Jane Goodall and Me

 A Personal Journey With the Woman Who Changed the World

Most people meet their heroes on the page. I met mine at the Sacramento airport.

It was 1970 or ’71, and I was a young marine-biology/pre‐med student at Sierra College, still wandering toward the path I would eventually follow. Because I happened to be dating the vice-president’s daughter at the time, the administration building was familiar territory. One afternoon someone asked if I might be available to pick up a visiting speaker—Jane Goodall—for an evening lecture on chimpanzees.

I had read about her work in National Geographic, but I didn’t yet grasp the magnitude of the woman I was being entrusted to escort. At that moment, I probably would have been more star-struck by Jacques Cousteau. But I agreed, unaware that I was about to cross paths with a person who would shape the rest of my life.

I met her at the airport, drove her to the hotel, and ended up perched awkwardly on the edge of her bed while she phoned R. Allen and Beatrix Gardner—the pioneering scientists who had taught the chimpanzee Washoe to use sign language. Jane, fascinated by their work, invited them to join her talk. They drove that evening across the Sierra Nevadas from Reno to the college campus in Rocklin, California. I sat with them in the front row as Jane stepped onstage and spoke with that quiet authority that would become her global hallmark—about the Gombe chimpanzees, their social lives, their emotions, the tender and complex ways they navigated their world.

I didn’t know it yet, but that evening stitched threads that would later become part of my own tapestry: Jane would become my “academic aunt,” the Gardners my academic grandparents, and I would enter the forest of Tanjung Puting at roughly the same age she had entered Gombe.

Embracing Great Ape Kinship as the Antidote to the Political Weaponization of Tribalism

In every corner of the world, we are witnessing a troubling resurgence of tribalism. Whether it takes the form of nationalism, racism, religious extremism, or ideological polarization, the pattern is the same: people dividing into “us” and “them.” Once weaponized, this ancient instinct — once useful for group survival — becomes toxic. It blinds us to our shared humanity and fractures the cooperative spirit that made our species thrive.

Yet, perhaps the antidote to this fragmentation lies not in looking further into our differences, but deeper into our shared roots — even beyond the boundaries of our species. To embrace our great ape kinship is to remember where we came from, and to recognize the biological and emotional continuity that binds us to all life.

A Mirror to Ourselves

When I first taught sign language to orangutans in Borneo, I discovered something humbling. These beings — with their calm presence, patience, and depth of feeling — reflected something profoundly human, yet also something profoundly better than human. Orangutans, our red-haired cousins of the forest, exhibit empathy, foresight, and a gentle dignity that contrast sharply with the aggression often found in our own political and social arenas.

Watching them build nests high in the canopy, I often wondered: how can a creature so peaceful and self-contained share 97% of our DNA, while we, the “wise apes,” turn our intelligence toward division and domination? The orangutan does not draw lines of exclusion. Its survival depends on coexistence — with the forest, with other species, and with the rhythms of nature itself.

Tribal Instincts, Political Tools

Our tribal instincts evolved for a reason. They helped small groups of early humans survive in harsh conditions, building trust within the clan. But in the modern era, these same instincts are being manipulated. Political and media forces exploit them — amplifying fear, resentment, and identity-based conflict to consolidate power. The result is a world where belonging is defined not by shared humanity, but by opposition.

And yet, neuroscience and evolutionary biology tell us that cooperation, not competition, was the true driver of our success as a species. Compassion and empathy are not modern inventions — they are ancient survival tools. The problem is that our social and political systems have learned to hijack these instincts, rewarding outrage instead of understanding.

Reclaiming Kinship

To counter this, we must broaden the circle of kinship — to remember that we are not just members of political parties, nations, or tribes. We are members of the family of life. We share the planet with beings who laugh, grieve, love, and care for one another — sometimes with greater grace than we do.

Embracing great ape kinship means acknowledging that orangutans, gorillas, bonobos, and chimpanzees are not “things” or “resources.” They are persons of the forest — sentient, emotional, self-aware beings who remind us of the moral continuum that extends far beyond our species. When we see them as kin rather than curiosities, we begin to dissolve the illusion of separation that fuels tribalism.

It also means applying this awareness to human relations. The same compassion that guides conservation — the belief that every individual life matters — can guide our politics. When we expand empathy beyond the in-group, we erode the psychological foundations of hatred.

From Forest Wisdom to Human Renewal

The orangutan’s life offers a lesson for our time. Solitary but deeply connected, peaceful yet aware, contemplative rather than combative — the orangutan embodies a balance that humanity desperately needs. In their quiet, deliberate movements through the forest canopy lies a model for mindfulness and coexistence.

If we can learn from them — if we can remember our shared lineage — perhaps we can build societies that value connection over conquest, understanding over division, and stewardship over exploitation.

Because in the end, the real battle is not between political parties or tribes. It is between the expansive spirit of kinship and the contracting fear of “otherness.” The future depends on which side of our evolutionary inheritance we choose to nurture.

Let us choose kinship.

Orangutan Caring Week: From Awareness to Action for Our Red Ape Cousins

 

A baby orangutan clings to its mother’s back in the rainforests of Sumatra, peering out with cautious curiosity – a powerful symbol of hope and vulnerability at the heart of Orangutan Caring Week. Every year in November, organizations and wildlife lovers around the world come together to celebrate Orangutan Caring Week, a global event dedicated to saving these critically endangered “persons of the forest” and their vanishing home. What began as a simple awareness campaign decades ago has evolved into a vibrant movement blending education, emotion, and advocacy to secure a future for orangutans. In this post, we delve into the origins and purpose of Orangutan Caring Week, its journey from a small idea to an international event, the activities that inspire action each year, and how each of us can join in to make a difference.

Intelligent vs. Intelligible Communication: Lessons from the Forest

Language is often described as the hallmark of human intelligence. But when I think back to my years among the orangutans in Borneo, I’m reminded that communication—true communication—takes many forms, and not all of them require words.

There’s a quiet power in the gestures, glances, and postures exchanged between beings who share a moment of understanding. Yet not all communication is equal. Some is intelligible—clear and easy to interpret—while some is intelligent, showing thought, awareness, and intent.

Intelligible Communication: Being Understood

Intelligible communication is communication that makes sense. It is the ability to convey meaning in a way that can be received and understood.

