THANKFUL FRIDAY

The yard behind my house is home to two giant and ancient oak trees and every year, all of the leaves from those trees land in my backyard. My backyard is surprising large for the size of my house. You could fit another house back there and in fact, we’ve toyed with the idea of extending the house into the backyard. Open up the kitchen. Add on a master bed and bath. We could do this but have yet to find the right financial motivation to actually do this. Any way, my giant backyard ends up completely covered in a layer of oak leaves at the end of every Fall. I leave them there until the Spring and then mulch them with the mower, but sometimes I think about raking them up into one giant pile. Then I’d host a leaf jumping party where people could throw themselves into the pile of leaves.

A thing I never did as a kid.

Oklahoma is not know for it’s tall ancient trees. The land is prairie with low, wind tolerant trees or invasive cedar. If we had piles of anything to jump into it was usually hay. Every Halloween, the town I grew up in would have Halloween activities at our tiny fairgrounds. There were the usual games like bobbing for apples, but there was also the game of finding money in a haystack. I only have vague memories of getting to dive into the hay bale to search for coin because every time I’d do it, I’d come out itchy and sneezy. The next day would find me at my pediatrician’s office covered in hives and getting an allergy shot. But I’ve seen people, children, on TV jumping into giant leaf piles and have always thought “What carefree joy!”

I do not rake the backyard. Sure, part of it is laziness, but it really is better for the environment to leave them. Also, I have no doubts that jumping in a leaf pile would be just like jumping into the hay bale. I will end up in urgent care covered in hives. Instead, I just stare out my kitchen window and marvel at the amount of leaves that can come from one tree. At first, I started thinking of those leaves as moments in time that I have squandered this year. It’s already December and I feel like I didn’t do much of anything this year except complain. I spent almost the whole first half of the year stressed about my job and depressed by a feeling of hopelessness for the fate of science in this country, really for the fate of everything good in this country. It took me a while to just accept that there is very little I can do on a grand scale. There is a lot I can do on a local scale. It’s taken me a while to reconcile with a government that gives zero shits about it’s citizens, but planning an eventual retirement outside of this country has actually helped to lift my spirits.

I feel a little bad for my grouchy attitude this year.

December tends to be a month of reflection and a time for thinking about what’s next. In reflecting on this past year, I will not apologize for my grouchy attitude. When we talk about living authentically it does not mean to only live authentically happy and optimistic all the the time. I lived authentically this year, not masking my grouchy feelings. I am deserving of that attitude because while that grouch has been out, the sunny side of myself has been resting. Those who truly know me, know that I tend to lean in to a Pollyanna state of mind and I will own that I am generally a bright, optimistic bouncy ball. But you should know that maintaining that state of being can be exhausting. I’m waving the white flag now and saying that this year has been a challenge.

Those leaves are now currently buried under a layer of snow. You can see bits of them poking through here and there. If you took a cross-section of my yard it would resemble a seven layer bean dip or some pudding/jello layered dessert. My life is a simple life. Even so, it is layered with all kinds of feelings and moments of feeling. Just like my backyard or that seven layer bean dip. I’m thankful for all of the layers. The layer of leaves are not squandered moments of time. They’re just a layer of leaves and as I look back on this year, I’ll think of 2025 as the year I allowed myself live authentically even if it wasn’t always pretty.

SECRET BIRD

“No one here has a secret bird, but me.” My mother whispered as we sat at a table in a diner, eating our Thanksgiving meal. I can’t help but think of how far we’ve fallen from the family that gathered around the dining room table set with the good china and laden with serving bowls of steaming lima beans, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole and a giant turkey carved to perfection by Dad. My dad worked in a butcher shop in his teens. He was the one who cut up our chickens and deboned them. He was the one who would get out the ancient electric knife and carve the turkey. We haven’t gathered as a family around that table in more than twelve years. The family has shrunk from age and deaths, leaving behind a shell of what we used to be.

But Mom was whispering about secret birds.

Whenever my mom starts saying something that sounds fantastical, I lean in. “Ooh, tell me more!” I respond, giddily. It’s almost like I’m about to get some really dishy and juicy gossip. But also, Mom was never the fantastical one when I was growing up. Practical and serious. The silliness was left for Dad. On this day, I lean in and ask more about this secret bird. What kind of bird is it? Where does it sit? As per usual, she doesn’t give me an answer other than it’s “a kind of bird”. Mom was also not one to answer a question. She has always answered around the question. My mother is the bird.

The last time I saw Mom was in August and now I was shocked by the change in her. Just a few months ago, she was still walking and speaking clearly. We sat outside and watched the terrapins roaming around the yard. She even stood up at one point to reach under a table and grab a tiny baby terrapin for us to hold and inspect. In just a few short months, my mother’s mobility has greatly declined, requiring a wheelchair and a chauffeur. She is in a constant state of resistance, always attempting to slide out of her chair, but she lacks the strength to hold her body up for walking. So she crawls. Her voice comes out of her mouth in whispers and slurs, often sticking on a word and repeating it like a skipping record. And she doesn’t remember me.

