Musings on a summer Sunday

On immortality: The State We're In
If they ever find a safe way to enable people to live forever (or at least much, much longer) with a good quality of life, I'll be the first to sign up. I'm scared of what happens during and after we die, but what bothers me more than that is the fact that I'll miss all of the amazing things that will happen after I die. Which, God-willing, won't happen for at least fifty years. Speaking of which...

On religion: Canaan Baptist Church billboard message of the week: Honk if you love Jesus. Text while driving if you want to meet him.

On urban wildlife: Speaking of the church, a couple of pigeons have nested in its circular window near my bedroom window. Sometimes I can hear them cooing to each other in the morning. It sounds kind of naughty, like when you hear your neighbors being intimate, but it's also exciting to know another family is getting started.

On food: To make a kickin' pasta sauce, mix mashed sweet potato with roasted red pepper soup, heat, and serve. Works well on whole wheat pasta with cooked French lentils and sauteed spinach and mushrooms. Diced chicken sausage works well too, if you desire something meaty.

On education: Having a teacher who is actually engaged in students' learning takes a class from okay to great. I'm taking a field studies course, and knowing the professor actually cares whether we learn makes me want to work harder, and it will help the ten weeks pass quickly. Which they will anyway, because it's summer, and summer always goes too quickly.

On indoor gardening: It's not as easy as it seems. Broccoli needs the cooler temps of the indoors, but it gets super buggy. Pole beans grow really tall, and there's no good way to support four little plants - everything is either too big or too small. Someone must make trellises for indoor container gardening, right?

American Chestnut Land Trust

A few weeks ago, I headed out to the American Chestnut Land Trust for Vine Vindication Day. Sounds intriguing, right? It turned into a morning of chopping at bittersweet vines, an invasive plant that winds its way through wooded areas, covering and eventually smothering any trees in its path. The South has kudzu; southern Maryland has bittersweet. Both plants were brought in to provide ornamental decoration and have since taken over wherever they're found. In addition to cutting the vines down, we pounded cartridges of an herbicide into the thick stems or roots of the vines, close to the ground. This method kills just the targeted plant so it doesn't impact surrounding foliage.

The American Chestnut Land Trust (ACLT) manages between 3,000 and 4,000 acres, some of which is owned by the Nature Conservancy and the Maryland Department of Natural Resources. The land was previously owned and farmed by both white and African-American farmers from 1886 through the 1930s. The American chestnut trees on this land survived the chestnut blight, and the land trust owners decided to honor these trees upon starting the trust in 1986 by naming the land trust after them.  The nearby Parkers Creek Preserve has been designated a Maryland Important Bird Area by the National Audubon Society, and the Calvert Cliffs, along the shore of the Chesapeake Bay, are home to the endangered tiger beetle, rare plants, and fossils from organisms that lived in the ocean along the bay from eight to eighteen million years ago. The ACLT maintains fifteen miles of hiking trails and offers guided canoe trips on a regular basis.

That warm Saturday morning, we made good progress in cutting back vines in one small section of forest, freeing some paw-paw trees in the process, but there is a lot of land and a lot of vines that will grow back under the hot sun and humid air. Sometimes it feels pointless to even try. As we drove the little truck along the trail back to the trailhead, I glanced at the small cleared section and sighed at the futility of it all. But then I walked along the shore with Liz Stoffel, the land manager. We watched tiger beetles skitter across the sand, listened to the waves quietly lapping, and watched the clear freshwater of Parkers Creek flow into the salty bay. Liz gave me a fossilized shark tooth that probably came from the cliffs just down the shore, and I thought about all the creatures that had come before the boats and homes arrived, and all the creatures that depend on this protected space to thrive. The trees we freed from the entangling vines help anchor the soil and the other plants to this fragile land. Cutting brush and killing vines helps ensure that this land remains protected, which is so important when all the land around it may someday be bought up and developed, thanks to the beautiful views that the land trust protects.

Humid thoughts of hazy days

I fully intend to post soon about the vine-cutting work I did for a land trust in southern Maryland last weekend, but summer has arrived early in all its humid glory, and with it, my yearning to do as little as possible. It's a neat land trust and worthy of some good words, but it will have to wait a few days, when cooler temps, or at least some ambition, arrive back at the homestead. 