When a mother orangutan softly grunts to her infant or when I see two males exchange long calls across the forest, the messages are intelligible to those who share that world. “I’m here.” “Stay away.” “It’s safe.”

Likewise, when a human toddler says, “Want banana,” the meaning is clear. Grammar isn’t required for comprehension—intent and shared context are enough.

Clarity, however, doesn’t always equal depth.

Intelligent Communication: Being Aware

Intelligent communication reveals something more profound: the mind behind the message.

When I taught sign language to ex-captive orangutans, I saw evidence of this intelligence every day. One young female, after failing to get my attention with a gesture, changed her strategy—signing again but more emphatically, her eyes fixed on mine. That was not rote behavior; it was problem-solving.

Intelligent communication shows flexibility, learning, and the capacity to anticipate another’s mind. It’s not just being understood—it’s understanding how to be understood.

The Bridge Between Minds

In our world of nonstop messages, posts, and alerts, we’ve become very good at being intelligible—quick, clear, and loud. But we’re losing our intelligence in communication: the patience to listen, the empathy to adapt, the awareness to choose our words or gestures with care.

Orangutans, on the other hand, remind us what intelligent communication looks like in its purest form—measured, mindful, and meaningful. Their interactions are quiet but deliberate. Each look, touch, or sound carries weight.

Perhaps in learning to recognize the intelligence in their communication, we can rediscover some of our own.

Takeaway

 Intelligible communication is about clarity.

 Intelligent communication is about consciousness.

If we want to connect across species—or even among ourselves—we must strive for both.

From the Archives: A Word Between Friends — Princess & Pola

March 18, 1979 — Guesthouse Living Room, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

It was just after noon when I stepped into the living room of the guesthouse. A calmness hung in the air, that special kind of stillness the forest often offers in the heat of midday.

Pola, a young male orangutan who was part of our sign language project, was sitting contentedly in the corner, lips wrapped tightly around what looked like a crumpled, well-loved spice packet. He wasn’t chewing so much as savoring—drawing out every bit of flavor like it was a delicacy. His eyes were soft, his focus absolute. He was in a state of what I can only describe as spice meditation.

Then Princess entered.

Where Pola was introspective, Princess was always present. Attuned. Intentional.

She quietly approached Pola, leaned in with purpose, and signed “food.”

No reaction.

She signed it again, a little firmer this time—“food,” making sure he could see her hands clearly.

Pola paused. He looked at her. Then, wordlessly, he lifted the spice packet from his mouth and offered it to her—no resistance, no hesitation. She took it gently and moved away, with Pola following a few steps behind, as if curious about what would happen next.

There was no growling. No posturing. No grabbing. Just… a moment of request and a moment of response.

Now, some might ask whether Pola truly understood the sign from Princess. Was it a coincidence? A conditioned response? A social cue?

I think it was more than that.

Princess used sign language with another orangutan. Not for my benefit. Not for a treat. Not as part of a lesson. She initiated communication. She asked. And Pola responded—not by mimicking, not by reacting to a human, but by offering something he clearly valued.

That moment, fleeting as it was, marked something significant: language crossing species lines and turning inward—ape to ape.

It was raw. Unstaged. And profoundly beautiful.

This wasn’t about vocabulary size or syntax. It was about connection. Intent. The beginnings of shared meaning.

And in that simple exchange, over a spice packet no less, Princess and Pola reminded me that communication is not just about words or signs.

It’s about the willingness to listen. And the grace to give.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: When a Knife Became a Comb

August 29, 1979 — Camp Leakey Guesthouse, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some moments are so ordinary at first glance, they almost slip by. But then they linger in memory like ripe fruit on a vine—sweet, unexpected, and revealing.

It was about 6:30 in the evening. Dinner was over, and Princess, my most curious and clever adopted orangutan daughter, was lounging near the student house. I was with Benny, one of our student assistants. We had been working with Princess on sign language for some time by then, but that night, she taught us a lesson in creativity.

Princess looked up at me and signed, “You comb.” I gently combed her hair with my fingers, and she closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the attention.

Then she spotted something on the ground—a table knife, left behind from dinner.

She picked it up carefully and signed again, “You that comb.” She was offering me the knife… to use as a comb.

I raised an eyebrow. I asked her, in sign, “What’s that?”

She studied it thoughtfully and signed “comb” again, followed by “pen.” She was trying out words she knew to label something new. Her guesses weren’t wrong, just… experimental.

I showed her the correct sign for knife, and she accepted it. But then, with deliberate calm and a look of expectation, she signed once more, “You comb,” and handed me the knife.

I gently scratched the back of her hand with the blunt edge—her version of a brushing motion. Satisfied, she handed it back to me and signed again: “You comb,” holding her head forward this time.

So I did. With the dull edge of a dinner knife, I gently “combed” her hair.

It wasn’t about the knife. It was about function—repurposing one object for another role. Princess wasn’t just mimicking language; she was assigning meaning. She saw a tool, imagined a use, and asked a friend to participate in her vision.

And in doing so, she reminded me that language, like intelligence, is fluid. It adapts. It invents. It connects.

And so does she.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: A Lesson in Sharing — Princess and the Professor’s Son

 

July 17, 1979 — Dining Hall, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting

It was a warm afternoon at Camp Leakey, and the open-air dining hall buzzed with quiet post-lunch activity. Plates were cleared, the thick air hung like a wool blanket soaked in humidity, and outside the screen windows, the forest hummed its usual symphony. Inside, a different kind of communication was about to unfold—one involving no words, but deep meaning.

Beneath the dining table, young Binti—Dr. Biruté Galdikas’s toddler son—had discovered a treat: a vegetable resembling corn called tabu telur. It was rare and intriguing, wrapped in leaf-like husks and shaped like something to be guarded.

So he did what any little boy might do: he took it under the table to enjoy it in private.

But Princess noticed.

She had been part of our sign language project for some time and was always curious—especially when food was involved. And she was watching Binti closely. She lowered herself beside him, peered under the table, and without hesitation, signed “food” directly to him.

Binti, still too young to sign fluently, understood the intent. But instead of handing over the prized vegetable, he began offering its outer leaves—one by one. A decoy strategy, perhaps.

Princess accepted each leaf graciously, inspecting them, nibbling lightly, then discarding them. They were, after all, inedible. This wasn’t what she’d asked for.