By order of my birth, I have drawn the short straw of memory.

She was happy to see my face but my name had to be prompted from her mouth. Even then, I am not sure she ever truly grasped our connection to each other. I often caught a look of suspicion in her eyes when she looked at me. It was almost like she was thinking “I think I should know who this person is, but I don’t.” Later, I helped my sister move Mom from her chair to her bed. We’d worn her out with all of our morning activities. Showering and dressing and going out to dinner is a lot for her. My sister and I got her settled in her bed and Mom asked about going to see her dad. “We go see Daddy?” she asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant and asked “Do you mean Pepaw?” She nodded and I said “Yeah, we used to always go and see him this time of year.” We spent so many Thanksgivings in Mississippi with my Mom’s family. I told my mother that we wouldn’t see him this year and then left her sleeping.

There was a moment when I was driving to the diner. Tulsa feels unfamiliar to me now and I followed my brother-in-law. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was playing on the radio, a song that Chris and I would poke fun at. It is disconcerting to be someplace that is no longer familiar, yet so full of memories. It felt like walking through a field of stinging nettle. We stopped at a stop light and the car in front to my left sported a sticker that read “Every thing is going to be okay.” I eyed it suspiciously and wondered if that were true. Some days, I feel like maybe I’m some sort of immortal, stuck at age thirty four while those around me grow old (and or sick) and pass on from this world. I don’t change while every thing around me is shrinking and aging. This isn’t true, but seeing my mother’s rapid decline in a matter of months makes it feel true.

On my drive home, I tried distracting myself form the state that is my mother. I listened to a podcast about salt, attempted a French lesson, and flipped through music. But it’s a long drive and my brain couldn’t help but flick and pick over earlier moments of the day. I kept looping over the moment when my name was prompted and how my mother doesn’t know me. I kept seeing the state of her, shrunken and frail. Unrecognizable. Now I realize that we don’t know each other. She doesn’t know me as her daughter and I no longer know her has my mother. While she’s become a stranger to me, I’ve become some tiny memory that barely tugs at her brain.

Maybe…maybe I’m her secret bird.

A WEEK OF THANKS

Those of us who are working this week are most likely half present in whatever job they are having to do. I know that I am phoning it in at least today. I have too much on the calendar to just pretend to work for the next couple of days. But Monday’s calendar is light and airy, a rare treat from the last few months and I’ll take it with my arms open wide in acceptance.

Saturday evening was the annual Friendsgiving night at Jenn and Wade’s. As per usual, there was a crowd and way too much food. As per usual, there was more than enough laughter and good conversations. I spent some time rearranging backyard rocks with the most lovely toddler who had very decisive opinions on which rock goes where. She will be in charge of important things some day. We sat around the fire pit and I had an enlightening conversation with a nine-month old. It was delightful, but as per usual, I barely talked to Jenn the whole evening. The morning after, she sent a text about having a family dinner night on Monday. Family dinner nights are less chaotic than Friendsgiving. This also gives a chance to spend more time with another one of our favorites, Sadie, who is in town for general Thanksgiving stuff. We ended up skipping out on family night to avoid spreading whatever cold bug Michael’s getting. But as I sit here typing about Family Dinner nights, I can’t help but think this needs to be a weekly thing.

If not weekly, why aren’t we doing this at least once a month?

There’s this scene in The Big Chill where they’re all gathered around the dining room table and Glenn Close’s character, Sarah says “I know this is all so familiar and I love you all so much; I know that sounds gross doesn’t it? I was at my best when I was with you people.” That scene has always resonated with me because it is a mirror reflection of my own feeling when I have been in the presence of my dearest and closest friends. There is nothing like being in a room filled with people who embrace all of the person I am. I chose to not have children of my own, but I still managed to build a beautiful family.

Wednesday afternoon, I’ll drive to Tulsa and have a very short visit with my mother and driving back on Thursday. Friday, we’ll spend the afternoon with Michael’s moms and Saturday, Michael wants us all to go shopping for shoes and or pants. I will spend Sunday doing craft projects and playing catch-up on all things and with that, my Thanksgiving holiday will be over. Then I’m right back to work with things already booked up for December 1st. I leave on the 5th for a conference and then in a blink, Michael and I will be boarding an airplane to Paris. Time is moving quickly. Too quickly. I’m going to savor the quiet moments of this week, the hours spent alone driving in my car to Oklahoma and back. I’ll use the space between to calm myself to the present. But I will also remember to have gratitude for the chaos that is this season and this beautiful family I’ve built.