In the meantime, I wandered over to the used bookstore today to acquire some fictional reading for these lazy days of summer. As a kid, during summer break, I would lie in bed or in the Papasan chair on the porch outside my parents' bedroom and read all evening and late into the night. I would begin reading after dinner, and suddenly it would be 10, 11, midnight. At the library, I would pick out stacks of books reinforced by plastic tape, which crinkled and cracked every time they were open, their spines bent back farther and farther with each read. Once in a while, we went to the bookstore to pick out a fresh novel, usually the latest one in the series I followed. I also plucked books from the shelf in my family room, though I never saw anyone else in the family reading them. My mom often gave me her books when she was done reading them, and as I finished each chapter, I imagined what she had been feeling as she read through those words.

These days, I opt for nonfiction much more often; when I do look to fictional tales, the classics often get passed over for something more timely. Some of my favorites have been written by the French, Mexicans, Africans, Iranians and other Middle Easterners, and Indians. If I can't visit these places, hampered by my limited funds, at least I can experience the world through their tales of family, work, politics, life, love, sadness, food. Some people read cheesy romance novels by the pool; I prefer the works of Parisians to transport me to that wonderful, flowery, romantic place, the top of my list for international travel.

Used-book stores are fantastic places. Bestsellers, classics, new books and old, all mingle on the shelves together. No strategic placement, nothing ordered based on sales data or rankings or anything like that. The books are there only because of the locals who bring them in to be resold for half their list price (or less). I pull out books at random, free to be less choosy because the financial investment is lower and thus less risky. The four books I chose today are by Balzac (my French fix, which I'm reading first), William Faulkner, Annie Proulx, and Kate Atkinson (the only one of the group of which I've never heard). I have officially renewed my seasonal membership in the Deadbeat Club.

Landmark Years and the Dallas Zoo

I visited the bestie down in Dallas this weekend to celebrate her 30th birthday. Whenever I tell someone I'm going to Dallas, they screw their face up in distaste and ask, "Why Dallas?" I'd probably do the same thing to anyone in my position - Dallas gets a bad rap, probably for some pretty good reasons - but I'd go anywhere to visit with my girl, and we actually find really cool stuff to do there. When I was there in October 2009, we went on a bike ride around the lake and hit up some art shows in people's homes along the way. This time, in addition to spending more than an hour in the used clothing store and shopping in some cool stores, we went to the Dallas Zoo.

According to my friend, the Dallas Zoo pales in comparison to the Fort Worth Zoo, but since we only had a couple hours on a Sunday afternoon and Fort Worth is a 45-minute drive from her place, we stuck with the hometown zoo. After using the women's restroom near the Large Mammal Building, which looked like its graffiti had been there since the '80s, we wondered what exactly our $15 admission was paying for. We wandered through most of the Zoo North section, where I impressed my friend with my knowledge of some of the animals (yes, I know my wood stork and my hooded merganser, thankyouverymuch), after which we realized that it was already practically closing time. But as I know from volunteering at the National Zoo, visitors usually get a little leeway to make their way back up to the entrance. So we made a break for the Wilds of Africa, which was an excellent choice. The new Giants of the Savanna exhibit features a sprawling savanna made to look like the Serengeti, sectioned off for each of the different species. We got up very close to the warthogs, penguins, lions, and giraffes - and I mean CLOSE! The viewing area for the giraffes is set at eye-level to the animals, and they can walk right up and let visitors touch them. I've never been that close to a giraffe. It was really cool. Their heads are much bigger than they look from afar. The whole exhibit was very well-done - the elephants have a ton of room to roam, and during the day, the giraffes can join them. It really feels like what I imagine Africa must be like.

Some parts of the zoo may definitely need some work, but I have to say, I almost liked it better than the National Zoo. Blasphemy, I know. I saw a whole lot of animals at the Dallas Zoo that I never even knew existed. The National Zoo has a fantastic conservation and education program, but I was familiar with a large percentage of the animals there already when I visited for the first time. The Dallas Zoo lets you get very close to the animals, and they exhibit some very different animals there. To combine the best of the two zoos would make for an amazing facility with the opportunity to reach a lot of people and do a great service for global biodiversity.

