The survival of the fittest

    

        “Mom, what is that shining stuff in the water?” Jane asked.

“I think it’s the reflection of the moon,” I said.

Her eyes were fixed on the black water of the night. Eight of us were tightly packed on the inflated sides of the panga, wearing our ill-fitting life jackets, as we left the shore behind. We headed towards one of the handful of boats with twinkling lights seen in the distance. Jane leaned back and dipped her hand in the water. Iridescent yellow and green flecks of gold trailed in her hand’s wake. 

“Jane, sit back up so you don’t fall off the boat.” 

“That is not the moon, mom.”

She was right. Bioluminescent plankton erupted along the sides of the panga as we zipped through the water. In the twilight sky, the stars multiplied from a few to infinity over the course of the ride, and the moon’s whole face was visible although only a crescent was illuminated. That night on the panga ride, we were put under the night’s spell and seemed to pass through an invisible portal from solid ground into an world of motion and change. 

“We’re here,” said Antonio, the panga driver.

We stepped from the panga onto the boat carefully and filed into the main galley.  The constant lilting of the boat with the ebb and flow of each wave was made more extreme by the tilted floor, higher aft and gently sloping down as you followed it forward. With its low ceilings and odd angles, it made a sort of Alice in Wonderland first impression. There were bachelor pad leather couches and dark wood veneer cabinets, a full bar, and two round tables set with fancy restaurant white table cloths and folded napkins. As instructed by Paco, our naturalist guide, we sat on the leather couches feeling a bit bewildered by the surreal night and the off-kilter space. 

“We will gather here every evening before dinner to discuss the next day’s activities,” Paco said. Our family comprised almost one-third of the passengers. We were lucky to have another family aboard. They were a group of 5 from Paris who live in Santiago, Chile. In addition, there was an older German couple who has spent the past 32 months driving their camper around South America, a couple from Bogota, both plastic surgeons, and two solo travelers from the states. We were briefed on boat rules and policies and shown to our cabins.

“We start early tomorrow. Six-thirty departure for Isabella, where we will have the chance to observe giant tortoises,” said Paco before bidding us good night. 

Our cabin was crowded. Evan and Jack, my 14 year old twin boys, in their almost adult bodies, took up a lot of space. Dan and I squeezed into one small bed, the twins in another and Jane, in her cat-like way, made herself a nest of blankets on the floor. The disturbance caused by the boat’s constant motion was rivaled by the almost deafening noise of the engine as it droned on through the night. Crash and grind and crash and grind and crash and grind: the rhythm became a nightmare meditation. 

“I’m not going,” said Jane in the morning.

“Yes, you are,” I responded. 

“You always make me do everything that I hate.”

“Really? Put your shoes on and let’s go.”

“Hmph,” she said as she wrestled into her shoes. 

We gathered on the back deck of the boat where we loaded onto the pangas and went to shore. Paco was a wealth of knowledge; a biologist by training who had been guiding in the Galapagos for the past 30 years. He had a story for every rock and creature and at times relayed too much information. Jane paced circles around me and Dan but occasionally showed that she was listening by asking a good question. We followed along the deserted but immaculate and heavily regulated trail. The pre-8am heat was already oppressive. Along the way, Paco frequently stopped the group to educate us on the geology, history, and biology of the place. 

“The word Galapagos comes from the Spanish word for saddle, named after the saddle-shaped giant tortoise shell that evolved on the flat islands, where tortoises had to have long necks that could reach up to eat tall grasses,” he said as we observed the absurdly large tortoise.  It’s neck and face reminded me of ET, and it’s eyes had the milky, vacant quality of an elderly person who has seen too much.  Paco told us to look at the striations on the tortoises’ shells to know roughly how old it is. “Like growth plates in children’s bones, the shells’ plates will expand as the tortoise grows until it reaches full grown at approximately 100 years old,” he said.             Despite repeated reminders of the rules by me, Dan, and Paco, Jane’s pushed limits. She got too close to the tortoises and climbed the trees that we were not suppose to touch.