Happy Week of Thanks.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

On Wednesday this week, Michael turned the big five-o. His invitation to join AARP arrived earlier in the week. I mentioned this to a co-worker who immediately complained about how receiving this makes people feel so old. I was all “No way, Jose!” I can’t wait for my AARP card. I was also raised by a man who could hold onto a coin tighter than Midas and loved every senior citizen discount he could get his hands on. To me, the AARP card doesn’t say “Old Lady”. It says “You’re finally old enough for extra treats!” Who does not want extra treats?!?! It’s like a bonus for surviving.

But then again, I don’t consider fifty to be old.

Michael thought he’d be dead by now and I can’t tell if he’s happy to have made it to fifty or just surprised to have made it to fifty. Either way, he’s still here and we’ve planned a big fancy vacation to celebrate both of us. He may be the stand-up comic in this pairing, but he is also the most serious person in this pairing. I am truly surprised by just how many ridiculous things I can talk him into. Someone at work was giving away a dog bike trailer and I claimed that thing faster than people even really had time to read the post. I told Michael that I promise that I’m not collecting bike trailers, because it does look like I’m starting a collection. But this one is MADE for a dog. I don’t have to make any adjustments. So on top of all the texts and emails about this Paris restaurant or that Paris cheese shop, I am now sending him texts for paved bike trails in Minnesota and links to bike racks. He doesn’t seem overly excited about any of this but it’s probably just that he’s a little overwhelmed with all the opportunities ahead.

There is just SO MUCH LIFE TO BE LIVED!

I think he actually believes he’s going to be walking around on this planet for a while longer. He talks about retirement and his job opportunities during retirement. He’s torn between math tutor and hotdog cart vendor, but either way, he’s planning ahead and envisioning a future for himself. That has to count for something. And even though there are times I’d like to lock him in the basement, he always finds a way to help me implement whatever big idea I come up with. He is the Pinky to my Brain. He tolerates more than some men in relationships have to tolerate, like the ghost of my dead husband. I think of this when I’m considering locking him in the basement.

It helps me stay empathetic.

ANOTHER INSTALLMENT

In yet another installment of What The Internets Is Trying to Sell Me, I bring to you planners. I’m still getting tons of car camping and camper van ads, but coming in hot right now are all the various ways I can journal and plan my way through 2026. But wait! They’re not just daily planners. They’re scrap books and goal books and coloring books and journals all wrapped up in one easy to cary book. Some of them even come with stickers! It’s like the internet just noticed that I’ve been spending this year juggling three different calendars and decided that I needed to add another calendar to make my life more organized. I was lured in at first. I won’t lie. Seeing these images of beautifully curated journal entries with pictures and drawings all corresponding to that particular day, made my heart leap in my chest with a belief that I could do that. I could sit and journal with pretty colored pencils and neat handwriting. I have time and patience to do this and stay on top of this for an entire year. This will make me be more creative while being more organized.

Then I had my Cher in Moonlight moment and came to my senses.

I have a calendar attached to my work email and all work related things are there, but I also put work related things in my Google calendar, which is bit more user friendly than the work one. I’ve got things color coded with red for work, yellow for social events and purple for health and body related appointments. This calendar is linked up to my Apple calendar on my phone, which is sometimes easier for me get to when I’m quickly needing to add something. I also have a dry-erase calendar that fill out every month with stuff that both Michael and I are doing so he has an easy visual of why I may not be home. This month, I drew silly little turkeys on some of the blocks. That’s creative. For the most part, all of this is working for me and I do not miss appointments or forget that I have to run a batch of fifty slides on the new microscope. The dry-erase calendar is probably over kill, especially since I usually have to tell Michael every day that I will be out of town starting the week before going out of town. The times when this doesn’t work for me are usually those days where I have said “yes, I can do this for you” one too many times and have filled may day with back to back to back commitments. This is not a failure of my calendar.

This is a failure to set boundaries.

Those ads I’m getting for the journal/planners offend me. First of all, stop trying to capitalize on my anxiety. Secondly, don’t assume that I am unorganized or uncommitted to goals. Thirdly, my life doesn’t need to be hyper organized, and fourthly, I don’t have the time or patience to make a beautifully curated journal/planner. I have always been disappointed with the outcome from an attempt at artful journaling, with the exception of the Fortune Cookie journal where I filled the pages with tiny stories of fiction. I have many many notebooks where the pages are filled with yoga classes. I always write out an outline for each class I teach. Now that I have an iPad with an Apple pen, I write those outlines in an app and this has worked well for me for years. In the early years, those outlines included stick figures doing poses. This is probably why I’ve never thrown those notebooks away. Many years from now, when the Cabbage has to sort through all my crap, they’re going to find at least five notebooks filled with stick figures doing yoga, like hieroglyphs.

