Lessons in Unsustainability

When we forget that we are part of the same chain that maintains forests, rivers, and people, we essentially sever the ties that bind us to life, compromising the ability to sustain our existence. This is a story about belonging and about the history of a landscape, told from the recollections of one of the largest trees in the Institute grounds, which makes us ponder the unsustainable.

We learn that life takes place on multiple scales, through various processes, as well as through interactions between living beings and elements like wind, air, water, light, and soil.

Together, we organize in complex ways: we are individuals, we form populations, we integrate communities, and we build entire ecosystems. Nothing thrives in isolation. Everything is intertwined in networks of exchange, affection, and mutual dependence.

Even so, the perception that we have disconnected ourselves from nature, as if we were not part of it, comes up often in environmental discussions and ancestral knowledge. Ailton Krenak, among other indigenous thinkers, cautions that the separation between humanity and nature is a modern illusion, and that it is one of the causes of unsustainability.

"We leave too many traces behind, and any culture that does this is unsustainable," Krenak says, pointing out that truly sustainable relationships do not leave lasting impacts. These traces should dissolve into this complex network of life through a mutual cooperation in which there is no dominance, only presence.

For instance, this imposing jequitibá-rosa (Cariniana estrellensis) in Inhotim has deep roots and a majestic canopy, which not only sustain it, but also provide food and shelter for many other species.

The jequitibá-rosa is one of the largest and longest-living trees in the Atlantic Forest. It may grow to be over 160 feet tall, and live for centuries. It is a silent guardian of landscape history. Can you imagine if this jequitibá could tell us what it has witnessed?

It could tell us about the generations of tenants who have used its canopy and twigs to make their homes, such as the pairs of rufous-fronted thornbirds (Phacellodomus rufifrons), who stick together through impressive architectural projects to make their suspended nests, and give the world a lesson on perseverance and companionship.

Or maybe recount the various banquets when beetles and bugs feasted on imbé (Thaumatophyllum spp.) and philodendron (Philodendron spp.) flowers served on its branches and trunk.

Just like they do in our homes, the flowers offer their visitors warmth (in a metabolic process called thermogenesis), as well as shelter and food. In return, the insects help pollinate them, maintaining a harmonious relationship.

Perhaps the jequitibá could give us an estimate of how many hundreds of thousands of embaúbas it has watched over from cradle to grave over the years. The embaúba is a pioneer species that takes advantage of clearings to grow and, with its short lifespan, makes way for other plants and animals to thrive.

It might tell us of watching moths and bees fluttering among the winged seeds of cedro-rosa trees (Cedrela fissilis).

This cedar species is a source of ancient knowledge, used in medicines and construction. However, since its wood is known for its beauty, durability, and resistance to pests and fungi, it is now at risk of extinction.

The jequitibá could tell us about the juçara palm (Euterpe edulis), yet another forest lifeline. Its berries are a treat for everyone, from humans to birds. Its roots hold the soil in a safety net, while its trunk stands tall and lean. And its existence is at risk, just like the threatened cedar.

After all this, perhaps it would ask us to admit that separating humanity from biodiversity is unsustainable. It might kindly remind us of the obvious: when our connection to other forms of life is lost, we also lose knowledge and meaning.

Maybe then we would understand that to be sustainable, we must remember that we are a part of everything, and live our lives as such.