As for the landmark birthday my friend was celebrating, it made me think back to my 30th. A year and some later, the advice I would give to anyone turning 30 is to spend the first 8 or 10 months reflecting on what you always thought you would have accomplished by that point. Then, about 2 or 3 months before your 31st, throw it all out the window and say To hell with it all! Then do whatever you want because you realize that it was all a bunch of bull, that your life is actually better now for not having done those things, and that the pressure is off because you already screwed up anyway so you might as well have some fun. The 30s are the time in between acne and menopause (tell that to my skin...), when you finally lose that baby fat and have the money for some real clothes to flatter that new figure. It's a time of transition, of discovering new things about ourselves, letting go of some of the baggage we've been carrying and getting on with the next stage of our lives, and eating German chocolate cake for breakfast. It's a lesson about how we never stop learning. I hope that my friend's big year is full of positive transitions and exciting new projects.

First Ascent

The first hike of the season was yesterday at Sky Meadows State Park in Virginia. It was a good day for a hike - cool with a warming sun. The plan was to hike the Potomac Overlook trail to the North Ridge trail to the South Ridge trail, but as should always happen on an outing like this (and in life, really) I took the advice of my inner compass and opted to hike farther down the gravelly Boston Mill Road and start with the South Ridge trail instead.

The South Ridge trail is two or three people wide in most places, and much of it winds through meadows or a mix of meadows and trees. At the overlooks, oversized benches offer respites from the continually uphill climb, where soaring long-winged raptors can be seen floating the thermals through the valley over cows in pastures and crop fields, and grasshoppers can be heard sproinging through the tall grass (one of my favorite sounds). The upper part of the South Ridge and the western part of the North Ridge are more wooded and the trail is rockier. The breeze rustled through the trees, the whooooosh amplified by the still-bare branches. The dogwoods were in full bloom, their flat white flowers fluttering, creating bright flags among the foliage. The redbuds bloomed too, their tiny pink flowers dotting the woodlands with color. Recent rains have left the forest floor muddy and small rivulets carved canyons into the trail. Pipevine, zebra, and eastern tiger swallowtail butterflies darted from flower to flower, lapping nectar and seeking mates. The electric blue of the pipevine is breathtaking, and the flash of unexpected orange dots under its wings delivers a second punch. Woodpeckers tap-tapped and unidentified chirps called from a hidden perch.

I started up the North Ridge trail past the rushing stream, but that inner compass pulled me back to the Gap Run trail, which winds along the stream downhill back to the gravel road. So much water rushed through the stream that it could be heard high up in the hills, echoing off the valley walls long before it became visible. It flushed down through the valley and splashed over, under, around and between rocks and logs, carving new paths that weren't there after the last rain. This is how it begins. Maybe some day this unnamed stream will be as mighty as the Potomac River, or perhaps it will trickle quietly from the earth, no starting or ending point in sight, just small clear pools between exposed tree roots. Yesterday, it overflowed its banks and spread out over the trail and in all directions. The saturated ground was squishy, the grass and fallen leaves doing little to provide stable footing. It is mostly peaceful here, except for the airplanes that occasionally fly overhead and the stream of people out for a Saturday hike.

Yesterday's hike was only three miles or so, but the steep hill climbs and the admiration and the peanut butter and jelly sandwich held me back. After almost three years here, it doesn't feel as special as it once did. Forests are everywhere here - people live right on the edges of them - and they generally look the same - same trees, same wildlife, same nearby road sounds. Humans have conquered this land, mostly. The trees seem to hold their breaths most days, standing guard against the next subdivision. There is little wildness here, just managed sanctuaries from civilization. The earth here is cognizant of human presence.

But don't be mistaken. Despite its commonality, the forest is a magical place. This land may now be a part of the human landscape, but we will never totally conquer it. Sometimes, it conquers us. We need it to remind us of our fragility, our innate hopelessness in our fight against mortality, so we can appreciate the fact that we are still here.

Celebrate the Earth

Today is John Muir Day. If you have watched any episodes of the Ken Burns national parks series or read Muir's writings, you have a sense of what a special man he was and how much we have to thank him for. Our country wouldn't be half of what it is today if Muir hadn't inspired Teddy Roosevelt and others of his time to set aside these wonderful lands for all of us to enjoy in perpetuity. This week, entrance to national parks is free, so take some time to visit a national park near you and give silent (or spoken) thanks to Muir for his contribution to humanity and to the planet.

