Lessons From the Apocalypse Jar
Where love grows: terrariums, biophilia, and navigating the unknown
Story and Photos by Oren Roberts
Illustrations by Grace Matson
When my mind becomes overwhelmed by the pace of the world, I peer into the terrarium I have affectionately come to call the Apocalypse Jar.
The world inside the jar is slow and small. It operates on a scale that feels complimentary to the rhythms of my animal body, completely at odds with the news cycle and its push notifications that keep my nervous system on edge.
Conditions in the terrarium are defined by temperature and humidity, not by relevance or recency. Except for the occasional sunbeam, it is unchanged by the outside world.
Since June of 2024, I have watched the brilliant red caladium adapt to the confines of the glass. First, it produced one enormous red leaf that shaded out the rest of the terrarium; in time, it wilted, giving way to a burst of smaller leaves.
Soil mites exploded in numbers, only to die back and let the springtails flourish.
On warm days, the moisture in the soil evaporates and forms a condensate on the walls, allowing the occasional mystery worm to wriggle up the glass.
After storms, I am keenly aware of the moss-covered branches that litter my friends’ backyards. I no longer consider that sort of thing detritus; I see them as potential offerings for hungry isopods.
A happy terrarium is contagiously idyllic. These glass enclosures contain a microcosm of the natural world, and they can bring the lessons of ecosystems — growth, balance, decay, presence and more — inside.
THE GLASS
The jar is the size of a fat jack-o’-lantern. Its body is almost square, with rounded corners rising and narrowing to form a stout neck that flares outwards. Tiny bubbles in the glass serve as a reminder of its once-molten state, stretched into the form of a vase by some anonymous artisan.
My fiancé Tyler got the jar in 2021 when he worked for an estate sale company. It was his take-home prize for helping to sort through the piles of trash and treasure left in an old lumber baron’s mansion.
Though the jar has served many purposes, we always intended for it to become a terrarium.
In June 2024, the background noise of the election cycle was beginning to rise to a clamor. My work and education revolved around consuming and analyzing the news. It was hard to catch a break.
With the presidential debate looming, we planned to host a watch party. I thought it would be fun to run a terrarium-building station to help offer a reprieve from the tension on the television. After weeks of research and an afternoon of assembling materials, I was eager to finally transform the jar.
I assembled the terrarium on our coffee table, layer by layer, tuning in and out of the debate. The narrow neck of the jar meant that I had to strain to place the plants exactly where I wanted them, but it was something to focus on.
When the rest of the group groaned, I groaned, too — but at least I had a greener, happier thing to occupy my attention. My love for the little world inside the glass surpassed any fear of where my own world was headed.
Between executive fumbles and dog-related tirades, I chimed in with updates on substrate layers, plant placements and the status of my newly-acquired isopods.
It was welcomed with weary smiles.
CREATING ECOSYSTEMS
The writer and psychoanalyst Erich Fromm — known for his critiques of authoritarianism and capitalism after fleeing Germany in 1934 — coined the term “biophilia” in the 1960s. He defined it as “the passionate love of life and of all that is alive” and “the wish to further growth, whether in a person, a plant, an idea or a social group.”
Fromm believed that biophilia was a counter to the personal isolation and ecological destruction caused by industrialized societies, which he classified as “necrophilic.”
A giant canyon isopod (right) grazes on a patch of dead moss inside the apocalypse jar alongside a common pill woodlouse. Given enough space, most isopods are docile and can co-exist alongside other species.
Practicing our intrinsic gift for unconditional love and nurturing other living things, Fromm posited, is a way of countering the psychological distress of living in a destructive, resource-driven society.
Creating and caring for a terrarium is one way of practicing that kind of love: supporting every part of the ecosystem, from plants to pillbugs.
I understand that many people catch a case of the creepy-crawlies just thinking about these little fourteen-legged land prawns, but isopods — more affectionately known as pillbugs or rolly pollies — are delightful. They bring a terrarium to life.
In concert with springtails and other detritivores, isopods help decompose dead plant matter, keeping the terrarium clean and enriching the soil. Their efforts also give the terrarium a fresh scent, like good mulch or the forest floor after rainfall.
While balancing the needs of multiple species may sound complicated, terrariums are relatively low-maintenance (especially in comparison to aquariums).
Once I laid down the substrate, placed the plants and introduced the isopods and springtails to their new home, all I had to do was provide ample light and offer the occasional misting.
Mother Nature handled the rest.
OUTSIDE THE JAR
A few weeks after putting the Apocalypse Jar together, Tyler and I took a road trip to visit my mom’s side of the family. We took the coastal route from Bellingham to San Diego, stopping to hike and take in the sunsets along the way.
Early into our journey, we were at a diner in Newport, Oregon, when our phones both chimed with shocking news: President Biden had dropped out of the race.
We watched in real time as the news spread throughout the diner. At one point, two separate tables overheard each other chatting about it and broke out into spirited conversation, wondering together about what chaos lay ahead.
“Welcome to the monkey race,” one man said, laughing with his new friends at the other table.
Tyler and I spent the rest of the day on the road, playing every “emergency” podcast episode about the situation we could download. As we listened to pundits discuss the prospects of hope and open primaries, lush green forests lit by the golden hour gave way to sea stacks and a brilliant red dusk.
At home, the terrarium was safe and sound.
FOR THE LOVE OF ISOPODS
In the fall, I started reporting on the election. It was thrilling, but it was also a tax on my nervous system. As the summer faded, I spent more and more time out of the sun and in front of a computer screen.
In the mornings, I found joy and presence in checking on my isopods.
If the terrarium was too moist, the isopods would climb the plants to get to higher ground, and I would take the lid off to let things breathe. If it was too dry, the moss would begin to crisp up, and I would give everything a little mist.
Over time, I began to notice the isopods’ personalities.
Porcellio dilatatus, or “giant canyon” isopods, are shy. They amble gently through fern and caladium canopies, digging caves to hide themselves in the loose substrate. Porcellionides pruinosus, or “powders,” boldly zip through leaf litter and skitter over obstacles many times their size.
In January, one of the giant canyons molted, leaving behind a translucent cast of their body as evidence of their furthering growth. Soon after, baby isopods — which spend months as eggs inside their mother’s pouch — began to appear in the soil.
I was overjoyed by these insights into the isopods’ life cycle; in tandem with new leaves and dark topsoil, they were also signs that the ecosystem was thriving.
To care for a terrarium is to love a piece of nature deeply. In times of turmoil, it is important to practice love and remember our place in the larger ecosystem.
