Vision

I sat on the floor of the bathroom.  My niece (21 months) sat on the "big girl potty" having been promised a reward of M&Ms for her effort.  She leafed through magazines the way some people would half-heartedly leaf through a text book before an exam, skipping large chunks at a time, deeming them irrelevant.  

Keeping her occupied during this process is essential to any expectation of success.  It's simple math.  The longer she sits, the more likely it is that something will happen.  And then we celebrate!  

This day, there was no celebration, but I was proud of her anyway.  She came across an ad for a charity that helps to provide surgery for children with cleft palates.  

She paused.  She paused longer than she'd paused for anything else in that (or any other) magazine.

The ad featured photographs of the faces of a dozen or so children - children from Cambodia, Nairobi, India, and other places far away.  

She pointed at each of the youngsters in turn, saying, "Baby, baby, baby..." 

She looked at their faces, studied their expressions.  She sat and thought for a minute.  

Then she twisted her own face up into an expression I'd never seen her make before.  She was trying to imitate the face that she thought the children in the ad were making.  On her, it turned out somewhere between a goofy smile and a grimace.  She giggled.

She was not old enough to understand that they needed help.  

She was not old enough to know that their circumstance could be grounds for exclusion.  

She was not old enough to judge them.  

She was not old enough to know that she could do these things.  

She had the sincerity to see those children as no different than her.  

She had the openness to see nothing wrong when she looked at them. 

She had the kindness to see people, not problems.

She had the simplicity to see that she could smile back.   

We should all be so lucky - both to have that quality in our own vision and to be looked upon that way.

Interrupting starfish

Have you heard the interrupting starfish joke?  If not, ask me sometime, and I'll tell it to you (or find a 9-year old and ask him or her).  

On my last several runs, I have been the interrupting biped to three or four deer standing peacefully along the trail.  Each time, they seem singularly unconcerned with my approach.

The trail is covered in many places with fallen leaves so that as I run along, I don't even recognize the deer blending in with the fall browns until I am already fairly close.

At that point, I become aware of the subtle white edge of their drooping tails.  They are so unconcerned with my approach that they stand, watching me come nearer while their tails hang down in calm.  Eventually, they turn their dark eyes on me, flip up their white-flag tails, and silently step down off the trail, in no particular hurry.  They disappear into the brush before I get to the spot where they stepped down.

They make no pretense of not being aware of my inferior running ability (even among other bipeds, my running ability is inferior) and do not perceive me as a threat.  Perhaps they can see that I do not run with a rifle.

And that the Beagle would rather roll in the leaves than chase them.  Actually, that's a lie - he would definitely rather chase them.  The deer must understand that a leashed beagle is a safe beagle (when the biped he is running with does not carry a rifle).  

Last night as I ran, I watched my tall shadow fall to my left onto the thin line of brush and trees that separates the trail from the farm fields.

For the record, this is not to my left but to my right.  But it is the only photo I have of the line of brush and trees.

A while ago the fields looked like this.

Then this.  

And then this.

And now, the fields are empty.  Empty of their crop, at least. Now they are full to the brim with cool, dusty air.  The cool, dusty air that flows in and out of my lungs as I can't help but think of how it does so differently in birds' lungs and how my metabolism is turning certain things into certain other things and how my muscle filaments are ratcheting against one another with each step and how no normal person should be thinking of these things as she runs.

And then I hear "Into the Mystic" in my ears, and my brain shuts up and listens to the music.  And the air hanging over the empty fields is just cool, heavy air.  And the birds are just birds.  And my muscles and metabolism are just affording me movement.     

Go ahead

Go ahead Bean.  Write the rest of that dissertation right on up.

If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen scrubbing the dish drying rack clean (which is what I did yesterday as a new all-time low for writing distraction).

The season of spider webs and cicadas

I took a short trip recently, and upon my return, I found that Fall had arrived at my house.  This coincided nicely with the first day of October.  Fall is my favorite season, but I do not appreciate the shortening days.

The Beagle has marked the end of his own private cicada hunting season.  They're no longer around like they were a few weeks ago.  For some reason (maybe it's the satisfying crunch), Maximilian took special joy in searching for and consuming as many cicadas as possibly this late summer.  Sometimes he would get upwards of four or five a day by my count (and that doesn't even include the ones he nabs sneakily enough for me not to notice).

He pursued them like a cat would a mouse.  I have not known dogs to be avid eaters of insects.  But Maximilian clearly lacks some chiton in his regular diet and needed to make up for that by foraging on his own time.