Speaking of the planet, tomorrow is Earth Day. It's not just a day for the hippie crunchy people to give out reusable bags and teach people how to compost. It's a day to remember that we are but one of many living things on this floating orb in the middle of the universe and that we owe our lives to the air, water and food that Earth provides us. We should treat it better than we do. We should tell other people to treat it better. We should help other people tread more lightly, and we should take a moment to savor what we have, for we are squandering a little more every day. To whom much is given, much is expected. We have all been given the Earth to do with as we please. We should be doing much more to ensure we take only what we need and leave the rest for others. Better yet, we should put in more than we take, for the best gift we can give future generations is something greater than we could ever hope for ourselves.

Earth Day is for everyone. Find your own special way to celebrate.

Transported

The jasmine plant on my bedroom window sill is blooming. It smells sticky sweet, like fried dough coated in floral-infused honey, or a marzipan candy. I imagine that I am in the courtyard of a small home in the Fertile Crescent on a warm night. I wear a wide, full flower behind my ear, and I am wrapped in soft cloth the color of eggshells, embroidered with iridescent olive green, rose, and gold thread. My companions and I lounge atop the cool sand on plush chairs beneath strings of lights as we sip sweetened mint tea or red wine and nosh on dried fruits, almonds and bread. Full trees within this walled arena rustle lightly in the soft breeze that offers brief relief from the dry desert heat.

Maybe it was never like this in this land, even before the days of sectarian violence and talks of nuclear weapons, but jasmine's intoxicating scent conjures up imaginary worlds where life is as succulent as the flowers and the sweetness lasts longer than the ephemeral blooms.

Like I need an excuse to cook...

In case you hadn't heard, we just narrowly averted a shutdown of the federal government, the first time it would have happened since 1995/96. As a gummint employee, I would have had a forced furlough, which means all the fun of free vacation days without the fun of getting paid for them. Given that the weather promises to be near 70 degrees and sunny this coming week, you can imagine that I had mixed feelings about the whole thing. I was envisioning sleeping until 8am (so late!), eating a leisurely breakfast, going for a swim in the local indoor pool without having to fight the weekend lane hogs, hiking in some state parks, reading a book, basking in the sun, and cooking some new recipes. This last activity has some practical implications as well as just being fun: I've been going to the gym during my lunch hour, and my post-workout lunch has been half of a turkey sandwich and a salad. But the traditional salad, greens with tomato, cucumber, maybe some crumbled cheese or sunflower seeds, is just getting old. It's spring, and I need some springy salads to repower me for the rest of the afternoon in my work cave.

Luckily, cooking is an activity that I don't need to be jobless to do - in fact, I can afford some nicer ingredients when getting a paycheck. Plus, all those warm sunny days likely mean that my kitchen will be largely ignored, not embraced. So I hit up a recently discovered website (food52) to find some yummy salad recipes. I love this website. They feature the most interesting, appealing, different, and simple recipes that look fresh and tasty, appropriate for a grown-up palate but not fancy or snooty. It could have something to do with the design, too. I'm a minimalist, and this site is just a white page with just the right amount of embellishment, plus the text and recipes whose photos speak for themselves. It kind of annoys me that they're regularly featured on HuffPost, only because I don't want hordes of people to be tromping all over the site. I want to keep it a little bit secret. (I guess the cat's out of that bag now, eh?)

Anyway, if all goes according to plan, I will be making a creamy cucumber salad, potato salad with fennel and shallot relish and bacon, radish and pecan grain salad, and shaved Brussels sprouts salad with red onion, lemon, and pecorino. There might be something with carrots in there too. I have most of the dressing/seasoning ingredients on hand, plus I get to try out some veggies I don't eat often (like radishes and Brussels sprouts, which I will generally eat if placed in front of me but don't exactly pine for). Plus, they're easy to make during the hot humid summer, when one can't possibly imagine using fire for any reason other than to toast marshmallows during a camping trip. Now to find some recipes that utilize the herbs from my windowbox garden - lemon thyme, basil, Italian parsley, and oregano.

I love spring.

