Riding the Waves of Time: How Our Minds Experience the Density of Years

As we move toward 2026, I find myself reflecting again on something I noticed years ago—an intriguing psychological rhythm that shapes how we experience time itself. It isn’t measured by clocks or calendars, but by our perception: a kind of perceptual temporal density function. It may or may not be formally recognized in academic literature, but it resonates deeply with lived experience.

Think about how we experience decades—whether it’s our age (in our 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s and beyond) or the decades of history we move through. At the start of a new decade, there’s often a feeling of space. Time feels wide open. The future stretches ahead like an open plain. Hope, potential, and possibility dominate the psychological landscape. We stand at a fresh marker: 30, 40, 50, 2020, 2030… and there is a sense that we have “time.”

Then something happens as we move toward the mid-decade point. The years begin to feel fuller. Life events accumulate. Responsibilities deepen. Health shifts. Children grow, parents age, careers evolve, and the world changes around us. The texture of time thickens. We feel the density increasing—not just in the number of things happening, but in their weight and emotional gravity. We become more aware of the finite nature of time, more conscious of what has been done… and what still hasn’t.

This is the hump of the decade, psychologically speaking. It is where the decade feels its heaviest. Time is no longer a vast open field; it becomes a forest—alive, layered, sometimes overwhelming, and undeniably real.

Then, as we move past that midpoint, something interesting happens. We begin to feel a shift. The density starts to release. The years may not actually be speeding up or slowing down, but our experience of them loosens. The second half of the decade can feel like coasting downhill after a long climb. We have accepted more of what is, rather than clinging to what might have been. We adjust expectations. We find rhythm. There may be a quiet grace here.

Yet as we near the boundary of the next decade, the psychological tempo compresses again. Suddenly, the next marker looms. Another birthday ending in zero. Another cultural timestamp that reminds us that time is moving forward whether we are ready or not. And once again, perception thickens, then resets when we cross that threshold into the “fresh” decade ahead.

This phenomenon isn’t just abstract. It affects well-being. At the beginning of a decade, we often feel energized. In the middle, we may feel pressured, reflective, evaluated by our own inner judge. Near the end, we feel a push—a compression of urgency, a desire to make meaning before the next marker arrives.

Perhaps this is how the human psyche processes continuity. Perhaps it is how we negotiate mortality. Or maybe it is a cognitive coping mechanism: our brain organizing time in psychologically manageable chapters.

As we stand near the opening of another mid-decade horizon, many of us feel it: the complexity, the fullness, the strange compression of significance. But rather than letting it become a source of anxiety, perhaps we can view it as an invitation.

An invitation to slow down inside the density. To honor what has accumulated. To release what cannot travel forward. To savor what remains open.

Time is not only something that passes—it is something we inhabit. And understanding the rhythm of how we psychologically experience it can give us compassion for ourselves and others as we move through the unfolding seasons of our lives.

As we journey toward 2026 and beyond, may we acknowledge the weight of the years, but not be burdened by them. May we find presence inside the density and grace in the flow. And may each decade, no matter where we stand within it, remind us that life is not simply measured in time… but in meaning

The Uneven Measure of Life

Some of us are granted long and layered lives.

Lives filled with love, work, mistakes, second chances, and moments of grace we did not always recognize at the time. We grow old enough to reflect, to revise our understanding of who we were and who we became. We accumulate stories. We are allowed, by fortune or chance, to complete arcs.

Others are not.

Their lives are taken too soon—not through fault, not through choice, not through moral failing. Many are children, still forming their sense of self, still trusting the world to be a place that will hold them. Some are helpless in ways that make the loss even harder to reconcile. And some are not even human, yet feel no less present in the web of life that sustains us all.

These early endings leave holes.

They leave holes in the hearts of those who loved them—parents, partners, friends, companions—who must continue living while carrying an absence that never fully closes. But they also leave holes in the collective psyche. Quiet questions linger long after the ceremonies and condolences fade. Questions about meaning. About fairness. About justice. About whether the universe keeps score, or whether we are simply witnesses to an uneven distribution of time.

When lives are cut short, we are forced to confront a truth we often try to avoid: that longevity is not merit-based. Time is not awarded according to goodness, usefulness, or love. It is not fair in any way we would design if fairness were ours to define.