“When is this going to be over?” She asked loudly as she rolled her eyes. I felt the disapproving eyes of the Germans on me. How can you allow your child to be so rude? Don’t you have any rules? They seemed to ask. I felt my chest tighten and my jaw clench. 

“Jane, stop pacing and interrupting. We’ve got to be patient and polite. Just wait,” I pleaded. She looked at me with fire in her eyes.

“No!” She screamed as she stomped on my foot. Then she turned her back and ran away from the group.

“Ouch!” I yelped. The whole group turned to me, their gaze gave me a feeling of half judgement and half sympathy. I’m used to those looks, but they still cut me to my core. My mind spiraled down to a familiar dark imaginary place where I am a failure as a parent and Jane is a lonely and unhappy person. Jane’s challenging behaviors had been humbling me as a parent on an almost daily basis since she was born. The straightforward action-consequence discipline that worked with the twins incited power struggles and trauma for Jane.

“I’ll go, Lindsay,” Dan said. Dan’s patience, humor, and gentle demeanor are sometimes successful in bringing Jane our of her defiant funk and back into a reasonable mind. 

We all made our way back to the pangas. The twins and I were with the group and Dan and Jane trailed us by 30 feet. Back on the mothership, we ate lunch and then navigated to our next destination. Jane read, Dan napped on one of the chaise loungers on the back deck of the boat that Jane aptly named the ‘luxury afternoon chairs,’ and I meditated.

Breathe and crash and grind. Behind my eyelids, my cloudy mind was like a shaken up snow globe. Breathe and crash and grind. My hands were warm on my knees and my ankles were painful against the ground. I relaxed my jaw, my tongue, and my teeth. Breathe and crash and grind. I brought my attention back over and over again. Rumination about the past, anxieties about the future, my inner critic tried to hijack my mind space. How many times must I come back to now? Thoughts are like a reflection on a pond. They seem to reflect the truth, but they can only ever show one perspective, and a breath of wind or a leaf falling on the water distorts them beyond recognition. At best, they are half-truths.  So, why do we cling to them as if they are our own and as if they reflect reality? Breathe. Observe. Relax. Allow. Let go. I tried to listen. To my mind. To my body. I heard a whisper from my wise mind. It told me that I must learn to listen to Jane.

In the afternoon, we snorkeled at Rabida Island. On one side of the red sand beach was a black volcanic wall. We backed into the surf with our flippers on before flopping into the chilly water and swimming along the wall. I listened to my breath, loud through the snorkel. Penguins shot by like little torpedoes. I took a double take at a marine iguana as it ate algae from rocks on the ocean floor. Compared to their land ancestors, these aquatic lizards have flattened faces so they can eat algae off rocks and a tall, narrow tail that swings back and forth behind them in the water, propelling them forward. 

At one point I fell behind the group and found myself alone in the cold and deep water. My breath became shallow and fast.  I forgot my momentary panic when I found myself arms reach from a giant green sea turtle, having emerged from the cloudy green abyss below.  I floated above it, my arms pretzeled across my chest as we rocked rhythmically with the surge of the water, back and forth.  I slowed my breath to meet the rhythm of the sea. The turtle seemed like an ocean astronaut moving in slow motion as it gracefully drifted through the infinity of the underwater universe. 

After a short prayer of gratitude, I broke the spell with the turtle and swam to catch up with the group. Almost back to the beach, I saw bubbles and sand kicked up ahead. As I got closer, I saw the orange of Jane’s flippers vaguely through the bubbles. A sea lion twisted and turned in the cloudy water.  I saw Jane pick up a red rock from the shallow sea floor and throw it. The sea lion, like a puppy, chased the rock and caught it in its mouth. It tossed the rock above its head, just below the surface of the water before returning and swimming around Jane’s small body. I saw Jane spin circles with the pup, her smiling eyes delighted by this game of underwater fetch. There she is, I thought as I kicked towards her.  How can I help her recognize and tap into this engaged and joyful part of herself?  

Back on the boat, the bell rang out loudly, calling us for dinner. We filed into the galley and lined up by the buffet. 