She signed “food” again. This time, she added “nut”—refining her request, showing her awareness that what Binti held was something meaningful. Still, Binti continued to peel back the leaves, offering husks instead of the core.

Then, in one smooth and calculated move, Princess reached over and took the tabu telur from his small hands.

Binti burst into tears.

Underneath that table, there was no parental intervention, no translator, no referee—just a sign-literate orangutan and a human child, negotiating over a prized possession in their own unique ways.

It was one of the rare moments I witnessed where a nonhuman primate used sign language intentionally and independently to communicate with a human peer—not as a show, not for a reward from a trainer, but for real social negotiation.

Princess didn’t just ask. She persisted, modified her communication, and ultimately asserted her agency.

And Binti? He did what any toddler might: he tried to hold on to something he valued. But in that exchange—leaf by leaf—he was also participating in one of the most remarkable cross-species dialogues I’ve ever seen.

A young boy and an orangutan, sharing a moment that was so much more than a snack. It was an early glimpse into how communication bridges not only species, but hearts.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: Princess, the Fruit Connoisseur

 

September 19, 1979 — Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some mornings stay with you forever—not because of what you taught, but because of what you were taught.

It was just before 8 a.m., and the guesthouse was still blanketed in that gentle stillness that settles in before the forest fully wakes. I had just begun a morning lesson with Princess, my sign-language-savvy orangutan daughter, when she beat me to the first word.

“Hug up,” she signed with quiet insistence.

I smiled and gave her the hug she asked for. Then she signed again, eyes gleaming with mischief: “You that food.”

Ah. So that was the real motivation behind the hug.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a guava. Before I even asked, Princess confidently signed, “sweet fruit.” Correct. I handed it to her. We repeated this little game with a second guava, and she signed the same phrase again—“fruit sweet”—as if reminding me she already knew the answer and was ready for her reward.

That morning turned into a taste-test of tropical produce. An orange became “drink fruit.” A mango? “Sweet fruit.” When I offered her a watermelon slice, she combined her favorite signs into a new phrase: “drink fruit sweet.”

She was inventing compound words—building her own vocabulary using the signs she already knew.

And when I tried to quiz her with something trickier, like the leaf symbol on a hat, she didn’t hesitate. “Leaf,” she signed, correctly and immediately.

But it wasn’t just language. It was preference, curiosity, humor.

She looked into my pocket after I told her it was empty. She discovered a hidden bag of peanuts and signed, “open food.” I opened it. Of course I did.

She wasn’t just communicating. She was thinking. Classifying. Creating new ideas. Asking. Testing. Trusting.

That morning, Princess wasn’t just a student—I was. And what she taught me, through fruit and signing, was this: Communication isn’t about mastering language. It’s about connection.

And when an orangutan tells you she wants “drink fruit sweet,” you listen.

— Orangutan Dad

What an Orangutan Isn’t: On False Beliefs, Online Insults, and the Fracturing of Truth

Lately, I’ve seen something both disheartening and strangely revealing scrolling through social media: a resurgence of memes and posts comparing various politicians—especially presidents—to orangutans.

Let me be very clear:

This is not funny. It’s not innocent. And it reveals more about us than it does about them.

As someone who has lived, studied, taught, and loved orangutans for over 50 years, I feel compelled to speak—not just on behalf of these sentient, contemplative beings we too often misunderstand, but also on behalf of what we are losing as a species when we let ridicule replace reasoning, and narrative replace truth.

False Beliefs About Orangutans

Let’s start with the basics.

• Orangutans are not violent. 
• They do not lie. 
• They do not manipulate followers with false promises or stir up outrage to gain status. 
• They are not lazy. 
• Nor are they stupid.

Yet time and time again, public figures are compared to orangutans as if this were some ultimate insult—usually invoking perceived ugliness, unintelligence, or barbarism. It’s racist in origin, ignorant in implication, and a total inversion of reality.

Orangutans are patient.

They are thinkers, not shouters.

They build, they nurture, they observe.

They spend time choosing the right branch for a nest, or teaching their child how to peel a tricky fruit.

If we were more like orangutans, the world might be quieter, more thoughtful, and more sane.

The Deeper Problem: Belief Without Thinking

The real tragedy is that these “orangutan president” memes aren’t just offensive—they’re symptomatic of a deeper societal issue. As I argued in a recent white paper on digital trust, we are entering an era where storytelling without science, and belief without evidence, is not just tolerated—it’s rewarded.

On social media, the most outrageous posts go viral. Algorithms promote emotion over nuance. Conspiracy theories spread faster than fact-checked truth. People learn to treat ridicule as reality and memes as moral judgments. And all the while, real orangutans—our evolutionary cousins—lose their forests, their families, their futures.

The Consequences of Digital Fracture

If we let misinformation fester, if we let social media mockery shape our moral compass, we will see:

• A breakdown in public understanding of science and nature.

• Escalating distrust in expertise, institutions, and even shared facts.

• Polarization so deep that basic cooperation becomes impossible.

• And in the case of orangutans—less empathy, less funding, and more extinction.

The danger isn’t just a silly meme. It’s that people begin to believe the narratives they scroll through. And those beliefs, repeated enough, calcify into action—or worse, inaction.

What We Can Do

If you're reading this, you’re already someone who thinks beyond the scroll. Here’s how we push back:

• Speak up when orangutans are used as tools of insult. Defend their dignity.

• Support real stories—those rooted in science, empathy, and lived experience.

• Engage with humility, not hostility, when confronting false beliefs online.

• Teach the young to recognize manipulation, to ask for evidence, and to love the natural world.

Amplify the truth, not the anger. Because in a forest of confusion, truth needs louder echoes.

 Final Thought

Orangutans are not metaphors for ignorance.

They are not stand-ins for political slurs.

They are persons of the forest—gentle, intelligent, endangered beings fighting to survive amid humanity’s chaos.

Let’s do them justice.

Let’s do truth justice.

And let’s stop confusing volume with wisdom, or memes with meaning.

Yours in truth and forest kinship,

The Orangutan Dad

Enough Is Enough: Finding Purpose Beyond Wealth

 

At this stage of my life, I can say something I wish more people would come to realize sooner: I have enough.

