Ember Chadwick

HONOR 2109
10 April 2019
Sympoiesis, Solitude, and Reciprocity

Do sympoiesis and solitude conflict with each other or can they work together?

Individualism and collectivism as cultural structures are perennially at odds and many people point

to these concepts as the main difference between “western” and “eastern” cultures. However,

despite the western ideal of individualism, all people function in tandem with each other. We all

rely on one another in some way, no matter how we choose to live our lives. All organisms have

symbiotic relationships with others which have formed over hundreds of thousands of years of

evolution. Without these connections, no organism would be able to survive. Animals feed on plants

and other animals, plants feed on nutrients in the soil produced by decomposers, and decomposers

feed on dead tissue from plants and animals. This cycle exemplifies one overarching point: that our

relationships with others are vital to our collective survival. Nevertheless, many still feel that they

act as individuals or that they can break free from these connections by entering “solitude.” I will

argue that true solitude does not exist, though a person’s separation from society can strengthen

their bond with the natural world.

The connectedness of all things, living and nonliving, is explored by Lucretius in ​On the

Nature of the Universe​. Book One begins with a soliloquy on the creation of all creatures by the

Gods. Our common origins are the first indicator of our kinships. Lucretius describes that nature

reuses all fundamental elements, atoms, in each of its organisms. We share the same building

blocks, essentially. He defines atoms, claiming that “[An atom] has never existed separately by

itself, nor ever will, but only as one part of something else,” (20). From these lines, we learn that

atoms must function in association with each other, never in solitude. On this scale, it is clear to see
that the combination of individual parts is necessary for the existence of larger systems. Though

Lucretius wrote this text thousands of years ago, he offers much insight into the issue of

individualism versus synergy. He clearly supports that the connections between us are stronger than

that which divides us. He even states that our bodies must be made of “parts unlike themselves,” as

we consume the atoms of other organisms that nourish our “veins and blood and bones and sinews,”

(27). This notion seems to be revolutionary for its time and leads us toward further exploration of

the connections between organisms.

In ​Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet:​ “Monsters,” several authors describe the

nonexistence of human individuality and elaborate on the symbiotic relationships between

organisms of all sizes. Donna Haraway defines sympoiesis as “making-with,” the concept of

organisms living, working, and dying together. She recalls the term “holobiont,” coined by Lynn

Margulis, which refers to symbiotic assemblages of organismal relationships. Haraway uses these

terms to demonstrate the large role that bacteria and other tiny beings play in the world of large

mammals like ourselves. She highlights their importance to our very existence and stresses that we

must keep them in mind as we continue biological research. Margaret McFall-Ngai elaborates that

human beings are not what we often think of ourselves as. We are not individuals, but complex

multispecies organisms. We contain multitudes of ecosystems within our own bodies. Our

understanding of this, she says, is vital to our efforts to heal multispecies relationships that we have

damaged. Scott F. Gilbert echoes these ideas in “Holobiont by Birth,” algorithmically disproving

six notions of individuality: anatomical, genetic, developmental, immune, physiological, and

evolutionary. He, too, argues that we cannot be individuals. We must instead be cognizant of the

billions of microbiota that allow us to live and survive, and recognize them as essential parts of

ourselves. These perspectives allow us to see the world in a different way, to view ourselves as
small parts in a greater system of organisms. We are both members of ecosystems and hosts of our

own microscopic ecosystems.

While we must be aware of the connections that exist between us, many still advocate for

solitude, alone-time, or separation from society. Edward Abbey, author of ​Desert Solitaire,​ is a

famous proponent of this. He begins his book by describing his first night on his own as a park

ranger for Arches National Monument. “I am not alone at all,” he says, after ruminating on his

bustling surroundings (6). After a brief meeting with his fellow rangers, though, he realizes that he

is all by himself, at least 20 miles away from any other human. Later, meditating on this encounter,

he realizes that instead of loneliness, this brings him “loveliness.” Throughout the piece, Abbey

comes back to this thought, reveling in his time away from society. By separating himself from

other people, though, he becomes more connected to the desert and its inhabitants. He forms

relationships with the snakes that reside underneath his trailer, with a juniper tree, and with a

once-tamed then-wild horse that lived in the canyons. By embracing isolation and becoming, in his

mind, a true individual, Abbey is able to feel deeply for his environment. Much later in the work,