They for sure will not find years of artfully journaled planners.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but people could really see the Aurora Borealis on Tuesday night. I was getting ready for bed when my phone started buzzing with texts from friends telling me to “GET OUTSIDE NOW!” So I grabbed my phone and ran out the front door to a lovely view of…trees. I walked to the end of my block and still could see nothing and since I was already ready for bed, I did not jump in a vehicle and attempt to drive to some place to see it. I might have some regrets but I also need to respect the human that I am. And that is not a night time human. I am not a nighttime photographer for a number of reasons:

1. My bedtime is 9 PM

2. I am sensitive to temperatures

3. I lack the patience required for setting up the gear and messing with the camera settings

4. I am lazy

5. My bedtime is 9 PM!

I have made attempts to get out there to see meteor showers and comets, but if it takes more than ten minutes for an event to happen, I’m out.

So Tuesday night I got a picture of the night sky with a faint hint of purple visible in a swirl while half the people texted me their pictures of full on night rainbows from the their front yards. I had almost decided that I was okay with this until the rumors started going around that Wednesday’s night showing was going to be even better than Tuesdays. I made a plan, choosing a park that sits on a cliff above the river just north of downtown. The locals refer to this park as murder park, but I was not deterred. I let Lauren and Jenn know I was going out at around 8:30 and they were welcome. It ended up being me, Jenn, Wade and Lauren in my car Wednesday night, driving to murder park, in search of the northern lights.

And we saw nothing.

I should be really mad and upset for not getting any good images from the night rainbow display this week, but I’m not. Wednesday night, I drove all of us out to murder park and the whole time we gabbed and joked and sang old songs at the top of our lungs. We were nearly side swiped by a car suddenly passing us and we had one of those terrifying moments of ‘we could have died!’ but then we all starting laughing our heads off. We had a good time and it jogged memories. It was like those times when I’d been out late with friends after football games and we’d end up speeding down country roads, radio blaring. It was like all of those times when Chris wanted to go out and chase tornadoes or head out to a dark skies area to stare up at the stars. The destinations never mattered. It was always a car full of friends with gabbing and laughter and scream singing to the radio. Wednesday night was just like all those silly shenanigans we did in our youth. My gas tank was even sitting near empty.

As I near fifty, I keep thinking that I should feel different, feel older or mature. My examples of what a woman in their fifties should look like are all based on sitcoms like Designing Women or Golden Girls or Maude. The entertainment industry has always exaggerated age, but my own mother didn’t look any different at age fifty than she did in her thirties. It wasn’t until maybe the last ten years that my mother really started to look aged and now that she’s nearing eighty five, she looks like what I would expect for an elderly person. Sort of, but that’s another story. Wednesday night’s shenanigans made me feel like I was no where close to my actual age. I am not against the concept of aging. Every year I survive is a freaking miracle. But I am against the concept of age defined behavior, that you must look and behave a certain way in relation to your age group.

I like to think that I almost purposefully go against the social construct of age, with the exception of the nine o’clock bedtime, but I’ve been that way since I was small. I can’t believe that I let impromptu adventures fall to the wayside or even take a moment to be grateful for all those times before. There were times when Chris was gathering people for one of those adventures and I would decline to go for some various reason. Now, I have regrets. But those regrets make me even more grateful for the times I did get in that car.

WHAT IF GAME, NEW LEVEL

Chad and I stood outside a ramen shop in Falmouth MA, waiting for a to-go order and talking about all the stuff. At one point, confessions were made. I confessed to just not caring for or about anything right now. Chad’s response to this was “I’m just dancing to the music until the Titanic sinks.” I nodded my head in agreement. At the time of our conversation it did feel a bit like being on a sinking ship without adequate life rafts, surrounded by the chaos brought on by panic. It’s sort of an out of body feeling, doing nothing or feeling like you’re doing nothing while watching people fighting over life rafts and flotation devices. I could easily picture Chad in a tuxedo, holding out a glass of champagne with his other arm wrapped around an imaginary dance partner, obliviously dancing and swaying to the songs playing in his head.

I could easily see myself tapping the imaginary dancer and asking if I could cut in.

A few weeks later, things shifted and I woke up feeling hopeful. I texted Chad with “What if the Titanic didn’t sink?” Chad thinks the Titanic is still going to sink. My response was “Okay, but what if we build more life boats?” If he was in the room with me at this moment, he would have patted my head and told me that I was adorable. Instead he just texted that appreciated my earnestness, but then the idea of the Titanic not sinking got stuck in my head. I started falling down the paradox rabbit hole not unlike the one I still sometimes travel when I think about what if Chris hadn’t died. What ensues is a fictional wonderland where nothing bad has happened in the last fourteen years. I’ve never attempted to extend this thinking game beyond one human, but why not?