And yet, here we are—those who remain.

For those of us who have lived long and rich lives, this realization carries an uncomfortable responsibility. Not guilt, but awareness. Not shame, but stewardship. If we have been given time that others were denied, what are we doing with it? Are we using it to deepen compassion, to widen our moral circle, to protect those who are vulnerable—human and nonhuman alike?

Loss has a way of stripping away illusion. It reminds us that life is not primarily about accumulation, status, or certainty. It is about presence. About care. About how we show up for one another while we can.

Perhaps meaning is not found in explaining why some lives end too soon. Perhaps meaning emerges in how we respond to those losses—in how we carry forward the love that no longer has a place to land, in how we refuse to let indifference be the final word.

Justice, in this sense, may not be cosmic or immediate. It may be something far more fragile and human. It may live in our choices: to protect rather than exploit, to remember rather than forget, to act with tenderness in a world that so often feels indifferent.

The holes remain. They always will.

But sometimes, if we are attentive, they become spaces through which deeper empathy enters. And in that quiet opening, life—uneven, imperfect, and precious—asks us not for answers, but for care.

Understanding Orangutans Is a Meditation Into Our Own Being

There are moments in the forest—quiet, humid, suspended in time—when the line between observer and observed dissolves. When the breath of an orangutan, slow and deliberate, becomes the breath of the human watching. When the rustle of leaves above is not simply a sign of movement but an invitation to awareness.

Understanding orangutans is not merely a scientific pursuit or an exercise in ethology. It is an inward journey. A kind of meditation. A way of remembering a part of ourselves we have nearly forgotten.

In the stillness of the canopy, stripped of the digital noise and the relentless demands of modern life, we meet a different version of ourselves—the one that knows how to be, how to wait, how to listen.

A Mirror in the Forest

For decades I have watched orangutans move with a mindfulness that borders on the sacred. Every gesture is intentional. Every pause meaningful. They do not rush, yet they do not waste time. They navigate the world with a clarity that feels almost foreign in our era of screens, distractions, and perpetual urgency.

To truly understand them, I’ve had to shed layers of my own conditioning—my need to categorize, interpret, and control. Orangutans defy hurry. They ask us to slow down. Sometimes they insist.

And in that slowing, something profound happens.

You begin to sense that your mind is not separate from the forest around you. That the distinction between “self” and “other” softens. That the orangutan gazing back at you is not inviting you to decode her, but to remember yourself.

Oneness Without Pretension

People often imagine mindfulness as a technique—a set of steps to calm the mind. But in the presence of an orangutan, mindfulness is not a practice. It is simply what is.

When you lock eyes with a mother orangutan who is nursing her infant high above the forest floor, you feel time loosen its grip. Her patience is not cultivated. It is embodied. Her awareness is not forced. It is natural.

She teaches without speaking:

Slow down.

Watch closely.

Trust your senses.

Take only what you need.

Let life unfold instead of forcing it.

And in that moment, stripped of our human striving, we are reminded of a primordial truth: stillness is not something we acquire—it is something we return to.

The Forest as a Clearing of the Mind

The modern world trains us to live in a constant outward orientation. Our attention pulled from one notification to the next. Our thoughts scattered across obligations, fears, ambitions. But the forest has its own rhythm, and orangutans abide by it without apology.

When you follow an orangutan through the canopy for hours, you enter that rhythm too. The mind begins to settle. The body matches the pace. Thoughts no longer rush; they meander.

This is not escapism. It is reacquaintance.

A reunion with the quieter parts of ourselves.

A Lesson in Pure Being

To know an orangutan is to sit with a being who lives free from the trappings of technology, ego, status, or performance. They are not trying to be anything other than what they are. They do not posture. They do not pretend. Their intelligence is calm, measured, deep—attuned to survival yet suffused with contemplation.

In their presence, we glimpse a version of humanity unencumbered by our own inventions.

A humanity grounded in presence.

A humanity rooted in connection.

A humanity capable of oneness.

Understanding orangutans is not about decoding their minds. It is about reawakening our own.

Coming Home to Ourselves

When I reflect on my time with Princess, Siswoyo, Rinnie, Moocher, and the many other wild and ex-captive orangutans who shared their lives with me, I realize they were not merely teaching me about their species. They were guiding me back to something in my own.

