The Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

The Galapagos are a chain of volcanic islands (still being formed by active lava flows) 600 miles off the coast of Ecuador. The landscape is harsh, and being so far from the continent, the creatures who made it there had to adapt in special ways in order to survive. Adaptations have been both genetic (e.g. unique beak shapes) and behavioral (one type of Darwin Finch learned to peck larger birds until they bleed in a non-lethal way so that they have a source of liquid to survive the rainless months).

The islands are also special because there are no natural land predators on them, which means the birds and reptiles do not fear humans. This allows a traveler to get extremely close to the wildlife.

For instance, I was able to see Albatross, Oyster Catcher, Flightless Cormorant, Brown Noodie, and Nazca Boobie chicks (and eggs!) still under their mothers’ wings.

I watched blue footed boobies hiss, dance, and show off their feet as part of their courtship rituals.

I saw a sea lion bull chase his rival (and my parents too) up a steep rocky outcropping. Moments later, a third bull emerged from the water and climbed the rocks himself to make sure the first two bulls (and my parents) weren’t coming back the way they came.

I free dove 10 meters down to the ocean floor, where I found a dozen giant sea turtles sleeping on the sandy bottom.

I had a sea lion swim within an inch of my face.

I saw plants and cacti taking root on recently cooled lava fields, only cracks in the rock and the scantest grains of dirt in which to lay their roots.

I sat beside giant ancient tortoises, who can live at least 180 years (no one knows how long for sure).

And I witnessed a Galapagos Hawk pull the insides of a Red-billed Tropicbird’s intestines apart, getting both its guts and feathers stuck in her beak.

From the playing of cutest sea lion pup to the macabre spectacle of the hawk’s eating what it killed – all of it is Life, writ large. Playing, flirting, mating, birthing, mothering, sleeping, hunting, eating, and even dying — each phase of these creature’s lives is necessary for themselves, their offspring, and the ecosystem in which they live.

Seeing it all (so close and all at once) made me present to the differences, necessities, and possibilities inherent in each season of life, including my own.

For instance, when I think about my life it’s easy for me to disproportionately value the later seasons that are yet to come. When I look at people in their 50s, 60s, and 70s who seem to have all the wisdom, money, and success that I desire — I’ve often tried to closely emulate them even though I’m decades younger. I meet the founder of some business, who is confident and proud of what he’s built, generous with his time and resources, and I try to copy the way he spends his time, carries himself, and how he commands a room. Or I observe an old retired man with his grandchildren, delighting in their silliness, slow to anger, brimming with pride– and I think, “Yes, he has it figured it out. I will try to let go off all striving and the importance of work. Why not jump ahead and be just like him now?”

Yet in seeing the way boobies dance, or hearing the excited squeals of children who just met as they play tag, or witnessing a mother Noddie shield her young though leaves her exposed, or seeing a human mother’s face change shape from hard to proud when she’s told “It’s clear how much you love your son”, or delighting in the play of sea lions, or even in observing how once that hawk had her fill several mockingbirds finished the last remains so not a morsel went to waste – I realize that there is both purpose, sweetness, and possibility in every season of life, even death, if we adjust the aperture.

As I reflect further, both on what I saw in the Galapagos, and what I’ve experienced throughout 2019, I’m present to the thought that each season builds upon the one which came before. I don’t just mean that we are the product of history, or that there is much wisdom to learn in studying the past. All of that is true. But, what I’m getting at is experiential. Growth requires both reflection and action. And action is rooted in the now.

For a young albatross, it is a matter of life and death. After it has been nursed to full size by its mother it must learn to fly in order to survive. Due its size and shape it cannot simply take off from the ground like a sparrow. It must stand on a cliff’s edge and jump off. Observing other flyers is important, but there is no substitute for taking the leap itself. If it doesn’t jump, it will die of starvation. If it doesn’t soar, it will die on impact below. To live the bird must move beyond reflection, leap into the unknown, and trust nature has provided it the tools to catch the wind beneath its wings now. Once aloft, the birds are some of the best flyers on the planet. Certain adult albatrosses can stay airborne for a staggering 46 days at a time, during which time they can literally fly up to 10,000 miles, all without setting a foot down on the land.

In adolescence, other birds benefit from harnessing the creativity and resilience they learned while playing as chicks once they begin to try courting a mate. Some birds which struggle for months to learn to fish for themselves when they are young, ultimately become so adept they can provide enough food for both themselves, their mates, and their young once they reach sexual maturity. For us humans, it’s no different - the struggles of youth can uniquely prepare us for the greater trails of aging. And having the world not conform to our dreams can endow us with the capacity to empathize and create.

So what does all this reflection about the seasons of life mean to me right now as I look forward in 2020?

Firstly, it makes me reflect on the seasons I’ve lived through before. I feel thankful for the peacefulness, predictability, and privledge which helped me to accumulate so many teachers, ideas, and resources as a child and young adult. There’s much in these seasons that I feel proud about, even as there also much for which I feel ashamed.

Another thing that jumps out is that it feels strange to me that certain jobs, schools, and relationships which I poured so much of myself into, and which I tied so much of my identity and external worth in, are no longer a part of this season! Of course, internally I know each one shaped me and prepared me for this moment. And I hope to always carry the best part of them inside me. But I also know in looking at the birds that it will not do to hold on forever to that which is past. I must keep moving forward and stay in action with the world around me today.

So, what about now? What does this season hold?

This season has been one of experimentation and re-invention. Enabled by the good fortune of having so much youth, health, time, resources, and lack of fixed commitments like children — I can do things physically and practically that I couldn’t when I was younger and probably won’t be able to do when I older. By taking action on these opportunities now it has given me the means to try out countless ideas, activities, and ways of being which did not make sense to play at before.

Of course not all has gone according to plan, and I’ve made some truly stupid choices this year. But I’ve also made some really good choices. And both have taught me things I could not have learned in staying rooted in reflection and reading. Moreover, both the good and bad choices have given me access to feelings and experiences I never would have had if I simply stayed on my old path of trying emulate the wise old men I admire. I feel so grateful for this.

So, am I ready to settle down and give up experimenting with who I am? No, absolutely not. This season is not yet over. Some day it will end, either by my choice or due to factors outside my control. That is natural and that is okay. When it does, I should move on to whatever is next without attachment. But until it does, I remain committed to taking the actions that this season requires, and trusting that by doing so, just like it was for the albatross, I am preparing myself for a future I have not lived and which I cannot yet imagine, but for which I’ll be uniquely built.