Mucking around

Yesterday I headed out with some of fellow nature-lover meetup folks to get our hands dirty with some labor down at the Suitland bog in Suitland, Maryland. We started with an introduction about the bog from a park ranger from the Maryland-National Capital Park and Planning Commission as we walked from the parking lot down to the bog, which is fenced in from the surrounding residential areas. In the 1930s and '40s, botanists had amazing foresight to develop extensive collections of the bog's flora; in the 1960s, the area around the bog was mined for sand and gravel, which greatly affected the bog itself. In 1975, the M-NCPPC purchased the 20 acres where the bog is located, fenced it off a year later, and completed a botanical inventory and hydrology study in the following two years. In 1980, the Commission constructed a boardwalk and began interpretive programs and hikes to educate nearby residents about this fragile area. More than 40 species of plants recorded in the bog since 1901 have been designated by the Maryland Natural Heritage Program as rare, threatened, or endangered, and more than 20 of those plants remain today.

Technically, this bog is actually a fen - bogs are fed by rainwater, and fens like this one are fed from groundwater. A thin seep of water emerges from somewhere slightly upslope and there's a small area of standing water near the boardwalk. At this time of year, most of the plants are still dormant, although a few maples were starting to grow buds and the magnolia trees remain green year round. The big draw for this bog is the carnivorous plants. Massive tufts of purple-leaved northern pitcher plants grow throughout the bog. At one point in the bog's history, someone planted them there because they mistakenly thought they were native to the area. When they were brought in, common pitcher plant mosquitoes and midges stowed away on-board. They're the only two insects that aren't affected by the pitcher plant's digestive juices, and they actually help keep the plants healthy by disposing of the leftover insect bodies and other detritus. The thread-leaved  and spatulate-leaved sundews are native to the area, but we didn't see any.

We weren't there to just gaze at this rare wetland, we were there to work. Taking care to avoid the stands of poison sumac, which love wet or flooded areas like this, we cut and pulled small shoots of asters, maples, and greenbriers that threatened to take over by crowding or shading out other types of native plants that the rangers are trying to restore to the area. At some point, the pitcher plants will be pulled as well, but we didn't have enough time to really get in there and dig them out. The peak blooming times for the bog plants are May through August, which are also good times to see foxes, turtles, songbirds, and hawks that live in the area. I'm hoping to get back out there again sometime to do some more maintenance work, check out the bog in full bloom, and maybe even pick up the trash left by people who walk through the forest and meadow surrounding the bog.

Abracadabra

You wouldn't think that early March in the city would be a magical time. It's cool and wet and sometimes grey, and there's still road salt crusted on the curbs. But oh yes, it is magical indeed, because life is starting to emerge. Daffodils spill down the hill along Rock Creek Parkway. Small pink and yellow flowers bloom on trees behind the gas station on 14th Street and along the highway. Purple flowers carpet the yard outside a small house in Falls Church. White flowers poke out through the dead leaves in the park. In three weeks, the cherry blossoms will be out in full force and the city will be alive. Just three short weeks 'til spring.  Magic.

Taunting God

The church next door posts clever messages on the board out front every week or two, enticing people to come to church and strengthen their commitment to their faith. Today, the message read something like, "If you continue to use my name in vain, I will make your rush-hour commute even longer." I said out loud, laughingly, "God doesn't have the power to do that." Then I clasped my hand over my mouth and gasped a little, afraid that God had heard me doubt those powers and would decide to show me just how wrong I was.

I'm not a religious person. My belief in a higher power consists mostly of a sense of something much much larger than myself. "God" is the somewhat-tangible version of that, which I usually conjure up only when I'm feeling helpless and like to think that someone else out there has a hand in what happens in this world. It keeps me from feeling utterly alone. My rational brain says that "God" is what we make up to explain the things we otherwise can't explain, but my metaphysical brains says, "What if God really can affect even silly things like commutes? What if God can mess with us?" Since we can't know for sure, at least not in this life, I prefer not to take any chances. I'm sorry, God, for doubting you. For taking your name in vain. My rush-hour commute may be quick and easy these days, but there's plenty else in my life to mess with. Please don't. Thank you.

I get one every year

If I'm lucky. I'm talking about my birthday, which is today. I've reached the age where I avoid answering the question, "How old are you now?" because I'm still incredulous that I am this age. From now on, I will answer with the age I feel, rather than the actual number of years I've been on this planet. So today, I am 26.

In any case, it's been a great birthday. Last night I went to the Morcheeba concert at the 9:30 Club with two friends. It was a good show, but I guess I'm so used to high-energy shows that a band with a more chill vibe just doesn't make the cut. They put on a great show though. In my next life, I want to be a bad-ass black woman with a fro-hawk and buff arms, like Skye.  