I’m not interested in the blatant acquisition of monetary wealth for personal desires beyond my current and projected needs. More money will not make me happier, healthier, or more fulfilled. What matters to me now—and what I believe will matter to all of us, sooner or later—is what we do with the time and influence we already have.

I am interested in establishing, maintaining, and deepening personal and professional relationships, and in enrolling others to make positive differences in the health and longevity of a vibrant planet, its vital ecosystems, and the endangered biodiversity we share it with.

At my age, I care less about accumulating things and more about building legacies—legacies of compassion, curiosity, and contribution. My platform, built over decades of work with orangutans and the people who protect them, is not something I see as mine alone. It’s a tool to inspire others—to help people discover their own passions, their own sense of purpose, their own way to make a difference.

You don’t need to be rich to make an impact. You don’t need to wait until retirement. You don’t need to have all the answers.
If you feel called to act, start now.

One powerful way is to create your own nonprofit, even a small one, as a vehicle to channel your energy into something meaningful. But if running a foundation isn’t for you, there are countless organizations that would welcome your support as a volunteer, advocate, or board member.

And even if you can’t give money or time, your voice still matters. You can make a difference simply by consistently speaking out—in public spaces, online or offline—about what matters most to you. Advocacy begins with awareness, and awareness begins with someone willing to say, “This is important.”

The world doesn’t need more billionaires chasing the next yacht. It needs more everyday people living intentionally, guided by love for life itself.

So let’s stop measuring success by how much we earn—and start measuring it by how much we care.

The Forest Still Whispers Her Name

He sat beneath the ancient fig tree—a chimpanzee whose eyes had seen the coming and going of countless rains. The forest was quiet, but not silent. Every rustle carried her name.

The elder looked toward the horizon where the sun had dipped low, and the wind brought memories instead of scents. “She used to sit here,” his heart seemed to murmur, “watching us, listening—not to our noise, but to our silence.”

The younger chimps did not understand. To them, she was a story—the woman who never left the forest in her heart. But the elder remembered her voice, soft as leaves falling on damp soil, saying, “We are not so different, you and I.”

Now she was gone. The forest, though vast, felt smaller. The morning calls rose and fell without her gentle echo. The old chimp reached for the empty air where once her gaze had met his. “You saw us,” he whispered, “when the world looked away.”

Above him, the sky grew deep and violet, and the forest breathed in rhythm—slow, mournful, alive. The troop gathered, uncertain, sensing the heaviness that hung between the branches.

Then, in the hush, a single call rang out—soft, resonant, like the first word of a prayer. It wasn’t sorrow alone. It was gratitude. It was memory.

And as night fell, the elder closed his eyes. “You taught them,” he thought, “that we are kin. That to protect us is to protect themselves.”

Somewhere in the canopy, a firefly flickered—briefly, beautifully.

And in that light, the forest whispered back,

“She is gone from the world,

but never from the wild.”

The Quiet Power of Jane Goodall: A Legacy of Grace, Kinship, and Compassion

                                            My reconnecting with Jane in 2005

Yesterday, the world lost a giant.

Dr. Jane Goodall — ethologist, anthropologist, author, messenger of peace, voice for the voiceless — passed away at the age of 91. Even though I knew she had slowed her pace in recent years, I could never truly wrap my mind around the idea that Jane was mortal. Her presence on this Earth felt elemental — like the rustle of leaves in a rainforest, or the long call of a great ape echoing through the canopy. Something you expect will always be there.

I had the privilege of encountering Jane several times over the decades. Each meeting was brief, yet unforgettable — inspiring me into primatology  and punctuating my journey with a renewed sense of purpose. You didn’t need long with Jane to feel her impact. She carried something extraordinary into every room she entered: a quiet but unmistakable moral authority, disarming humility, and a gaze that made you feel seen, truly seen — as if all your words had already been understood before you spoke.

What made Jane so powerful, especially in her later years, was not the volume of her voice but the gentle force of her kindness. She didn't storm stages or berate policymakers. She invited them — with grace, with evidence, and with an unshakable love for life. Whether she was speaking to heads of state or schoolchildren, she had a way of softening hearts and igniting minds. Her secret was simple: she believed in the goodness of people.

Like a chimpanzee mother who never stops tending to her young — patiently guiding, fiercely protective, lovingly present — Jane devoted her life to nurturing a global awareness of our kinship with the natural world. Even as her body aged, her commitment never wavered. Her travel schedule would exhaust someone half her age, yet she continued because she had to. This was her calling. Her life's work. Her love.

Her groundbreaking fieldwork with chimpanzees in Gombe revealed what science had long resisted admitting: that nonhuman beings feel, think, grieve, love, and suffer. That they are not mere data points in a distant jungle but sentient individuals with families, societies, and souls. She gave them names when others insisted on numbers. She told their stories — not to romanticize, but to humanize. In doing so, she changed the world’s perception of animals and ourselves.

But perhaps the most profound extension of her legacy came not from the forest, but from the hearts of children. Through her Roots & Shoots program, she planted seeds of compassion and curiosity in young people around the globe — cultivating a generation of conscious citizens who care deeply about animals, the environment, and one another. This was Jane at her most powerful: the elder advocate who passed the torch not with fire, but with warmth.

I often reflect on how Jane’s journey parallels my own in the forests of Borneo, where I taught sign language to ex-captive orangutans and discovered their profound intelligence and emotional depth. Like Jane, I came to see that our primate cousins are not just like us — they are part of us, and we of them. We share not just biology, but story, spirit, and destiny.

Jane's passing is a loss beyond words. But her legacy lives on — in the lush canopies of Gombe, in the countless lives she inspired, in the quiet decisions made by people who now pause to care a little more, consume a little less, speak a little louder for those who cannot.

And for those of us who had the honor to walk briefly alongside her, even from afar, we carry her light forward. We remember not only what she taught, but how she taught it — with grace, with gentleness, and with unshakable hope.

🙏 Rest in Power, Jane. You showed us the way. We will keep walking — for the chimpanzees, the orangutans, the gorillas, for the forests, and for all sentient beings who deserve to live free and understood.

The Humility of Healing: Mindfulness in Moments of Illness

 

At the heart of conscious living is the awareness that we are always becoming. Our bodies change as cells divide and renew, circumstances shift around us, and emotions rise and fall with the movement of both the inner and outer world. To live consciously is to notice this ongoing transformation and meet it with presence.

