I went into my first macroinvertebrate survey at age eight with no expectations—probably because I was dragged along by my mother, along with my siblings, for what felt like an endless car ride to a random lake. My only incentive was the promise of bugs—a compelling enough reason for my young self to endure the ride in the middle seat.
The sun was bright that day and cast sparkles on the water as a woman waded in, bucket in hand, speaking animatedly about the creatures we might discover. When she lifted the bucket out and we began to sort the beings she had caught, I was amazed. Who knew there were so many cool bugs in the water? Until that moment, my world had revolved around earthworms and ants, blissfully unaware of the microcosm of life hidden in the depths.
Over a decade later, I found myself just twenty minutes away at Plymouth State University, yet again pulling bugs out of the water, filled with the same joy and amazement when I counted each hellgrammite as that which I felt so many years before (except I was the one in cool waders this time). It was a reminder of the wonder that first sparked my love for the natural world. I often wonder where I’d be if I had not been so enamored by the dragonfly nymphs or caddisflies that stared up at me from that bucket on the shore of Squam Lake.
Shortly after, well into my Environmental Science and Policy degree, I stumbled upon an emotion I had not anticipated: profound despair. I can vividly recall a particular class during my junior year. My professor sought feedback on the course, and from the back of the lecture hall, a voice piped up, “We focused so much on the negatives—on what’s wrong with the environment. Why don’t we ever discuss solutions?”
My professor’s response rang in my ears: “That’s exactly why you’re here. I don’t have the solutions for you. This is the planet you will inherit; you decide how to proceed.” As each class unfolded, I was confronted with the stark reality of the devastation humans have inflicted upon our planet. Yes, I was learning about the intricate dance of ecological processes and the fascinating complexity of natural systems, but the question loomed large: what was the point? I wasn’t John Muir or Rachel Carson; I felt insignificant against the magnitude of the challenges we face. What difference could my individual actions make in the grand scheme of conservation? With each passing week, I begrudgingly pushed through my coursework, my hope dwindling.
““That’s exactly why you’re here. I don’t have the solutions for you. This is the planet you will inherit; you decide how to proceed.””
But then, something shifted in my last year before graduation. I began to realize that all the time and energy I spent wallowing in self-pity and questioning my commitment to a cause that often felt hopeless was, quite simply, wasted energy.
In Lulu Miller’s Why Fish Don’t Exist: A Story of Loss, Love, and the Hidden Order of Life, she recounts the life of David Starr Jordan, an ichthyologist who identified nearly one-fifth of the known fish species on Earth. What struck me wasn’t his remarkable achievements, but rather the myriad of challenges he faced along the way: the death of his first wife and three of his children, lightning strikes that obliterated his work, and the devastation of a San Francisco earthquake that turned thirty years of research into ruin. Miller seeks to understand how humans, like Jordan, can persist amid seemingly insurmountable adversity.
The answer, she finds, lies in one of his writings:
““The problem with spending one’s time pondering the futility of it all is that you divert that precious electricity gifted to you by evolution—those sacred ions that could make you feel so many wonderful sensations and solve so many scientific puzzles—and you flush it all down the drain of existential inquiry, causing you to literally ‘die while the body is still alive.’” ”
With this perspective shift, I began to reclaim that initial wonder I felt as a child, re-focusing my energy on the innumerable possibilities for positive change. My experiences at Squam Lake have become a testament to this newfound perspective. As I stepped into the world beyond the classroom, I resolved to channel that electricity into action, celebrating the beauty of bugs, the vitality of our ecosystems, and the hope that lies in stewardship.
Francis is a half-term member at the Squam Lakes Association. In addition to bugs, he enjoys crystals and has just begun rockhounding. Send him a message about where to dig! You can learn more about Francis here.