Today, I went to the Baltimore aquarium and had lunch at a local cafe down the street. It was a sunny, not-too-cold day - really, one can't ask for much more on a February day north of the tropics. Last year it snowed a bajillion inches and the year before, it was 70 degrees and super windy. Today's weather was pleasant, unobtrusive. What a birthday should be. And I spent it in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, in the Amazon rainforest, and in Australia. Very cool. The night ended with some tasty Ethiopian food with a few friends. When they sang the happy birthday song to me in the small, crowded restaurant, the bartender turned down the traditional music/CNN playing on the speakers and instead blasted a recording of the happy birthday song. I'm sure my face was bright red. Tomorrow, I will be partying it up with some other friends in Annapolis. Every year, I swear that I will celebrate on one day only, dammit, but it still turns into a multi-day affair anyway. I'm okay with that.

The bigger news this year was Egypt's liberation following the stepping down of 30-year president Hosni Mubarak. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't follow current events in that country because I figured they were one of the more progressive Middle Eastern countries and were therefore not a cause for concern. In any case, it's wonderful to hear that the Egyptian people have been heard, and I hope that the transition to a better and freer country is peaceful. It is worrisome that other countries like Iran are clamping down on their citizens in order to prevent the same thing from happening there. In other words, don't get your hopes up about the rest of the region following Egypt's lead. This may be the relative calm before the storm.

Freedom

Yesterday, I took my ten-dollar Groupon and headed over to the Newseum. And thank goodness for the Groupon, because in a town full of free museums, I wouldn't pay the $21.95 plus tax it normally costs to go otherwise. The Newseum is run by a non-profit organization, so I can see why they need to charge something for admission, but I find something wrong with the fact that a museum celebrating one of our basic freedoms costs so much to get into. Apparently the Newseum costs a ton for upkeep, so maybe they should work on reducing those costs so that they can reduce the cost to visitors.

Enough ranting. The Newseum is a really cool place. I already had a strong appreciation for journalism, thanks to my fine undergraduate journalism education, but I think the museum packs so much history and culture in that even the most curmudgeonly, anti-media person would find something there to appreciate. The admission ticket is good for two consecutive days, and it would really take that much time to really read and watch all of the content. It gives you a different perspective of the current events that have impacted our lives - I remember how I felt as a regular citizen during 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina, but seeing how the media reported on what was happening was fascinating. For example, have you ever thought about how newspapers in New Orleans continued reporting and publishing without electricity, or even offices? They figured out a way to pick up and move the whole shop so that they could at least publish an online version. They managed to resume printing a dead-trees version within days (or a couple weeks) after the hurricane. The stories of reporters from both of those tragic events are so moving, and their perspectives make you think about them in ways you hadn't considered as a news consumer.

Here's a dilemma for you to ponder. Say you're a reporter, and you're covering some tragedy. It's your job to provide an objective report of what's happening in front of you. You know that stopping to help people will insert you into the story and keep you from reporting objectively. But these people need help. We're all human after all, and it's possible that no one else will come by later to help them. What do you do? The 9/11 and Katrina stories and the gallery of incredibly moving Pulitzer prize-winning photographs show how journalists dealt with that dilemma, sometimes with good outcomes and sometimes with lasting regret. 

Thankfully the Newseum isn't just about the tragedies; it also showcases the history of journalism in the U.S. and around the world and celebrates pop culture in the media as well (see: the Elvis exhibit). Martin Sheen tells the history of the freedom of the press in the U.S. (That man was born to be the voice of American history, wasn't he? I would believe anything he told me.) A giant map on the wall shows the levels of freedom the press enjoys in each country around the world. Guess what: the press in most countries are either partially free or not free. We may despise the things that people in the media say or do in this country, but the freedom to say or do those things is rare and precious. Just as we are free to say what we wish, we are also free to not listen to things we don't like or don't agree with - something that we should exercise more than we do.

Speaking of which, do you know the 5 basic freedoms in the U.S.? Most people can name freedom of speech and freedom of religion - do you know the other three?