As we walked through the fields near where I live, the cicadas would buzz in alarm and take flight to get away from us.  The Beagle snagged a few in mid-air.  Our walks through the tall grass were fraught with the pummeling of fairly large invertebrates against my skin and clothes.  You get used to it after a while.

But now, those same walks are characterized by peaceful butterflies floating around some of the last flowers of the season.  They're much more calming than the pelting of their heavier cousins.  On today's walk, in fact, I had the sensation of shepherding a flock of butterflies (I think what was really happening is that they were fleeing from my advance at a pace that seemed leisurely but was really their third or fourth gear).

To me, there is a close association between cicada season and spider web season.  This year the majority of my experience with spider webs was with running on my usual trail.  I do not blame the spiders for choosing the trail as the place at which to build their webs.  It is convenient - in width and general bugginess - and beautiful.  Who wouldn't want to make a home there (however temporary).  But I cannot exactly say that I enjoy getting face after sweaty faceful of spider web as I run along the trail. 

I often considered carrying a stick in front of my face with which to combat the spider webs, but echoes of my grandfather screeching at us for running with anything remotely sharp prevented it.  In the end, I just dealt with the spider webs as necessary.  

But now that neither the spiders or cicadas are here to deal with in large numbers,  I can make my walks and runs without fear of 1) rather large, flying insects zooming about willy nilly and 2) ropes of proteinaceous spider silk smashing into my face and arms.  A definite sign of fall.  

And now it is time for me to go tend to the homemade pizza in the oven (which gave me this time to sit down and write something new).  Depending on how it turns out, the pizza may make the blog in the near future.  

Birds: Part III

More birds on this Sunday morning.  Let the theme be... sparrows!

Near and dear to my heart more than any other group of birds.  I'm firmly in their corner when it comes to defending them against people who think of them only as "Little Brown Jobs."  Sacrilegious, I say. 

This is a Nelson's Sparrow. She's a female that my mosquito-bitten field helper and I stumbled upon while we were looking and listening for males to try to target net in wet, marshy meadows at the mouth of the Moose River in northern Ontario.  She must have had a nest nearby because she was unhappy that we were near and tried to distract us and lure us away from her nest by flitting around from one side of us to another.  

We set up the mist net, and after some strategic chasing, we captured, banded and sampled her.  This photo was snapped before she was captured.  It drove poor Randy crazy that I was taking pictures before we'd captured her, but I really had no doubt that she would not fly away - she wouldn't leave her nest.  And it is a very rare thing to be so close to these birds when they're out in the open.  I couldn't miss the chance to get a shot.

Her stats (for anyone even slightly interested): blood mercury = 0.32 ppm; breast feather mercury = 0.61 ppm; first primary feather mercury = 6.74 ppm.  She weighed 15.5 grams, and her bill was 9.0 mm from nares (nostril) to tip.  For the sake of reference, the U.S. EPA prefers that women of child-bearing age having blood mercury levels lower than 0.006 ppm.  If you do the math, this lady sparrow had a blood mercury concentration over 50 times as high as what the EPA would recommend if she were human. Scary thought.   

These are Seaside Sparrows - close cousins to the Nelson's Sparrow above.  These guys (I don't really know if they're guys, but if you can't tell one way or the other, every sparrow gets called a guy) were captured during the non-breeding season near Wrightsville Beach, NC.  

Saltmarsh (left) and Nelson's Sparrows captured during the non-breeding season in NC.  Saltmarsh Sparrows are close relatives to both Seasides and Nelson's.  They all belong in the same genus.  Still think these guys are Little Brown Jobs?  

Another sparrow relative - the Savannah Sparrow.  Savannahs are found in a different genus from the marshy sparrows above.  I caught them sometimes in the marshes along with Nelson's, Saltmarsh and Seaside Sparrows, but I just photographed them and let them go.  No poking and prodding for them.  

These two are White-crowned Sparrows - male (above) and female.  They belong to yet another sparrow genus and were photographed in New Mexico.  

Unlike the colorful birds I posted about last time I was writing about birds (for fun), sparrows have a different specialty.  Subtlety.   And for that, I give them kudos.   

Beannacht

I didn't write this, but I wish I had...

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

 

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

 

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

 

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

 

- John O'Donohue 

My favorite part?  Quite possibly, the currach of thought.  The slow wind is a good contender though. Beannacht is Gaelic for "blessing."  So happy Wednesday and bennacht to all.