Sometimes, however, change arrives in the form of illness. As I battle a case of tonsillitis that makes speaking and even swallowing difficult, I am reminded of how easily we take the simplest acts for granted. What was effortless yesterday—sharing a laugh, sipping water—suddenly becomes a struggle, and with it comes a quiet humility.

Illness humbles us. It reminds us that life is fragile, that our control is partial at best, and that we depend on countless unseen processes within the body to sustain us. Yet it also invites us into compassion—beginning with ourselves. We are offered a choice: to resist and grow frustrated, or to accept with patience and presence.

Compassion starts with the self. It means loving ourselves enough to rest, to seek care, and to allow treatment to support the body’s innate healing wisdom. As our immune system quietly recruits its defenses to respond to the pathogens at work, we too can align with this process—creating an environment of healing through patience, kindness, and mindful attention.

Mindful thinking about becoming healthy is not merely wishful optimism. It is the gentle practice of holding hope, of fostering resilience, and of recognizing that even in illness we are still in motion, still becoming. With each breath, the body adapts and restores; with each moment, the spirit has an opportunity to grow in strength.

These humbling moments, when the body demands our care, reveal a deeper truth: that impermanence and vulnerability are not weaknesses but teachers. They remind us that we cannot control the tides of change, but we can choose how to meet them—emotionally, spiritually, and compassionately.

To live consciously is to embrace even these challenging moments as part of our becoming. Illness, in its discomfort, offers us the same invitation that wellness does: to be present, to be patient, and to practice compassion. In doing so, we discover that every moment—whether easy or difficult—carries within it the possibility of renewal.

Living with Provisional Truths: Why Our Models of Reality Are Only Maps, Not the Territory

We humans have an uncanny confidence in our senses. We assume that what we see, hear, and touch reflects the actual nature of the world. The solid feel of a rock, the blue expanse of the sky, the warmth of a fire—these seem unquestionably real. Yet, as cognitive scientist Donald Hoffman argues, our perceptual systems did not evolve to show us the truth. They evolved to keep us alive.

Evolution’s Priority: Survival, Not Truth

Natural selection rewards organisms that survive long enough to reproduce. That’s it. The evolutionary “scorecard” has no bonus points for uncovering the fundamental nature of reality. Our senses evolved to highlight features of the environment that mattered for fitness—food, mates, threats—not to deliver a faithful representation of the world “as it is.”

A spider perceives vibrations through webs, a bat echoes landscapes through sound, and a bird sees colors invisible to us. Each species lives in a bubble of perception tuned to its survival. Why should humans be different? Our senses provide a user interface, not a God’s-eye view.

A Forest Lesson with Princess

I recall one morning in the peat swamp forest, walking with Princess, the young orangutan who I had adopted as my daughter and who become both student and teacher to me. The air was heavy with humidity, the kind that makes every step feel deliberate. My eyes darted to the shadows, wary of snakes or unseen roots that might trip me. To me, the forest was an obstacle course of mud, terrestrial leeches, fire ants 

and tangled vegetation.

Princess, by contrast, moved with a calm assurance. She paused often, gazing up into the canopy with that long, thoughtful “fruit stare” I came to know so well. At first, I thought she was simply daydreaming. But then I noticed how her gaze lingered on a cluster of leaves I hadn’t noticed—leaves that, to her, signaled ripening fruit. She was reading the forest in a language I barely understood.

In that moment, we inhabited the same physical space but lived in radically different perceptual worlds. My reality was filled with hazards; hers was filled with opportunities. Neither was the “true” forest in any ultimate sense. Each was a provisional model, tuned to our survival needs, guiding us through the complexity of the same swamp.

That lesson stayed with me: reality is filtered, framed, and sculpted by the perceiver.

Provisional Working Models

If our perceptions are survival tools, not truth-revealing instruments, then our beliefs built upon them must be handled with humility. What we think of as “reality” may be more like a desktop interface on a computer. The little blue folder icon is not “truth”—it is a useful representation that hides the messy complexity of code and circuits. Likewise, our belief systems are models—provisional guides that help us navigate life.

This means our cherished concepts—time, space, causality, even matter itself—may not reflect ultimate reality. They are scaffolding that allows us to orient ourselves in the flow of existence. They work until they don’t, and when they don’t, we revise them.

The Value of Provisionality

Seeing our beliefs as provisional does not mean falling into nihilism or relativism. It means cultivating openness. Science advances precisely because models are treated as temporary approximations, subject to refinement or replacement. Personal growth, too, often requires loosening our grip on fixed ideas, allowing room for new insights to emerge.

Provisionality also nurtures compassion. If others’ truths are also models shaped by limited perception, then disagreement need not be threatening. We can meet each other with curiosity instead of hostility, recognizing that all of us are fumbling toward understanding.

Living the Question

As Hoffman suggests, perhaps reality is not built of objects in space and time at all, but of deeper structures—networks of conscious agents, fields of potentiality, or something we have yet to imagine. Whether or not such theories hold, one lesson endures: we should carry our beliefs lightly.

Living with provisional truths allows us to live with questions, to adapt, and to wonder. It acknowledges our limits while still empowering us to act meaningfully.

In the end, reality may be far stranger than we can grasp. But perhaps our task is not to “know” it fully, but to dance with it wisely—with humility, curiosity, and care.

The Life Dance: Balancing Being, Doing, and Planning

 We often speak of happiness as though it were a destination: somewhere we’ll finally arrive once the right conditions line up. Yet, in truth, happiness is not a place but a rhythm—a dance that requires us to balance three essential steps: Being, Doing, and Planning. Each of these is vital, and neglecting one can throw the whole rhythm out of sync.

Being: The Stillness of Presence

“Being” is the quiet, grounding state where we step out of the stream of activity and simply exist. It is meditation, mindful breathing, a quiet walk, or simply sitting with loved ones without distraction. In being, we reconnect with our deeper selves, our values, and the sheer wonder of life. Without moments of being, our days risk becoming mechanical, hurried, and devoid of meaning.

Doing: The Energy of Action

“Doing” is the active expression of our lives—the projects we complete, the conversations we have, the meals we prepare, and the service we give. Doing gives us momentum and a sense of accomplishment. It is the outward expression of our talents, our responsibilities, and our commitments. Yet without the anchor of being, doing can easily turn into overdoing, leaving us exhausted and hollow.