Aural memories

I'm trying to recreate the music mixes that carried me through workouts past
I should have written them down
I should have backed them up
But I didn't
and now they're lost on an old iPod
recycled
gone.
So I create new playlists
dredge my memories
wrack my brain
trying to remember the songs that were connected
in what order.
But some songs appeared more than once
so I connect them to memories
like treadmill running and elliptical trudging at my old gym
or the 8K I ran through the streets of Chicago.
But that was many years ago
Many playlists ago
So I do my best. Maybe new memories will jog old ones
or maybe the songs will re-mingle and I'll have new connections to re-remember
when I have to start all over again.

Blow my mind

I have discovered the WNYC Radiolab podcasts. There have been other podcasts that have caught my attention for weeks on end, like WUNC's The Story, as well as everyone's favorites, This American Life, Science Friday, and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. They're fun and entertaining, but eventually I grew weary  of listening to people's tragic stories, Science Friday can be a little dry sometimes, and WWDTM's formulaic format gets old after a while. I still love This American Life, but it only plays once a week. Radiolab provides hours of entertainment and about subjects that I never gave much thought to. Jad and Robert dive deep into every subject they cover, wandering on tangents that are only loosely related to each other, incorporating sounds and ideas that round out each story. This isn't just people talking, this is a sonic journey. And it blows my mind.

Last week, I woke up early and went to the gym before work. At 6am, I hopped on the bus in the cold darkness and listened to the podcast that came out a full year ago about animal minds. As I walked four blocks from the bus stop to the gym, I listened to the hosts and guests tell the story of how a group of divers cut fishing nets away to free a trapped blue whale off the coast of San Francisco, and I teared up as they described how she swam up to each diver to thank him for helping her. It was amazing and moving, and the rest of the hour-long story was just as smart and moving.

Yesterday, I listened to the podcast about words while I walked to work under a vanilla sky, and as Jad and Robert talked to various people about language and about how acquiring language changes how we think and live, I realized that I was beginning to think about my world in a different way. This is not just about seeing something in a different light or learning something new. Radiolab creates a new world for me. I find myself utterly fascinated by ideas that never even occurred to me before.

Seriously, check it out. Go to the website and watch the videos and check out the extras. You won't be disappointed.

Ahoy, matey!

January 1st is a good marker for people to use to start anew, but without the concept of a calendar system, it's really just another day that happens to occur soon after the winter solstice. Life is cyclical, so lucky us, we get lots of opportunities to start over. Even so, leaving 2010 behind feels good. I can't help but think that 2011 will be so much better, and not only because my birthday this year falls on 2-11-2011, a nice neat number. I bought a Salvador Dali wall calendar for my bedroom and a calendar of tall ships for my office. I've been thinking about Dali a lot lately after having a few weird dreams set in landscapes that would make any Surrealist painter proud, so glancing at his artwork every day feels fitting. The calendar was made by a European company, so the week starts with Monday, not Sunday. It also denotes the holidays for a number of other countries, including Japan. Turns out that my birthday falls on Japan's National Foundation Day. As for the tall ships, I wanted something totally random to hang in my office cave, and I like tall ships, with all of their masts and sails.

It seems like every year, I spend time thinking about what I'm going to do in the coming year, how I'm going to improve myself, which interests I'm going to dive into. But not this year. I'm not making any resolutions or goals. This year, I don't care. At all. And that makes me very happy.
----
Today was a neat day at the zoo. I got to watch the rainbow boas being fed. They each get a dead rat that has been frozen, thawed, and warmed slightly. Not so exciting for us humans, but when the keeper wiggles it around a little, the boa (which eats only every few months) snatches it up, coils tightly around it, and slowly gulps it down through its long body. After a holiday season full of hearty food and a little too much beer, eating like a snake sounds about right these days.

After my shift, I wandered up to check out the lion cubs, who were all outside with their mothers on this cool, damp day. Good God, are they cute. Whoa. Serious kryptonite. Combine the curiosity of kittens with the rambunctiousness of puppies and the exotic draw of the African bush and you get seven African lion cubs in a park in the middle of a big city. Sorry, panda-lovers, these guys are way cuter than Tai Chan. Whoa.

Breakfast on the bus

This December morning is magical.
The thick yellow sun, heavy like a runny yolk, rises above the buildings
poked by the bare branches
spraying light up to the puffs of clouds.
The trees grow woody nodes where their leaves once hung, protecting them from the cold wind
that shuffles leaves and litter and snow along the sidewalks.
There's peace here, buried among the coats and mittens and holiday madness
like the feeling of toast and eggs, sunny-side up
getting a start on a quiet day.

