinnings of a schooling system based on transaction and objectification, has served to bring me back to myself as a learner, a seeker, and one who wants to live with integrity. Interestingly, I have been able to experience this not only outside of the physical structure of schools such as a place like Narrow Ridge, but also even within the walls of my own institution, that I sometimes in frustration and playfulness call Rockland, the psychiatric hospital in Ginsberg’s “Howl” (1956). I point this out, because the magic of this time in Narrow Ridge had more to do with this community container than the actual place. The container can be created anywhere, even in the midst of systemic craziness. I believe that the narrow ridge Buber describes is any space where such gatherings of the young and the elder as well as peers can emerge with integrity; we need these to help us find our way and balance. I know I need these to find my heart and soul when both become opaque or clouded over. I started this essay with a short poem inspired by an ancient chant to Shiva, the Hindu deity associated with creation and destruction. I did so honoring the pattern within me of creation and destruction. The poem is a reminder that all is not lost. When we find ourselves in the rubble and off the ridge, we have work to do. In this precious and precarious time, the need to connect old and young and form diverse communities of wisdom is not optional because these communities are the medium and the narrow ridges by which and in which all that is vulnerable and truthful can take root, emerge, reach for the sky, and create anew.

Story 5

Nature as home… antidote to wear

By Matthew Rubenstein

Being rooted to me isn’t as easy as naming a person or talking about the house where I was raised. For me, roots are both physical and blood related. From the giant oak trees penetrating the limestone foundation to the mangroves that soak their roots in the crystal clear waters of Florida Bay, my roots lie within the South Florida wilderness and the people with whom I share it. From the hiking and camping, to sight fishing and lobstering, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t drift back “home.” Over my 30 years, breathtaking scenery, adrenaline-filled moments, and hard lessons learned from long tired nights have washed inside me. Along the way, I’ve shared those soulful saturations with the people whose passions are the same as mine, creating life-long friendships and memories.

From as long as I can remember, I have always been different. I wasn’t like most kids. I didn’t want to play video games; and as I got older, I didn’t want to fill my nights with drinking and the club scene. I was always drawn to adventure and the outdoors, exploring the Everglades and the expanses of untouched wilderness. It’s where I first learned a significant lesson in life, Respect! Like all of life, Nature deserves respect. It is delicate and needs to be taken care of—from the animals that call it home to the plants to the weather. If I take care of it, it seems to find ways to take care of me. In a time when technology has taken over, and all emotion is received in an emoji, left to decipher in an email or text, Nature is real. It teaches me to pay attention to all the little details, how to read it, and how to approach its multitude of species. In the everglades if I misjudge something or disrespect it, I will end up paying for it, for nature makes me accountable for my actions. Today, people often don’t reprimand or give honest feedback for transgressions. But Nature does, if we stop to listen. The family I have built around this outdoor haven of mine always seems to last. Many of us have some friends that come and go, but I enjoy the few special ones, who are the staples in my life, who seem to have developed from my experiences in the “great outdoors.” From father figures, to brothers and sisters, to my love life, I have found everything I need in the outdoors. My father left my family when I was nine years old, and my mother gave it her all. She worked hard and provided my sister and me with everything we needed. I never really had a father, but my best friend’s father was kind enough to provide me some opportunities and life lessons in the outdoors, experiences that led me to become bonded with animals, trees, plants, water, rocks, other people who share the same values. The bonds of Nature and of those human relationships inextricably bound me to a joy and sometimes to a solitude that keeps me alive. The roots of the outdoors has such a deep hold on me; I have often turned to it for healing. At the age of 19, I joined the Army and got the opportunity to travel and see the world. Yet I was also deployed to Afghanistan, to an area where I conducted mission after mission to ensure, the Army claims, that our freedoms are kept, and that my family never has to worry about terror step- ping foot on our soil. With this responsibility came great sacrifice, and the first place I went each time I came home was straight back where I really am free, the natural world. While deployed in Afghanistan, I lost my best friend. Every time we had shared some “down time” together, we had shared stories of hunting and fishing. It was our way to escape and dream of the days when we would be back home and wake up to the fall breezes and the crisp air—all the signs that hunting season would be upon us once again. We shared stories and pictures and planned future trips. Neither one of us knew that our last evening together would be his last evening. I longed then for those Everglades, for them to soothe my soul. Every year there will be a day in a hunt when I just sit back and reflect on the days my friend, my comrade in arms, and I shared together. Each memory brings me a desire to be living my life to his expectations. And I reach back to family and the outdoors. They are the constant in my healing process—a healing demanded by war, its memories, its losses, and its aftermath. And anytime I need to step back and slow things down, and see the world from a different perspective, I go straight back to my roots. Those roots ground me in what matters most in life. It’s often easy to get caught up in day to day struggles, and forget to slow down and live. Working, seeking a degree, taking care of relationships—I can sometimes lose my footing, shake my roots. Growing up in nature helps me see that as fast as we come into this world, we can just as easily be removed from it. I also learned that lesson serving in Afghanistan. We can spend most of our time trying to hide from life, yet in reality life, both vicious and gentle, will find us. Neither does Nature hide reality. If observed closely, listened to attentively, it can offer wisdom, solace, terror, and joy. Hopefully, when it is my time to go, I can retreat back to my roots and watch the sun set for the last time. But if I can’t, like most of us, I hope I will have lived my life to the fullest and will take my last breath with no regrets.