Curious visitors gawk at a
magnificent collection of eggs sitting carefully arranged on a bed of
cotton. Large and small, spotted,
striped, pink, white, and brown, these sphere-like canvasses are all unique and
extraordinarily beautiful works of art.
But today is not Easter. There
are no rabbits here. And no birds. This artistic collection is displayed at the
Museum of Natural History; nature was
the artist. This unnatural collection is
not unusual. Every year, millions of
visitors swarm to museums across the country to gratify their curiosity. Only a few, perhaps, notice that something is
not right.
In Refuge, the emptiness of the situation becomes painfully obvious to
Terry Tempest-Williams. These eggs on
display are hollow and weightless. The
life has been blown out of them (Tempest-Williams, 262). The eggs have been preserved for the purpose
of education, but the life in them was destroyed in the process. The life that those eggs held could have
populated an entire marsh. Now they sit
arranged in rows, removed from nature, a lifeless and pointless demonstration
of where birds come from.
The destruction of life is enraging
to Tempest. But so is the theft. These eggs were stolen not just from nature,
but from the warm nest of a mother bird.
These eggs had been guarded like secrets, the protective mother sheltering
them with her feathers. Eggs are not
meant to be seen, and this collection amounts to sacrilege (Tempest-Williams,
262).
This conclusion was a bit surprising
to me, I must admit. As a history major,
museums are not foreign to me. They
preserve the past for the sake of education.
For the benefit of current and future generations. Perhaps for entertainment too. Education does not have to be boring. And if even one visitor gains a greater
respect for the natural world, has the museum’s purpose been fulfilled?
Really, what is so bad about looking at
eggs? While pondering this question, it
was a funny surprise that one of my duolingo sentences for the day just
happened to be “Wir sehen jedes Ei.” We see every egg. Looking at eggs is probably something
that most people do fairly regularly. Perhaps
you ate some with your breakfast this morning?
I know I have about half a dozen in my refrigerator at this very moment. A lot of you probably do too. Were these eggs stolen? No baby chick would ever have hatched from
them. Hens were removed from nature to
serve our purposes.
The examination of stealing from
nature is not limited to the work of Tempest.
The poetry of Emily Dickenson also contains this theme. In Dickenson’s poem, “Who Robbed the Woods,”
the woods, like a trusting child, proudly displays burrs and mosses to impress
a visitor. The visitor betrayed this
trust and took what belonged to the woods, snatching it greedily and carrying
away. The poem positions the reader to
sympathize with the forest, to share in the speechless outrage expressed by the
fir and hemlock. The childlike innocence
is contrasted with the grasping curiosity and shocking robbery perpetrated by
the unnamed male thief.
But what is the harm of taking a few
burrs and mosses, or an egg or two?
Especially in the name of science?
The thief in Dickenson’s poem was curious about nature. Perhaps he simply admired the beauty of
nature. Perhaps he did not know that he
had offended the trees. Perhaps he truly
did not intend any harm. Perhaps he,
like visitors to museums of natural history, only wanted to learn. The museum administration, too, surely does
not intend harm in collecting artifacts to exhibit. They more likely see their work as a boon to
civilization.
But if collecting museum artifacts is
harming nature, then why is it done? What
is the purpose of museums? Does the
education of millions of museum visitors justify destroying even one egg? Does the end ever justify the means?
Humans are creatures of curiosity. We want to know how things work, where things
come from, and why things are the way they are.
Institutions of education, libraries, museums, self-help books, and a
large number of google searches stand as monuments to human curiosity. Still, nature holds mystery. We want to discover the answers, so we
examine nature, put it under microscopes, and display it in museums. Eggs, in particular, symbolize the origin of
life. No matter how disconnected from
nature humans may become, we share life with nature. The mystery of life will always intrigue us,
tug at the corners of our consciousness, worm its way into our thoughts every
time a new green stem pushes its way out of the still half-frozen ground, and
pull at our hearts every time we hear a baby cry. We will always grasp for answers.
Still, the disconnect between humans and
nature remains. The visitors to museums,
like the visitor in Dickenson’s poem, were curious. But they often do not understand the full
implications of their actions. They
admire the beauty of nature, but they do not fully appreciate the tenderness
and fragility of the natural world.
Nature, like a small child, should be cared for. In the appreciation of nature, is not enough
simply to visit a museum once in a blue moon while our hearts and our
lifestyles remain unchanged.
Dickenson’s poem, like Tempest-Williams’
Refuge, promotes a respect and
reverence for nature, as a sentient, living entity. Nature’s beauty, even to the small curious
details, the eggs, the burrs, the moss, the pinecones, should be respected as
belonging to nature. When interacting
with nature, as well as with our fellow humans as we go about our ordinary
daily lives, it is important to remember that even our smallest actions can
have significant effects.
There is undoubtedly a place for museums
in our world today. That is, as long as
these museums are conducted as institutions of preservation and education
rather than as storehouses for plunder.
Hopefully, the artifacts on display are collected responsibly, with as
little harm as possible. If not, then
let them serve as reminders of humanity’s potential for destruction. True education
entails a shift in thought. This, no
matter how much people resist it, means change.
If people fully understand the destruction they cause by their everyday
actions, would they continue to make the same harmful decisions?
Go visit a museum, but please do so with
a willingness to learn. Remember, too,
that the world’s greatest museum is right outside your door. This is the season of miracles, the time when
life is renewed. On my way home yesterday,
I noticed that the tulips had started pushing their way through the melting
snow. Take a moment to celebrate the
triumph of a few brave tulips. Listen to
the birds sing, too. It has been pretty
quiet all winter without them. Even in
the city, it is still possible to find the touch of nature. Those trees that grow between the sidewalk
and the street often hide birds’ nests. Take
a quick peek sometime, but do be respectful.
These outdoor museum exhibits are the real thing, in their natural
state, not empty and lifeless like those that Tempest held and mourned
over. Here, the mother bird sits warming
future generations. Under her feathers,
she guards the secret of life.
Works
Cited
Dickenson,
Emily. “Who Robbed the Woods.”
Bartleby.com.
Tempest-Williams,
Terry. Refuge. New York: Pantheon Books, 1991.