Planning: The Compass of Intention

“Planning” is the bridge between being and doing. It’s the act of looking ahead, setting priorities, and charting a course that aligns with our deeper values. Planning ensures our actions are not just reactions to circumstances but conscious choices moving us closer to our desired life. Without planning, doing risks becoming scattershot and ineffective. Too much planning, however, can trap us in analysis, keeping us from the joy of action or the peace of presence.

The Dance of Balance

True happiness and success emerge when we allow these three movements to flow together in harmony. Being nourishes the soul, doing fulfills the will, and planning provides direction. Together they form a life dance—dynamic, alive, and adaptive.

When we feel stressed or unfulfilled, it is often because one of these steps has been neglected. Too much doing without being? Burnout. Too much being without planning? Drifting. Too much planning without action? Stagnation.

A Practical Rhythm for Daily Life

• Morning: Begin with Being—silence, gratitude, or a mindful ritual.

• Daytime: Engage in Doing—focused, purposeful activity aligned with your values.

• Evening: Turn to Planning—reflect, learn, and set intentions for tomorrow.

Over time, this rhythm becomes not just a schedule but a way of life.

Closing Thought

The Life Dance is not about perfection but flow. Each day, we may falter, but each moment also offers a chance to return to balance. When Being, Doing, and Planning move together, we discover a happiness that is not fleeting but rooted, and a success that is not shallow but deeply satisfying.

Princess, the Quantum Orangutan

I am often asked: “How is Princess the orangutan?”

The truth is, I don’t know. The last time I saw Princess was in late October 2011. I saw her on an ecotour for just a day. She was lean, clever, and carrying on her life in the forest. She remembered many of the signs I taught her.

After that last visit, both Princess and Putri were relocated to a release camp on a different river system to prevent Princess from being attacked by aggressive females at Camp Leakey, her home since I adopted her in 1978.

Since then, I’ve only received scattered reports—one being that her daughter, Putri, came to the release camp alone, without Princess, looking agitated. Some suspected Princess might have died. But during fruiting periods, orangutans are known to avoid feeding stations, preferring to spend months in the forest foraging on wild fruit.

But beyond those glimpses and possibilities—silence.

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A Life in Quantum Balance

And in that silence, Princess exists in a peculiar way: both present and absent, both living and perhaps gone. She is in what I like to call a quantum state, much like Schrödinger’s famous cat—simultaneously alive and dead until we open the box, until someone brings proof one way or another.

“Until someone collapses the uncertainty with evidence, she remains alive in my heart and imagination.”

This is not just an intellectual trick. It is how we cope with uncertainty in the wild. Orangutans, unlike humans, don’t leave obituaries. They slip away into the forest, sometimes never to be seen again—even though they may live for decades more.

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Choosing Hope

I prefer to believe Princess is still alive—clambering through the trees, searching for wild durian, perhaps even pausing to reflect in those quiet, contemplative ways orangutans so often do.

Princess’s quantum state also speaks to something larger: the fragility of the orangutans’ existence itself. They hover on the edge between survival and extinction, depending on our actions.

• If we do nothing, the wave function collapses toward loss.

• If we act—with education, protection, and compassion—the future opens wide with possibility.

So I, the Orangutan Dad, keep Princess alive, not only for myself but as a symbol. She reminds me that while science demands proof, hope requires faith. And in that liminal space between the known and unknown, Princess the Quantum Orangutan endures.

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Postscript: A Quiet Choice

During a film shoot a few years later, I heard about an aggressive male orangutan who had been harassing the females around the release station. When I thought about Princess, I began to imagine her quietly making a choice.

She had already brought five young ones into the world and devoted years of her life to their care. Perhaps, sensing the dangers of another pregnancy and the very real risks of childbirth for an older orangutan, she decided to slip away.

I like to think she moved inland, closer to Camp Leakey—seeking peace, freedom, and the dignity of living life on her own terms.

Happiness in an Imperfect World

In my last post, I wrote about the possibility of limitless happiness. Yet a natural question arises: how can one be happy while at the same time being deeply concerned about the state of the environment, the decline of endangered species, the violence in our communities, and the corruption in our governments?

Isn’t happiness naïve in such a world? Doesn’t empathy for suffering lead to anguish?

The paradox is real. To care deeply is to open ourselves to pain. But it does not mean we must drown in it.

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Pain Without Suffering

When we witness a forest burning or hear of another endangered species sliding closer to extinction, we feel pain because we care. That pain is a sign of compassion, not a flaw. But suffering often comes when we resist reality, or when we believe we must single-handedly fix it all.

The first step is to allow pain to inform us without letting it consume us. Pain can be a guide; suffering need not be the outcome.

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From Angst to Purpose

The weight of the world becomes lighter when empathy is channeled into action. Instead of despair, we can let our concern inspire us to:

• Educate and uplift others.

• Protect what remains of our natural heritage.

• Speak out against injustice and corruption.

Action turns angst into purpose. And purpose nourishes joy.

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Holding Two Truths

Life is never just one thing. The world is filled with cruelty and destruction. But it is also filled with wonder, beauty, and love.

The trick is to hold both truths without collapsing into either despair or denial. A sunrise, the laughter of a child, the gaze of an orangutan—all remind us that beauty persists even in dark times. Happiness grows in the soil of gratitude.

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Fierce Compassion

True compassion is not weak; it is fierce. It means:

• Feeling deeply, but not drowning.

• Acting strongly, but not hating.

• Protecting fiercely, while maintaining inner stillness.

This balance allows us to engage with the world’s pain without being broken by it.

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Inner Sanctuaries

To sustain happiness, we must create daily sanctuaries of renewal. For me, it might be a walk in the park with my wife, time spent in quiet reflection, or the joy of writing stories that connect humans with the lives of orangutans.

For you, it may be meditation, music, gardening, or time with loved ones. These practices refill the well from which compassion flows.

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A Longer View

The challenges we face—deforestation, climate change, crime, corruption—do not resolve overnight. They unfold over generations. Remembering this can free us from the urgency that breeds despair. Every action, however small, bends the arc toward healing.