They reminded me that being human does not require being hurried. That our worth is not measured by speed or productivity but in our capacity to attend—deeply, quietly, lovingly—to the world around us.

In the forest, with the orangutans, I learned to breathe again.

To listen.

To be patient.

To be present.

To be whole.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest meditation of all.

Honor the Echo

 

There’s a moment after any meaningful learning—whether a class, a field training, or a life-changing encounter—when the world feels newly tuned. You walk differently. You listen differently. You notice what you never noticed before. The teaching still hums inside you, not as loud as it did when the lesson was fresh, but as an echo.

And if we’re lucky, we learn to honor that echo before it fades.

I’ve come to think of these echoes the same way I think about orangutans moving through the forest canopy. Their presence lingers long after they’ve crossed from one tree to the next: a slight sway of branches, a few falling leaves, the soft memory of movement. The forest remembers, even as it grows quiet again.

So do we.

The Echo After the Training Ends

Many of us have had moments of deep attentiveness—workshops, retreats, field courses, meditation trainings, mentorships—that sharpened us. In the days that followed, we applied the new habits with zeal. We were more aware, more grounded, more patient, more focused.

And then life happened.

Tasks piled up. Old patterns returned. New urgencies replaced old intentions. What was once clear became background noise.

But here’s the truth: the echo is still there.
Even if faint, even if buried under the busyness of living—it remains.

My Own Echoes From the Forest

I think back to my earliest days at Camp Leakey in the late 1970s, when the forest was both classroom and teacher. Every lesson was embodied: patience, stillness, observation, trust. The orangutans taught me more than any university lecture ever could.

Rinnie’s slow, deliberate movements.
Princess’ careful stare before choosing to interact.
Siswoyo’s way of pausing—really pausing—before acting.

Each encounter shaped me.

There were routines I learned then—ways of watching, listening, breathing—that made sense only in a peat swamp forest where every decision is calibrated for energy and purpose. When I left the forest and returned to the rush of the human world, the attentiveness didn’t vanish. It softened into an echo.

And I’ve spent much of my life gently tuning myself back to it.

Why We Need to Revisit Our Echoes

The echo of a training is not a demand—it’s an invitation.
A reminder.
A call back to our better selves.

In my conservation work, in building the Orang Utan Republik Foundation, in guiding students, in writing books, in navigating the complexities of life with people and institutions alike—those old forest echoes have surfaced again and again.

When I rush, something inside me whispers: slow down.
When I get caught in the noise, something urges: listen.
When I face challenge or conflict, something steadies me: be deliberate.

These are not new lessons. They’re remembered ones.

Learning to Listen Again

Honoring the echo doesn’t mean returning to the past.
It means letting the past steady your future.

Maybe you took a mindfulness course.
Maybe you sat through a leadership retreat.
Maybe you had a teacher, mentor, guide, or even an animal who shaped the way you move through the world.

The echo is the remnant positive feeling of that experience—a resonance inside you waiting to be acknowledged. And the more often we pause to notice it, the louder it becomes.

A Simple Practice: Echo Retrieval

Here is something I do—born of the forest, but usable anywhere:

1. Pause. One breath in. One breath out.
   Just enough to become aware again.

2. Ask yourself:
   What was the last training, lesson, or experience that truly shifted me?

3. Listen for the echo of how you felt then:
   Clearer?
   Calmer?
   More purposeful?
   More alive?

4. Let that echo guide one small choice today.
   Just one.

That’s how we honor the echo:
not by recreating the whole training,
but by living one moment shaped by it.

The Echo Is Evidence of Growth

I’ve learned over 50 years in the canopy, in classrooms, in boardrooms, and in communities across Indonesia:
we are always becoming.

Training, education, and insight aren’t temporary events.
They’re seeds.

And the echo is the sound of the seed still growing.

So if you feel that you’ve drifted from the attentiveness you once had—don’t be discouraged. It only means you’ve been busy living. The echo is still in you.

Honor it.
Return to it.
Let it help you move forward with greater clarity, presence, and compassion.

Because the quiet lessons—often the oldest ones—are the ones that stay with us the longest.

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.