“What did you think of the snorkeling, Jane?” I asked.

“I didn’t really like it,” she said.

“Really?! I thought it was amazing. I saw you playing with that sea lion pup. That looked pretty fun.”

“Yeah, it was okay. Did you see the sea lion catch the rock? It was like a dog! Did sea lions evolve from dogs?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. You could ask Paco about that,” I said as the dinner platters were brought out from the kitchen. It looked like mashed potatoes, a corn dish, roast beef and some baked vegetables. 

“I am not eating this dog food!” Jane exclaimed. The chef placed the platters on the buffet and turned to Jane with quizzical eyes. I was not sure if he understood her words, but he certainly understood her sentiment. I was mortified. Janes eyes darted from the food, to me, to the group around her whose furrowed brows and gaping jaws communicated disapproval. Of the three Fs, Jane choose flight. She stormed out of the galley, leaving the heavy door to the back deck open to the warm night and swinging in rhythm with the swell. 

I stepped through the door and closed it behind me. I climbed the stairs, assuming that she had gone to our room. When she wasn’t there, I walked through the bridge where Antonio had one hand on the large wooden wheel and his eyes on several navigation screens that flashed with amoeba-like neon green blobs.  

“Pasó por aquí Jane?” I asked.

“No,” answered Antonio without taking his eyes off the screens.

I explored the upper decks. Nowhere. Had she slipped and fallen into the ocean? I anxiously scanned the water. My eyes came to rest on the ladder that climbs from the upper deck to a small observation perch. It’s where we hung out swimsuits and towels to dry, but for obvious reasons was off limits during boat navigation. I grabbed the steep metal rungs and carefully started climbing. At I got to the top of the ladder, I saw her. She was standing, back to me, hanging on to the thin metal railing.

“Jane! What are you doing up here? It’s not safe! Come down right now!” I yelled. She turned to look at me and cocked her head, as if considering my argument, but then looked back out at the sea without a word. Her small body tick-tocked back and forth like a metronome, the boat’s movement exaggerated on this high perch.

“Jane, we are not allowed to be up here. Come down to the deck so we can talk about what’s making you angry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, and I’m not coming down,” she said without looking at me. I was scared. For her safety. For my own. For our relationship. For her future. My hands hurt from tightly gripping the upper rungs of the ladder. I crawled on all fours to where she was and sat next to where she was standing, wrapping one arm around the railing for safety. Above us, the stars shone brightly. I looked for the Southern Cross, wondering if we could see it from where we were, just south of the equator. I asked the sky to help me face the moment. I looped my other arm around Jane’s leg, both to hang onto her in case she slipped and to make physical contact with her. For a while we remained like this. 

“Mom, what is the universe expanding into?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Jane. What do you think?” She didn’t answer, but slowly lowered her body to sit next to me, back to the railing. I put my arm tightly around her and felt her ribs right up against my side. I’m not sure how long we spent there. Long enough for both of us to slow our breath and synchronize it to the listing of the boat, in and out, back and forth. Long enough to touch the infinity of the night sky. 

“I’m hungry,” said Jane.

“Me too,” I said.

Back in the room, eating leftover crackers and some ‘emergency granola’ that I bought in Puerto Ayora before boarding the boat, I asked, “Jane, do you feel, most of the time, like I am out to get you or like I’ve got your back?”  

She examined a cracker, rotating it to see each angle before looking at me and saying, “a little of both.” Hearing that broke me a little bit. Where was I going wrong? After years of using the tools that worked with the twins, Dan and I adopted a collaborative problem solving approach with Jane.  We compromised, apologized, negotiated, empathized, and forgave. Over and over again. I was exhausted. 

After a second night of crashing and grinding, I was up early. I heard the anchor dropping and went out to watch the thick, well-oiled chain unwinding quickly as it chased the anchor down deep. I wondered what the anchor would catch down there and if it would alter the architecture of the sea floor. Then, I returned to observation perch.  In the pale light of the morning and with the anchor down, the tumultuous and desperate feelings of the previous night gave way to an openness of possibilities.  