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Happiness as Steadfast Ground

Ultimately, our happiness need not depend on the outcome of global struggles. It arises from living in alignment with our values. By cultivating joy within, we are not retreating from the world but strengthening our ability to serve it.

Happiness, then, is not a denial of suffering—it is the soil that allows compassion and action to flourish.

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The lesson is simple but profound:

We can be happy and deeply concerned. We can feel the pain of the world without being consumed by it. By anchoring ourselves in purpose, gratitude, and inner stillness, we sustain the happiness that allows us to keep giving, keep protecting, and keep loving—even in an imperfect world.

Limitless Happiness, Part 3: Anchoring Joy for a Lifetime

In Part 1, we began by defining limitless happiness, exploring self-knowledge, and freeing ourselves from the grip of external validation.

In Part 2, we uncovered the traps of desire, quick fixes, and comparison that can quietly pull us off course.

Now we turn to the practices that make happiness enduring—not dependent on trends, possessions, or fleeting moods, but rooted so deeply that it becomes part of who you are.

1. Purpose and Meaning as Anchors

When happiness is tethered only to personal comfort or achievement, it can feel fragile. Purpose gives it weight and direction.

Purpose doesn’t have to mean a grand, world-changing mission—it can be as simple as nurturing your family, mentoring a young person, tending a garden, or creating art that inspires. What matters is that it connects you to something larger than yourself.

Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live, can bear with almost any ‘how.’”

When you have a why, life’s challenges don’t erase your happiness—they deepen it, because you see them as part of your larger story.

2. Mindfulness and Presence

Mindfulness is not a buzzword—it’s the art of fully inhabiting the moment you are in.

It’s the ability to savor a meal without scrolling your phone, to hear a friend’s words without rehearsing your reply, to walk outside and actually feel the air on your skin.

When you live in presence, happiness is no longer delayed until some future event. It’s woven into the ordinary now. And the beauty of this practice is that the more you cultivate it, the more life feels vivid, meaningful, and whole.

3. Resilience: The Happiness Shield

Life will throw storms at you—loss, illness, failure, change. Resilience is the skill that allows you to bend without breaking.

Resilience doesn’t mean you never feel pain; it means you don’t stay stuck there. You recover, adapt, and carry forward the wisdom the hardship taught you.

And the stronger your resilience, the more you can experience happiness not as something fragile and easily taken away, but as something that can coexist with life’s inevitable ups and downs.

The Heart of Limitless Happiness

Happiness is not a trophy to be won, a product to be purchased, or a destination to arrive at. It’s a way of being—nurtured by truth, shaped by purpose, and sustained by presence.

When you step back from the noise of consumer promises, from the pressure of comparison, and from the lure of shortcuts, you see that you were never lacking. The joy you sought “out there” has always lived “in here.”

Limitless happiness is not about adding more to your life.

It’s about removing the barriers that keep you from seeing that you already have enough to feel whole.

So, take a deep breath. Trust your path. And know this: you are free to choose happiness at every step, because it was never anyone else’s to give or take.

Limitless Happiness, Part 2: Escaping the Subtle Traps

In Part 1 of this series, we explored the foundations of limitless happiness—defining what it really means, deepening self-knowledge, and freeing ourselves from the constant need for external validation.

But even as we grow in self-awareness, we can still stumble into subtle traps that keep happiness just out of reach. These traps aren’t always obvious. Sometimes, they masquerade as motivation, opportunity, or even self-care. If we don’t recognize them, they can quietly erode our peace of mind.

Let’s look at three of the most common.

1. The Influence of Desire and Attachment

Desire is a double-edged sword. It drives innovation, art, and human progress. But when left unchecked, it can turn into attachment—where happiness becomes tethered to getting and keeping something.

We’ve all experienced it: the anticipation of a new car, the excitement of a dream vacation, or the rush of starting a relationship. But once the novelty fades, we often feel the itch for the next thing.

The Buddhist perspective is clear: desire itself isn’t the enemy—it’s clinging to the outcome that causes suffering. Limitless happiness comes from learning to appreciate without grasping, to love without the fear of losing, and to let go without resentment.

2. The Temptation of Quick Fixes

In a fast-paced world, patience is a hard sell. Everywhere we turn, someone is offering a shortcut:

- A 10-day program for instant confidence.

- A gadget that promises better health without effort.

- A “proven” system for overnight success.

Quick fixes are tempting because they bypass the discomfort of real change. But they rarely address the deeper issues. A friend once told me she bought an expensive meditation device because she “couldn’t meditate on her own.” Six months later, it sat unused on a shelf—while the stress she hoped to escape still followed her.

True growth and happiness are built, not bought. They come from consistent practice, not from skipping the work.

3. Social Comparison and FOMO

Comparison is hardwired into human psychology—we evolved to track our place in the social hierarchy. But in the age of social media, we’re not just comparing ourselves to our neighbors or coworkers. We’re comparing ourselves to carefully curated, often unrealistic highlights from hundreds or thousands of people.

FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—turns this comparison into anxiety. We see friends traveling, starting businesses, running marathons, and we wonder if we’re falling behind.

But here’s the truth: nobody is “ahead” or “behind” in life. There is no single race. Your journey is uniquely yours, and the more you honor your own pace, the less power FOMO will have over you.

Where We Go Next

In Part 3, we’ll explore how to anchor happiness in purpose, cultivate mindfulness and presence, and strengthen resilience so that no matter what life throws at you, your sense of fulfillment remains unshaken.

These aren’t just techniques—they are ways of living that make limitless happiness not just possible, but natural.

Limitless Happiness, Part 1: The First Steps Inward

We live in an age where “happiness” is marketed as a product—something to be earned, bought, or displayed. There’s always a new lifestyle upgrade, personal development hack, or exotic retreat that promises to unlock joy. And yet, despite the abundance of tools and opportunities, many people report feeling more anxious, more restless, and less fulfilled than ever.

This is because lasting happiness—what I call limitless happiness—isn’t something you acquire. It’s something you cultivate. It begins not with buying, achieving, or chasing, but with understanding.

In this three-part series, we’ll explore the foundations of limitless happiness, starting with three crucial steps: defining what it truly means, learning who you are, and seeing through the trap of external validation.

1. Defining “Limitless Happiness”

Before we can find it, we need to understand what we’re looking for.

