It’s Diversity All the Way Down

“The most impressive aspect of the living world is its diversity. No two individuals in sexually reproducing populations are the same, nor are any two populations, species, or higher taxa [categories of organisms]. Wherever one looks in nature, one finds uniqueness.” So wrote Ernst Mayr in This is Biology, published in 1997.

Grains of sand under an electron microscope (wikipedia)

Grains of sand 

Part of his statement was a new idea to me. Clearly each species differs from the next. But I had not fully absorbed the notion that every organism, if it reproduces in pairs, is different from every other individual in its species. (Single-cell organisms like bacteria that divide into identical clones are the exception.) Every individual grass plant, every fish, every pure-bred dog, every ant is as different from another of its species as two human neighbors are. And, as Mayr adds, that makes uniqueness the order of the day.

But what about  diversity and uniqueness in the non-biological, inanimate world? “Nature” includes not only living things but also rocks, water, air, light and other forces and materials. They seem to be unique in their own ways. Snowflakes are famously singular. Clouds change constantly. So does the surface of the ocean. Air flows and spins. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen two rocks that are identical. It’s a good bet that every asteroid, planet and star is different from others. Looking out over the desert, the ocean, or the skies, we always witness diversity in shape, motion, color and light if we look closely enough.

Diversity and fertility in grass (


Still, Mayr seems right that the diversity of living things  “impresses” us in a distinct way. Each organism succeeds at being alive, yet does so in a slightly different way from the others.

Moreover,  that booming variety, that hedge against species failure, comes on fast and strong. New life thrusts itself at us—in the new baby, in a puppy, among the trees springing up in corners of the yard, in the horde of ants and bees and birds of summer. In Origin of Species, Darwin wrote, “There is no exception to the rule that every organic being naturally increases at so high a rate, that if not destroyed, the earth would soon be covered by the progeny of a single pair.”

Diversity multiplied by fertility.


Is the Universe Alive?

Is the universe alive? What about the earth? Or nature as a whole?

My belief is that the universe along with earth’s mountains, oceans and atmosphere are not alive but that we feel they are living because we respond to them so strongly. Many persuasive writers,  though, seem convinced that they are alive—not merely similar to living things but animated by a life of their own. I’m trying to clarify my thinking about that.

The living earth? (

The living earth?

The literature dates back to the Greeks. The philosopher Thales, for example, wrote around 600 B.C. that a magnetic stone attracts iron because the stone has a soul. The 19th century naturalist Alexander von Humboldt believed that one could not understand nature unless one understood the interaction of all its parts, including human society, because nature as a whole was a living thing. In his 2007 essay “Earth in Eclipse,” David Abrams refers to humans evolving in “intimate rapport with the other bodies—animals, plants, mountains, rivers—that compose the shifting flesh of this breathing world.” And Bart Everson, in his essay “Awakening to Gaia” in the new collection Godless Paganism, writes, “To awaken to Gaia is to recognize other animals and plants as our distant cousins, to recognize that our kinship extends even to rocks, to the sea, to the atmosphere” (273).

In such statements, it’s difficult to know where personification and metaphor leave off and the belief that nature is literally alive begins. But collectively they show how easily we think of inorganic stuff as living or lifelike—lifelike not just in the way of simple bacteria but lifelike in the way of humans, with complexity and awareness.

I think that one reason people believe our environment might be alive is that we are constantly pouring and projecting ourselves into it. We are hypnotized and soothed by the ocean, so we say that the ocean is hypnotic and soothing. We feel enlarged and humbled in the presence of mountains, and we call them inspiring. In this way, our responses become their qualities, and their qualities make them seem alive.

In addition, people worry that we are out of touch with nature and think that by viewing the seas, the wind, and sunlight as alive, we might grow closer to them. I’m not so sure. I think we might feel more in touch with nature if we saw more clearly the differences between its living members and its inanimate materials and forces. We—all living things—may be inextricably linked with the earth and the sun, but we are also very unlike them. We are unusual, reproductive, self-modifying, enclosed mini-systems. Rocks, water, and stars are not.

It even, I think, smacks of vanity for us to see the oceans or the stars as versions of ourselves. Many marvels arise in nature, and life is only one of them. We see nature in our image because doing so comes easily to us. But we have great difficulty understanding the quantum oddities of nuclear bits and the dynamics of the unfolding universe. We—most people—are best connected to the rest of nature, I believe, by valuing the story of life on earth, managing our power over nature more responsibly, and standing humbly before the mysteries of non-living matter and energy.

As humans, we can’t help but radiate our energy out to the mountains, the oceans, and the sky. Doing so is our way of feeling fully alive and of seeking connections with what is greater; it’s a form of love. The glow, the seeming “aliveness” that shines back at us from inanimate nature is, I think, only our own reflection, but it helps fulfill us.