Running

Fall is here (most days), and that makes me want to go running (most days).  Excuses about excessive heat warnings are not longer available, and the crispier weather lends itself to pursuits like yard-raking, bonfires, football games and running.

I've been indulging my yen to run several times a week.  It's always surprising to me after taking a break from running how wonderful it is to get back into it.  After years of running to train for a sport, I have eventually learned to run for the sake of running only.  And now I can actually enjoy it.  To be able to say that is a huge accomplishment for me - something I wasn't sure I would ever be able to do.  I blame that doubt on the whistles and the painted lines.

These days most of my running happens on a rails-to-trails trail about three-quarters of a mile from my house.  Having previously been railroad tracks, the trail's straightaways are long, its curves are wide, and its solitude is expansive.  All of these draw me.

Most of the trail is bordered by a windbreak of trees on either side.  This creates a nice, private canopy-like feeling.  In the places where there are breaks in the trees, I can see bean fields stretch silently away from me on both sides.  The quiet of these fields makes me happy as I run.

Some leaves are already starting to fall, creating a satisfying crunch along the path.  But the peak of fall color is still weeks away, and I am looking forward to it.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, I forget that I am running as I run.  Those are the really good runs - where I return exhausted but not frustrated, spending some time outside of myself while my body takes care of the work of propelling me without much input from my mind.  Those are the runs that help me sleep better at night, that clear my mind of the formatting and rephrasing and clarifying.

Sometimes the Beagle comes running with me.  Normally, he's not a big fan of running (preferring to snuffle his way along whatever trek we're on).  But on this trail, he must feel like we're chasing something - in fact, sometimes we actually are running behind retreating deer, skunks, or squirrels.  There are always smells of animals who have also been using the trail (the Beagle tells me so, I can't know this for myself).  So he must always feel like we're fresh on the trail for some wild thing or another.

This ever-present task keeps him moving forward, when normally he would want to stop and smell everything (and eat some things he shouldn't).  The problem then becomes asking him to turn around.  The Beagle would prefer to run three or four miles out and then be picked up in a golf cart.  I don't have a golf cart (or a personal caddy), so my preference is to run 1.5-2 miles out and turn around.  The Beagle often claims not to have gotten that memo.

I try (and sometimes succeed) to convince him that the trail he was following on the way out actually moves in the opposite direction - that the particular animal he was following is heading back to the trailhead - so that he'll allow me to turn him around and head home.

Let's suffice it to say that running with the Beagle is slightly less relaxing than running without him.  But I let him come sometimes anyway because I assume that it's good for him, and it's good for me to share the enjoyment of running with him.  To watch him trail a scent is akin to watching a painter paint.  It's a privilege to be able to witness a being doing the very thing it was made to do - the very thing that every fiber of its being speaks to.  That is the joy I see when I get to watch Maximilian run along a scent trail.

But when I'm running without him, I hit play on the iPod and just let my feet go without my interference.  There's no leash tightening to jerk my arm forward or back and no cursor floating mockingly in front of my face.  There are trees and birds and weeds and sky and the crunch of my footfalls as I move forward.

A few of my favorite things

I love taking photos.  Some of the shots I end up getting end up making me really happy.  So to facilitate that happiness, I decided to pick some of my favorites and print them as 8x10s (as large as was feasibly manageable).  

I had a really giant bulletin board donated to the cause that can accommodate 28 of these favorite photos.   Some of these you've seen on this blog before.  All plants and water and rocks and skies.  No kittens or mittens or brown paper packages tied up in string (no offense to those who would choose those for their wall of favorites).  

This monstrosity/piece of simple happiness now leans against the wall at the back of my desk.  So as I sit there to analyze data, write manuscripts, edit manuscripts, read manuscripts, I can take a frustration break once in a while and let my gaze wander across my favorite photos.

It's a little like being able to walk from room to room in the more pleasant wings of my brain, looking at these peaceful colors and lines.  I don't have proof, but I would bet that my blood pressure lowers every time I glance up from my work.

As you can see, I have one open spot left to fill.  I'm waiting for the photograph that belongs there.  I don't know from whence it shall come, but I can't wait to get there!

No such thing as darkness

For some reason a discussion I had many years ago popped into my head yesterday.  The conversation was me trying to convince my sister that there is no such thing as dark - only absence of light.  I have no idea why I recalled that conversation yesterday.  It just made its way to the front of my consciousness.