Happiness is often confused with pleasure, excitement, or comfort. These can be part of it, but they are fleeting—more like sparks than a steady flame. Limitless happiness is less about constant joy and more about removing the artificial ceilings we place on our well-being: fear, self-doubt, and the belief that we can only be happy if certain conditions are met.

For example, think of someone who says, “I’ll be happy when I get the promotion.” They might feel a rush when it happens, but before long, the mind sets a new condition—more money, a bigger house, a different relationship. Limitless happiness comes when joy is no longer conditional.

2. The Role of Self-Knowledge

The first step toward unconditional happiness is knowing yourself deeply.

This isn’t just about personality quizzes or a weekend of soul-searching—it’s an ongoing process of noticing what truly energizes you, what drains you, and what values guide your choices. Journaling, meditation, and quiet walks without your phone are all simple ways to start listening to yourself.

A friend of mine once left a high-paying corporate job for a modest position at a community garden. On paper, it made no sense. But she had realized through years of self-reflection that she valued connection to nature, creativity, and calm over prestige. She traded her “dream job” for a dream life.

3. The Trap of External Validation

Once you start to understand yourself, you’ll notice how much of your life may have been shaped by outside approval.

From social media likes to family expectations, external validation is everywhere. It’s not inherently bad to enjoy recognition—it can be motivating—but if your sense of worth depends on it, you become trapped.

Consider how often advertising plays on this vulnerability:

-Beauty products promise confidence.

-Luxury brands promise status.

-Tech gadgets promise connection.

The unspoken message is, “Without this, you’re not enough.” Breaking free from that message is liberating—and essential to finding happiness that doesn’t disappear the moment the applause stops.

Where We Go Next

In Part 2, we’ll go deeper into the emotional and philosophical terrain that shapes happiness. We’ll explore The Influence of Desire and Attachment, The Temptation of Quick Fixes, and Social Comparison and FOMO—and how to navigate them without losing your center.

Happiness is not found in the next purchase or achievement. It’s found in the quiet recognition that you already hold the keys—you just have to learn where you’ve hidden them.

Fever Dreams in Surabaya: Thoughts in a Whirlpool

It began with a scratchy throat and a heaviness in my head. By evening in my wife’s brother’s home in Surabaya, the fever had settled in like an unwelcome guest. A home test confirmed what I suspected—COVID had found me.

Plans for the next three days—meetings, phone calls, quiet writing—dissolved into the slow motion of illness. I spent hours stretched out isolated from the others, the sounds of the household drifting in from other rooms, the world narrowed to the whir of the AC and the restless churn of my own thoughts.

And churn they did. Ideas and memories circled endlessly, like leaves caught in a whirlpool—sometimes colliding, sometimes spinning apart, occasionally joining in strange combinations. Conservation strategies I’d been mulling for months brushed up against flashes from old expeditions. A scene for my next book tangled with a memory of an orangutan pausing mid-climb to look down at me with quiet curiosity. The whirlpool carried everything—trivial details, grand ideas, and scraps of unfinished plans—around and around, as if waiting for something to settle.

Somewhere in the haze, my mind landed on Alfred Russel Wallace, the British naturalist who, while in the Malay Archipelago, was also laid low by a tropical fever—malaria, in his case. He wasn’t in Surabaya, but on another island called Ternate in what is now Indonesia, and in that delirium he pieced together one of biology’s most powerful ideas: the theory of natural selection.

I couldn’t help but wonder—was it the fever that loosened the threads in his thinking, allowing new patterns to emerge? Did the altered state strip away the usual constraints, letting disparate observations weave into something entirely new?

In my own much smaller way, I recognized the same strange unlocking. The fever had softened the usual walls between ideas, letting them eddy and mingle in ways they might not have under clearer conditions.

By the time the fever broke, the whirlpool began to slow, its contents drifting back into familiar channels. But a few thoughts remained suspended—bright, unanchored, and ready to be explored. Illness had been the price, but clarity, in its odd fever-born way, had been the gift.

A Letter to the Future

I recently read a "letter to the future" composed by Mongabay's  Rhett Butler as a forward to an art exhibition. I was so impressed by this means of expressing an eco-testament, I crafted my own reflective narrative. As they say, imitation is the most sincerest form of flattery.

Dear Future Guardians of Earth,

If you’re reading this decades from now, it means there is still breath in the forest… and perhaps, a glimmer of hope still rustles in the canopy.

My name is Dr. Gary Shapiro, aka Orangutan Dad. In the late 1970's, I knelt in the leaf litter of Borneo’s ancient rainforest and looked into the eyes of a young orangutan named Princess.  She met my gaze with curiosity, gentleness, love, and—if you’ll allow an old scientist a touch of poetry—a connection of ancient family and a wisdom that felt older than the forest itself.

That moment changed my life.

It’s what compelled me to dedicate my life to understanding and protecting these “people of the forest.” Orangutans, to me, are not just animals—they are fellow travelers on this fragile planet. Intelligent, yes, but also contemplative. Patient. Capable of empathy, thought, and resilience. They showed me that intelligence wears many forms, not all of them human.

I write this letter from a world that is, I fear, still learning that lesson.

Too many forests have fallen. Too many rivers have been poisoned. Too many species have been pushed to the edge for profit and convenience. But despite the odds, we’ve also witnessed the power of small actions—of communities rising to protect what they love, of students in Indonesia becoming scientists and stewards, of donors and dreamers uniting to save what they can. I have seen it in the faces of the young conservationists who received the Orangutan Caring Scholarship, many of whom now carry the torch I once held.

If this letter has reached you, it means something remained. Perhaps even something thrived.

Maybe you walk through a forest where orangutans still build their nests high in the trees. Maybe you sit beside your children and tell stories of how people came together—not perfectly, not quickly—but with heart, with wisdom, and with enough courage to matter.

I hope you live in a world that values silence as much as speed, wonder as much as wealth. I hope you’ve learned from the orangutan’s quiet strength—their ability to adapt, to think, to nurture with patience. And I hope you continue to fight for the voiceless—not because it's easy, but because it's right.

The future was never promised. But I believed it could be earned.

With care and conviction,

Gary L. Shapiro, Ph.D.

President, Orang Utan Republik Foundation

Field Researcher, Educator, and Friend of the Forest

Borneo & Sumatra, Earth—circa the 20th–21st century