There were 2,224 people on board the Titanic when it set sail for the United States. More than half of those people died. Three hundred and eight seven of those people were in third class, planning to immigrate to the US. In the grand scheme of tragic mass deaths, this isn’t a huge number. Though it is still a larger number than the third class passengers who died on the Lusitania. Except not by much since the Lusitania was a smaller ship. See how easy it is minimize large casualties of war and incompetence? Any way, to play the What If game, you have to image what today would be like if none of those people had died, the rich ones or poor ones.

There’s a paper that came out in 2023 from the Stanford Institute of Economic Policy Research that used US patent applications to look at immigrant contributions to innovation in the US. Between 1990 and 2006, nearly 880,000 people patented inventions in the US and 23% of those were issued to immigrants.

The average immigrant is substantially more productive than the average U.S.-born inventor - SIEPR Senior Fellow Rebecca Diamond and colleagues

My first thought when it comes to inventions and patents is mechanical inventions, but that’s a limited view. Inventions and patents are applicable to medical discoveries, life saving technologies. We’re talking about inventions that make our health better, our lives better and easier. So, it’s easy to say that this administration’s attack on immigrants is an attack on innovation. They are not just forcefully dragging people who are any shade of brown from their cars, homes and jobs. They have made it more expensive and difficult for foreign students and postdocs to be here to do innovative work. People I work with are stressed and worried because they’ve been put on a very short timescale to wrap up very complicated science experiments before their VISAS run out.

Innovation is a chain reaction that leads to jobs and an improved economy. But it doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

It’s not hard to feel like I am currently on a sinking Titanic. Instead of playing a game of What If in regards to a sinking Titanic, I am now playing the game of How Much. How much can we get accomplished before it sinks? How much can we save before we have to jump ship? I joke every Saturday with the cashier at Trader Joes about how much I can fit in my reusable grocery bag and I how I end playing pack mule to get it out of the car and into the house. I can carry a lot. I can hold a lot. But I can’t hold onto everything. In four years and with some hope, this will be a salvage mission, skimming the waters for all the things we can salvage from a sunken ship.

Maybe I’m better off just dancing to the music.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

This was a real good week. The time change did have me wanting to go to bed at 8:00 PM and up at 3:30 AM, but, by now, I’m used to the wonky sleeping situation that is my daily life. Yes, the government is still shut down and Trump is still refusing to feed Americans, but we have seen an outpouring from the haves to help out the havenots. Well…maybe not quite the haves because we’re struggling too, but I can afford to buy a few extra cans of food every week during my grocery shopping trips to hand over to the food banks. As anyone heard how much Elon has donated to feed Americans? I haven’t heard, but I do know he’s received somewhere around $38 billion in government subsidies, contracts, loans and tax breaks since 2000.

Give your money away, shorties. - Billie Eilish

There is hope on the horizons.

This weather this week has been the complete opposite from last week. Every day of last week was gray and dreary. We did not see the sun. I worried that this was just how it was going to be until Spring, skipping through Fall right on to Winter. But this week has been nothing but blue skies and warmer than usual temperatures. While it is still fairly brisk in the mornings, things have warmed up for perfectly comfortable afternoons. I woke up Tuesday morning and after walking Josephine, I thought “Why am I not taking advantage of this weather?!?!” and decided to ride my bicycle to work. I bundled up with a coat and gloves and headed out into the brisk morning. Michael gets alerts when the garage door has been opened. By the time I got to work, he’d sent a text asking me how I’d gotten to work. He probably assumed that I took the scooter and it had been a consideration that morning before I turned to the bicycle. When I told him I’d taken the bicycle, he inquired about my ride. I told him that it was not uncomfortable. I’d worn too much coat, but nothing on my ears, so they were cold.

I know how to fix this.

But then, I rode my bicycle again on Wednesday and Michael sent me a text: “Did you ride your bike again?” I replied back with a yes and he told me that I am pretty amazing, which made me feel like maybe I was kind of amazing. I don’t know if that’s really true. It just felt ungrateful to not take advantage of this probably last week of tolerable bike riding weather before Winter sets in and my soul turns to sludge. Because the sun is setting at an earlier time in the evenings, the golden light hour is happening when I start cycling home and my route takes me through neighborhoods full of trees. So many of them have turned from green to bright colors of red, orange or gold. The sun filtering through those leaves at that time of day is like riding inside a stained glass window. Everything around me is ridiculously stunning that it didn’t feel real, like I was on the set of some John Hughes Thanksgiving movie.

So I rode my bicycle again the next day and then again the next.

Fridays are for scooters.