Abbey contemplates the solitude that exists within one’s own skull. “The one thing better than

solitude,” he says, “is society,” (97). He clarifies that he missed the society of a friend or a woman,

not of a big city, though he goes on to say that this yearning faded when he spent less time in his

trailer. When he was outside, he left behind the reminders of American civilization and was able to

wholly embrace his solitude. This suggests that his self-induced “solitary confinement” allowed him

to connect more closely to himself and to nature.

Here we must stop to consider Abbey’s conception of himself. He likely would have seen

himself as a wild, free individual who could not be reigned in by society— just like old Moon Eyes.

He probably did not consider the microbes living in and on his body as a fundamental part of him,
considering that this was not a common idea at the time. By fleeing to the desert, Abbey is hoping

to live on his own terms, making his own decisions. However, he may not have realized that he also

brought along some precious cargo, his flourishing microbiota. The bacteria in his gut told him what

to eat and what not to eat, what to drink and what not to drink. The bacteria on his skin, in his lungs,

and in his blood protected him from infection and disease. His descriptions of solitude imply that he

did not find comfort in the presence of his microbiota. I wonder if he was aware of their services to

him, would appreciate them as friends? No, they are not drinking buddies or beautiful women, but

neither is the juniper tree which Abbey comes to love. Would solitude be more lovely if you knew

you were surrounded by billions of tiny critters with whom you share a common goal? I believe that

Abbey would think so.

Abbey demonstrates that individualism and sympoiesis are not mutually exclusive. In his

case, one presented the opportunity for the development of the other. His connections with nature

allow him to transcend his loneliness. He learns to see himself as part of the greater desert

ecosystem, a vital piece of the puzzle. He even explores the idea of living and dying in nature— an

ideal that he almost achieved. Abbey believed that this would complete a natural cycle: he only took

nutrients from the environment while he was alive, but he would be able to give his nutrients back

to the soil and to the vultures after his death. In this way, he must have seen himself as a part of a

larger system. In the same way that Lucretius proposed that we are all made of the same materials,

that the nutrients we eat come from the nutrients of the soil which come from dead organisms,

Abbey recognizes this passing-on of essential elements. He goes so far as to say that it would be a

privilege to die in the desert, to feed a vulture, a wolf, a fly, a microbe. He connects with nature in

an intimate way, one that is very unique compared to city-dwellers. He appreciated every aspect of
the environment: “scorpions and tarantulas and flies, rattlesnakes and Gila monsters, sandstorms…

and yes— disease and death and rotting of the flesh,” (167).

In ​Desert Cabal​, Amy Irvine comments on the relationship between herself and the desert,

asking if such a relationship could ever be considered symbiotic. She mentions “the

body-that-is-the-desert,” a consolidation of this relationship in one term. Again, this harkens back to

Lucretius. The atoms in our bodies may have come from the same supernova as the atoms in the

rocks or the cacti. Irvine questions if our hunger for release, for solitude, ultimately blinds us to the

true needs of the wild. We all wish to escape into nature, but do we consider when nature would like

to escape from us? By building and expanding National Monuments into National Parks, we aim to

increase access to these beautiful sites. However, in the process, we diminish their integrity. In

reducing them to tourist attractions, are we doing ourselves a disservice? By altering our landscape,

we are altering the lives of the landscape’s inhabitants, no matter how large or small. Abbey was a

strong advocate for restricting access to wild spaces. This would have several effects, two of them

being that less of an impact would be made on the environment and that people would be able to

have more authentic experiences in nature. This would allow for individuals to still find solitude in

these stunning areas, connecting more deeply with the world around them. Maybe Abbey was right,

but it seems far too late to change the entire National Parks Service. Instead, we must carefully

consider our future actions, always keeping in mind what is best for the ecosystems we are

inhabiting. We must still ask ourselves: what must we do in order to live symbiotically with nature?