Since the idea came up, I thought I might as well think it over for a few moments.  In doing so, it became freshly clear to me how awful it would be if dark were really a positive element that existed in the world.  Can you imagine a real, true cloud or wave of darkness coming at you?  Not pleasant.

Instead, we revel in watching the light disappear in the evening and talk about darkness creeping in.  But what we really mean is that the light is creeping away.  So much more pleasant than if darkness were really the creeping thing.

Privations like darkness and cold are things we take for granted, and it probably rarely becomes evident to us that they are, in fact, privations.  There is so much room to apply this in any way that is meaningful to you.  So I'll leave preachy parts out.

To me, it means (among other things) that it is pleasant to watch the sun go down.  That this interplay between dark and light is like watching a daily drama unfold on the stage.  Less often witnessed, but just as wonderful, is the reverse process - light creeping over the darkness to start a new day.

The to-do list of a biologist

I am a lister.  I make lists of things to pack, things to buy, things to keep, things to do.  Sometimes these lists correspond to piles.  But that's neither here nor there.

I am in the throes of writing my dissertation, and most days by the time I leave my desk, I can't even spell dissertation.

People have been asking me how the writing is going.  And when I feel like giving a real answer (rather than just the stock answer of: oh, it's going fine), I respond with some information (maybe too much) about my intermittent sleeplessness.

I have intermittent sleeplessness because most of the time it takes me a while to get into the mode of writing productivity.  So I like to reserve large chunks of time to allow that to happen (and hopefully to prosper).  And once it happens, I have to roll with it.  That's what I've found.  And before you know it, coffee replaces lunch, walking the Beagle replaces returning phone calls, lunch replaces dinner, Law & Order SVU replaces bedtime reading, you know it's time to change your oil because you're out of windshield washer fluid, and counting sheep (and/or The Cosby Show) replaces sleep.

The root of the problem is that it takes me a while to get into the mode of writing productivity (as I already mentioned).  That means that once I'm in the mode of writing productivity (or even anywhere remotely near it), I don't want to stop.  Hence, you could find me at my desk, writing, analyzing and pulling out my graying hair at any hour of the day (or sometimes night).  At some point, I eventually make myself stop.  Physically.  But my brain is not so easy to drag away from the keyboard as my fingers are.  So most of me moves on to dinner and distraction and bed, but my brain often stays behind.  It rearranges paragraphs, reformats figures, categorizes hypotheses and statistical analysis and makes a general nuisance of itself.

My brain also makes lists.  It organizes my approach for the next day, reorganizes my approach for that day (partly to be done over the following day), and it finds/corrects/explains mistakes.  These lists often get typed into the Memo area of my phone (because I turn off my computer at night to avoid the temptation of being able to just walk in and make little changes and notes at any point during the night).  From the phone, the lists get transcribed to sticky notes on my desktop or actual pieces of paper.

I'll be the first to admit that these lists aren't as interesting as they once were.  In my past life (as an actual biologist - not just someone who writes about biological studies), the lists would contain things like:

• Sew nets
• Sweep porch
• Clean Beagle
• Make cheese
• Groceries
• Oil change
• Mail bird blood*
• Replenish field work supplies
• Go to remote wilderness areas and capture birds in places no one ever goes
• Take lots of photographs
• Read fun books
• Go out with friends and try new beers

Now my lists look more like this:

• Look for job/post-doc
• Submit manuscript X
• Revise manuscript Y
• Analyze data for manuscript Z
• Oil change
• Dozens of mundane details about manuscript writing and editing and data analysis with which I don't need to bother readers (suffice it to say that there are dozens)

*For the record, mailing bird blood was a more recent entry on my list, but it seems much more like something I used to do than something I currently do.  So I fibbed a bit.  

Maybe you can detect the shift in pattern, maybe not.  I can, but I'm not complaining.  I don't so much mind that coffee sometimes replaces lunch, but I do mind the intermittent sleeplessness.  I need to find a way to stop listing (and that includes both adding to and taking items away from the list because of their accomplishment) at a certain time each day so that my mind can shut off properly and I can sleep.  For now, The Cosby Show is the only surefire way to get that done, and it is only invoked as a last resort.  

The Beagle and I went for a 3.5-mile run early this morning, and I am still tired from that.  So, here's to hoping that running can sufficiently wear me out so that I can sleep list-free (or at least regardless of the existence of lists).  

Which reminds me, lunch needs to replace dinner, and the Beagle needs to go out... (check and check)