I am always such a big baby about weather. The slightest bit of chill in the air will have me throwing my hands up in despair. Imagine the sound of every child at Halloween who has to wear a coat over their costumes to go trick-or-treating. This is me any time the weather requires a coat. Yes, I realize that we will be in Paris in December and that much of our time will be spent outside. I am mentally prepared for this. Michael and I were in New York City in February one year. It snowed, but for some reason I didn’t even care. I was too busy being a tourist, which is exactly what will end up happening in France. I can easily be distracted from my discomfort. This week, I’ve discovered that I do not have to be on vacation for this to be true as I rode my bicycle.

The temperatures are predicted to drop over the weekend. Freeze warnings have been issued, but the roller coaster temps will be back up later in the week. There still might be a few days left for cycling to work, but they are limited. Before I know it, I won’t even be able to tolerate riding the scooter due to the cold. I’ll be plunged back into months of darkness and cold, trying not to fall into the habits of the last winter. Knowing that this weather we have right now is temporary has been my energy source for pushing those bike pedals. It is easy to be grateful for this weather, but my gratitude is in my actions to not take this weather for granted. I am so grateful that even on Thursday when I woke up with a don’t wanna attitude, I got on my bicycle anyway.

Today, I am grateful for taking advantage and soaking up the good things around me.

HURRICANES

A friend shared an article last week about people being less afraid of hurricanes if the hurricane is named with a feminine name. I did not click on the link or read the article, but the head line used the word ‘studies’ so it presumably contains some research data. Even if it didn’t contain research data, I would believe that naming a hurricane after a woman would make the hurricane feel less threatening to a number of people. The US started naming hurricanes solely after women in 1953, after abandoning a confusing plan to name storms by a phonetic alphabet. This changed in 1978, but it is notable that out of 101 retired hurricane names for Atlantic storms, only 31 are male names. The truth is, I can’t remember a single hurricane named after a dude. Those hurricanes didn’t make a big enough presence to be news worthy, but those hurricanes named after women have been forces of destruction.

In August of 2005, we lost my nephew, J, to a car bomb in Iraq. That same month Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, and destroyed it in the most violent awful ways possible. We watched the horror of events unfold on the news as people were being rescued from rooftops and houses were marked with the number of dead inside. It was heartbreaking on a million levels. Visiting New Orleans always feels like going home, almost as if I lived there in a former life. Watching it’s destruction was devastating. Even now, twenty years later, the city of New Orleans has scars from this hurricane. I thought the naming of Hurricane Katrina to be fitting in some way. My sister-in-law is named Katrina and this storm seemed like a physical manifestation of her rage and grief, of all of our rage grief really, but there is nothing comparable to the rage and grief of a mother. The protective term of ‘mama bear’ is not born of a sweat teddy bear vision of a mother bear coddling her cub. No, it comes from a vision of a larger than life monster of a bear roaring with teeth bared.

I am positive that every single one of you have quacked with terror when your mother has yelled your name in a particular tone of voice. Sometimes she didn’t even have to yell.

Yet, after all this time, we’re still under the impression that women are harmless? I doubt this has ever truly been the case, but more of a social construct designed by the patriarchy. The truth is, people and especially men, know just how fierce and scary women can be. This is why they go above and beyond to keep up their diatribe propaganda, perpetuating a weak and helpless stereotype of women. We didn’t burn women because we thought they were witches. We burned women because they were a threat to a man and then other men looked at the younger women and pointed their fingers. “Let this be a lesson to ya, lassies!” Of course, this particular threat was not one of violence, but one of intelligence. We burn women for being intellectual threats.

Mother Gaia, Mother Earth, is an ancient goddess representing nature and nurture and life and growth. We gendered this planet and she is female. Except this planet is violent. Our continents and islands have all been shaped through violence. Molten lava still erupts from the earth, displacing communities while creating new land. Mother Earth has always destroyed before creating. We should be terrified of hurricanes especially if they have a female name because it is a product of Mother Earth. Hurricanes named after men have always done what most men do. They blow around a lot of hot air before petering out in a disappointing climax. And yes, this might be a little bit mean, but this should be expected if we insist on gendering all the things.

Gender is a social construct that pits us against one another. Look how divided we are over it! Bathrooms and pronouns and Drag Queens, oh my! Who has time for real social and environmental change when we’re in a battle of the sexes? Did you say the government is still shutdown and about 42 billion American citizens are losing their SNAP benefits? I’m sorry. I can’t hear you because I’m too busy trying to figure out if I should be concerned about a category five hurricane. Maybe we can just drop the whole naming hurricanes thing. They have severity categories just like tornadoes and we don’t go around giving tornadoes names. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe when the weather scientists warn me that a particular hurricane, no matter the name, is hitting land at a category five I’d take it pretty fucking seriously.

But I also believe in listening to scientists.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

There is a new commercial out for Macs that starts with a blinking cursor in the midst of large white space. Then the late Dr. Goodall, starts narrating about the potential in that blinking cursor.

