The sun shines, distant stars twinkle, and the moon glows. And the first astronauts, looking back at their home as they orbited our moon, were hushed as they stared at the celestial body from which they had so recently been pushed. Our beautiful shining blue Earth, seen from space, and although held in orbit by the mysterious power of gravity, seemed alone and lost in the dark void. The bright sphere displayed both a great beauty and a profound sense of fragility. The astronauts were dumb-struck and astonished by this shining orb wrapped in a sheath of blue oceans. Their descriptions back to Earth that night were laced with wonder and with love and caring for what they were seeing. Perhaps for the first time they were truly proud to call our Earth home.

Do space travelers know something that the vast majority of us have missed? Indeed, the astronauts were close enough to realize indelibly that water covers seventy percent of our Earth’s surface. Close enough to see huge seas of blue, large globs of green, and a few wispy white clouds. And distant enough to see the big picture. Perhaps NASA should display more of the “big picture” scenes of Spaceship Earth. Perhaps we also might come to truly sense the great beauty, and fragility, of our home. 

We usually don’t concern ourselves with the big picture; rather, we tend to think, plan and act locally—and selfishly. That’s what our society, especially our so-called advanced western society, drills into us. And that brings me to the observation that when someone says they love nature, I have to wonder if that expression of feelings is based merely on fascination, astonishment or awe. Do we really love any part of the wild crust of Earth on which we live out our lives? 

Aren’t feelings of true and abiding love accompanied by distinct feelings of caring for and wishing to nurture the object of our love? A desire to give and serve? That sense of nurturing seems to be mostly missing in our relationship with Spaceship Earth. Perhaps it would help if we got to know a few not-so-obvious facts about some of our non-human fellow travelers. Perhaps we could come to truly appreciate them as the marvelously complex and fragile creations that they are—as we are. Following are a few select details concerning marvelous adaptations in the anatomy, physiology, biochemistry or behavior of certain wild animals that enable them to survive a short period of time, or a whole season, in harsh conditions? But the details below are but the faintest dusting of the tip of the iceberg of striking adaptations seen in plants and animals.

If one of us fell into Bayer Pond in January and couldn’t get out, we could count our functional existence in just minutes. And some pond fish might just swim by or float nearby. They can do this because as fall comes on the enzymes that drive their summer metabolic rate gradually give way to enzymes that operate best at lower temperatures. Not at the speed of summer metabolism, but enough for survival at winter temps. Enzymes are very temperature specific.

Now consider the following figures from the Sept./Oct. 2015 Audubon Magazine for our tiny, flitting, super energetic gem of summer: the ruby-throated hummingbird. The adult hummer weighs about 2.5 grams-- one-thirteenth of an ounce--and can hover, fly forward, backward, and even upside down—their wings beating up to 50 times per second, enabling flight speeds of up to forty miles per hour. Heart rates of 1,220 beats per minute have been recorded!

Like for monarch butterflies, the hummer’s migration is legendary. They winter in Central America, and many of them cross the Gulf of Mexico from the southern USA to reach their winter homes —some even from southern Florida, which means a non-stop journey of 500 miles! This is possible because they prep for migration by storing up fat to use as an energy supply—some two grams of it, on a 2.5 gram body! Time to tip our hats, and “take hummers under our wings.”