Life is a bowl of...roasted vegetables?!

I've been thinking about a conversation that my cousin and I had a few weeks ago, about people who feel "called" to do something good - people who believe that they are "special" and will somehow change the world. Some of those people will become Tom of Tom's Shoes, or Bill Gates, or the Cousteaus. But most of those people will, at some point, be forced to accept the fact that This Is All There Is. That the next big thing, which they believe they will create, is not just around the corner. That life is just a bunch of trials and errors made on a treadmill that get us mostly nowhere. Those of my generation might be tempted to partially blame the movie "Dead Poets Society" and its mantras of seizing the day and letting loose a mighty yawp for inspiring such a (delusional?) can-do attitude. What, then, of rumors about how the boomer generation, so idealistic in the '60s and '70s, sold out for a pension and a station wagon? Are dreams of changing the world just delusions to get us through our youth, and does maturity mean accepting that we're never going to be a star?

What a thought. Is that true? Do we all reach some point at which we must admit that our loftiest of goals are just dreams that keep us moving? Or do those who succeed do so because they possess some innate quality, and that if we dig deep and find that special quality within us, we too can make a real difference? Or perhaps, a third option: maybe not all changes come in the same size. Maybe even small wins can change the world. Maybe we must accept that our lives are exactly what they look like, and not what we dream they should be, but that doesn't preclude us from doing something good anyway. A recent study found that people who daydream are less happy than people who are focused on the present. But if we don't dream, do we have any chance of getting what we really want?

A quote from this morning's tea: "Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think." -- Horace Walpole, 4th Earl of Orford (often attributed to French essayist Jean de La Bruyère)

-----

I made roasted cauliflower again today. If life was just roasted cauliflower, I would be okay with that. Well, that and leftover pizza...

Pierced

How can two holes make you feel whole? And yet, they have. My ears were first pierced when I was very young; I don't remember a time when I couldn't wear earrings to make me feel like a girl, to embellish my dress or stand out in a crowd. I don't remember the punching of the second holes, but after a time, I let them close up in the middle, a visible hole without an exit. This year, I punched them through again, first with diamonds, then with birds that look like whales. I contemplated a third set but couldn't get up the nerve at the mall to face the gun. Lately, I dreamed of holes in odd places, and when I woke, I couldn't imagine not having them. So yesterday I went for it. I walked into a tattoo parlor, paid my fee, and let a heavily tattooed, earlobe-stretched man stick needles in my lobes and fill the gap between the birds that look like whales and the cartilage fold with blue gem-topped stainless steel studs. They were sore last night; today they feel fine. Twenty-four hours later, I can barely remember a time without them.

November Prairie

I went to Chicago this weekend to visit my family. I didn't go to the place I grew up, nor to the place I lived for three years, nor to my mom's first apartment, which felt like home the minute I walked into it, nor even my mom's condo, which no one lives in right now. Instead, I went to the house in the suburbs that my mom's boyfriend bought. She lives there now. To many of my friends, going to visit their parents is "going home". To me, it's just going to visit my family. Home is where I live.

Chicago may not be home anymore, but it's still the place that wraps around me like an old familiar blanket every time. On this typical November weekend, it was warm one day, then rainy and grey, then chilly with a bitter wind. When the sky wasn't grey, it was bright blue, the yellow sun low in the sky, on a long angle to the land. The sad, bare trees were a shock compared to the mostly green with orange tinge here in the Mid-Atlantic; all I ever remember of Chicago are the leafless trees, the grey sky, the blasting wind. Summer doesn't seem real; Chicago in my mind is perpetually November.

My mom lives down the street from a forest preserve. Despite the chilly air, we walked the dog along the paved path that winds around a lake and passes through wooded areas and tallgrass prairie. Geese and gulls flock to the lake, but we didn't see many other birds. Since my family moved to the city, I haven't spent much time in the suburbs, and for the first time ever, I recognized the forest preserve as part of the native landscape. Before humans took over, the woods and the prairie, like the ones in this preserve, spanned the land, and now I felt a closeness to it that I hadn't felt before. I heard it whisper its secrets, sigh its November sigh, and hunker down for the winter.