Every story you love, every invention that moves you, every idea you wished was yours, all began as nothing. Just a flicker on a screen, asking a simple question: What do you see? - Dr. Jane Goodall.

Every time this commercial pops up onto the TV, I whisper to myself “Fuck you” which I recognize as not a nice thing to whisper to the voice of the late Dr. Goodall. It’s not even a nice thing to a (flawed) computer company who’s computers I’ve been using since 1998. What can I say? Their operating system doesn’t make me want to scream with rage. I live in a computer world and my job requires me to be a computer girl. I have chosen the computer that doesn’t make me want to throw it out a window everyday. So I am not whisper swearing at Apple or Dr. Goodall. I am whisper swearing at the potential of a blinking cursor.

All year, I have struggled to have an iota of creative feelings. I am not enthusiastic about any of the photos I take. The creative writing practice from journal prompts that I do on Saturday mornings and the sketches on pictures for the In My Coffee series, all feel like forced activities. I think about those years where I was forced to sit on the hard piano bench and practice scales until the kitchen timer went off and I have to remind myself that these activities are not the same as learning piano at the age of five. I will admit that I have been considering taking up piano again since we have one in the house for the Cabbage, but I’m not five and sitting still at the piano sounds almost relaxing. Whenever I think about hobbies to dabble into, I keep coming back to music. No one from this current life knows that I once had a very nice singing voice or could play everything in the percussion pit and a cello. But no five year old wants to sit at a piano for thirty minutes. Well, at least five-year-old Cindy most certainly did not want to sit still on a piano bench, plunking away at scales.

The creative writing practice and the sketches on photos are of my own making, design and desires.

When I sat down to write today’s post, I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen for a really long time. The only thing I could think to write, or want to write, is an essay centered around some thoughts I have floating in my head on hurricane names and grief. It is a post not quiet fitting to a weekly practice of gratitude. So I watched the cursor blinking on my screen and tried to think of something about this week that is not just something I am grateful for, but something I feel worthy to share, something that’s not a list. And I just keep coming back to that damn blinking cursor. Except my feelings of angst and frustration of not being able to move that blinking cursor along, is beginning to shift.

Recently, I went back to a bit of fiction I had started writing a couple of years ago. It was something born from a very vivid dream and once I wrote down just the dream part, the story started to grow. But, like most of my potential book writing pieces, it got shoved aside for further pondering or for lack of spare time. More lack of spare time than pondering, if I’m honest. Any way, something nudged me to go in and look at this piece and add a few bits here and there. And it felt good. It felt fun. Because the piece is frivolous. It’s magic and mystery and romance. It’s entertainment.

And this is why my attitude towards the blinking cursor has shifted.

By setting my angst and frustrations aside, I can clearly see the potential behind a blank page with a blinking cursor. I can even be grateful for it. As a kid, heck..even now, when I received a new sketch book or coloring book and new colored pencils, I would hold off using them for ages because I was enamored with the blankness and the pristine state of pencils. Eventually I would and do give in and use them as intended, but sitting with the blankness of the page is a comfort. There’s no reason a computer screen with a blinking cursor can’t also be a comfort. It is, after all, just another potential for creativity, for crafting messages of joy, for bringing dreams to life. If you were to ask me today ‘what do I see?’ while staring at a blinking cursor, I would say ‘rhythm’. There’s a beat, a cadence, and it is begging for a dance partner.

And I need to dance.

MY FAVORITE STORY OF MBL

The Marine Biology Lab (MBL) in Woods Hole shares a library with the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute (WHOI) and the library space is a bibliophile’s dream. It’s old and dark. It smells of books and sea. There are places in the floor that feels soft and not safe to stand on. This is my favorite place at MBL. The lobby of the library holds a tiny museum with glass cases of early microscopes and placards of information about early scientists on the wall. One case contains the Nobel Prize of Thomas Hunt Morgan’s. I have a picture of me somewhere, holding it and looking like I’m trying to eat it.

Of all the stories hanging on the walls of this lobby, it is the story of Katsuma Dan. Katsuma Dan was a researcher from Japan who studied at MBL from 1931-1934 and then later in 1936, when he met his future wife, Jean M. Clark. They both used sea urchins to study the mechanisms of cell division. While they moved to Japan to continue their careers, they often returned to MBL as summer researchers. This is not the first story I have heard of researchers meeting their life partners while studying at MBL and it is not Katsuma Dan’s time at MBL that I love. It’s actually the story of him working at the Misaki Marine Biological Station during World War II. He talked about the war in letters to friends in US, saying “ducking under bombs was not so bad. Rather it was a great excitement. Hide and seek at the expense of your life can’t help being exciting. There was, however, an awful side to it.”