I saw a flightless cormorant in the water off the starboard bow of the boat. This bird is a black, duck-like creature which, over millennia, has lost its ability to fly. Without needing to flee predators and procuring its food by swimming, evolution favored those with shrunken wings until they became vestigial appendages. A bit awkward-appearing on land, underwater, this bird is as graceful and agile as a ballerina.  It’s discovery served as living confirmation of Darwin’s theory of natural selection and survival of the fittest. As I watched this cormorant diving down and returning to the surface, I wondered if the same sort of Darwinian principles could apply to my mind? For a long time, I had been training myself to recognize my thoughts and evaluate them without judgement. So many, I found, were inaccurate and did not serve me. They were distorted, filtered, and conditioned by previous experiences and inaccurate perceptions. Could I, over time, reinforce skilled and mindful synaptic connections and thought patterns and conversely, through repeated recognition and dismissal let less skillful synapses and patterns atrophy? An exercise in plasticity and adaptability, an evolution of the mind. 

Later that morning, we climbed Sierra Negra, a volcano who’s caldera is 6 miles across and full of a black lava. The climb up was hot and dry. We poured small squirts of our scarce water down the backs of our shirts. 

“This is miserable, mom,” Jane complained.

“I’m hot too, sweetie,” I answered. 

“No, I mean. I can’t go on.” She sat down on the dusty edge of the trail and started examining her dirty fingernails. The group pulled away from us. I almost started in on why she needed to get up and keep moving, but instead I lowered myself to the ground and lay down in the middle the trail. 

“What are you doing, mom?” Jane asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re onto something.” She let out an amused giggle like I was doing something really silly, but then she lay down too, her head perpendicular to mine. We were like hands on a clock, she the hour hand and I the minute hand. We were 9:30.  

“Jane, I’m trying to be there for you in the ways that you need me to be. I’m not always very good at it. I make a lot of mistakes. But I’m trying, and I’m learning, and I’m not going to give up,” I said. 

“I know,” she said. I reached out and found her hand. She let me hold it for about three seconds before she wiggled it loose and pointed.

“Look at the bird in the tree, mom. I think it’s one of the vampire finches.” We had learned the previous day about the many finch species of the Galapagos, distinguished by their characteristic beak shapes.  Each one was highly adapted to its specific environment and food source. Each beak served as a different type of tool. Wider plier-shaped beaks opened up nuts and seeds. Thin, pointy beaks were like tweezers to grab insects out of narrow cracks in rocks. And the skinniest, sharpest beaks were used as needles to drink blood from larger birds.

I followed her point, and above the trail in a Manzanillo tree sat a small brown bird with a needle-like beak. “I think you’re right,” I said. “I can’t believe that it evolved to drink blood. How do you think the first one even got that idea?”

“I don’t know,” Jane said. “Maybe the first time it was an accident. Like the finch was trying to get to some of the other bird’s food, and then it slipped and poked the bird. But then it got a taste of blood and liked it.”

“Right,” I said. “Or maybe it was an easier food source than whatever insects it was trying to eat. Maybe there were more birds than insects around.” 

“Do you think humans are evolving, mom?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” I said. “But, it’s a slow process and it’s hard to know how we’re changing.” 

“I think humans are going to become underwater creatures,” Jane said.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. I grabbed Jane’s hand again and watched as the bird hopped from branch to branch before flying away. This time, she gave my hand two short squeezes, our silent language for ‘hold my hand tighter.’ I tightened my grasp and held her sweaty little hand within mine as we both stared up at the expanse of blue beyond the Manzanillo branches.

Like all other creatures, I am evolving.  I am constantly adapting to my changing environment. I don’t have much control over my environment. That I have to accept. But I can hone my observation skills and bring awareness to the environment and my relationships. There will be more thoughts than can survive, and only some of them will be well-adapted to the challenge of the moment. I hope that my most fit thoughts and actions, the ones that survive and thrive, are also the ones that lead me to love.