The Japanese Navy took over the Misaki Marine Station near the end of the war, converting it into a base for miniature submarines. Dan and his students set up a make-shift lab space nearby and continued working. At the end of the war, Dan posted a handwritten note to advancing American forces on the door of Misaki:

This is a a marine biological station with her history of over sixty years. If you are from the Eastern Coast, some of you might Woods Hole or Mt Desert or Tortugas. If you are from the West Coast, you may know Pacific Grove or Puget Sound Biological Station. This place is a place lone of these. Take care of this place and protect the possibility for the continuation of our peaceful research. You can destroy the weapons and the war instruments. But save the civil equipments for Japanese students. When you are through with your job here notify to the University and let us come back to our scientific home.

The last one to go - Katsuma Dan

That handwritten note hangs in the lobby of the MBL library and it is one of the first things I pointed out to Chad and Jess during our tour of the library. I waited for the two of them to read over the words and when Chad had finished reading the note, he turned to me with tears in is eyes and said “Yeah…okay. This goes on the list of what made Chad cry today.”

I feel like there is such a remoteness to being a research scientist and I often struggle to define ‘research scientist’. It is such an umbrella term, more like a circus tent of a label, to describe all the various kinds of things scientists study. It is also a career that sounds elitist in its intellectualism. But you don’t have to be the smartest person in the room to be a research scientist. You just have to be curious and maybe a little bit fearless in asking questions. The story of Katsuma Dan shows us the very human and real sides of a scientist. We love. We are funny and goofy. And at the end of the day, we are all very passionate about protecting our spaces that allow us to ask questions and be curious and to be silly and goofy.

Dan’s note says it all. We have no use for the weapons and instruments of war. Leave us the tools for discovering the answers to our questions. Protect these spaces because places like MBL and Misaki are homes for us. Places like MBL need federal grant money to keep the lights on. Meanwhile, the current administration feels that tax dollars are better spent on acts of cruelty rather than spending it on scientific research, affordable health care and food assistance programs. Dan’s note to approaching American forces transcends time because, as scientists, all we can ask for under this administration is to “protect the possibility for the continuation of our peaceful research”.

Protect the possibility.

I don’t think that’s a very big ask.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I am never prepared for the hours and hours of silence when I am in Woods Hole, MA. I have known for months that I was making this trip and I did a thing I most almost never do. I waited until the last minute to pack, to plan out my tasks in the lab space, plan my off hours time. So, on this trip, not only am I unprepared for the silence, but I am unprepared from the lack of planning. I feel like I have had vast amounts of time left unaccounted for, yet I spent a whole day and a half updating my inventory list for our lab space and taking care of some administrative details. I’ve shut down computers and unplugged equipment, made note of transmitted light bulbs to bring with me in the Spring. But I have moved along at a snail’s pace.

Maybe this is what I needed.

The North East coast is awash in color this time of year. There is a constant cold wind blowing in off the Atlantic and though the sun is blinding, it is cold. The joke is that I have never been here when it is warm. I am always visiting when the leaves are changing or when the Rhododendrons are blooming. I am always visiting when the area is in full techno color vision. It is slightly discombobulating, the juxtaposition of bright, almost loud, colors mixed with the silence. Woods Hole is a ghost town right now. For my first night, I thought I was the only person staying in the dorms. There’s a small gathering of scientific journalists here now for a conference. By small, I mean they all fit at one table in the cafeteria. I walked over to one of the beaches yesterday morning and had it all to myself.

On my last day, I met up with Chad and Jess. We spent the afternoon, tooling around the Cape in their camper van, stopping to hike out to the Knob or taking photos of lighthouses. We had hours of catching up on what is happening in each other’s lives. We had hours of laughter. My sides ache this morning from the shear amount of laughing. But I do miss my bed, my pillow. I miss my dog and honestly, I miss Michael. I always worry about the two of them when I am away. Will Josephine get enough attention? Will Michael eat a vegetable? Will he notice if the pets are out of water or remember to empty Rosie (robot vacuum)? I’ve done this before and often, left the two of them to their own devices, and I always come home to a dog and a person who are still breathing, both happy to see me.

Part of settling into the silence here and the snail’s pace of things is letting go. I realize that in the absence of outside noises, my internal voices get louder. Each thought is a thread or weed pulled from my brain. I am learning to pluck out the annoying voices, the ones who speak of worries and doubts. Michael and Josephine are just fine. In fact Josephine is probably just now noticing that I’ve been gone longer than usual. I am learning to organize the thoughts and voices leftover. I wonder if there’s something there, something useful. Is this a story? Is this a reminder? Is this a positive affirmation? Sometimes it is just a reminder to stare out into the ocean or look up into the night sky. You know how sometimes a person shares a picture of their dog with a goofy look on his face with a caption of “No thoughts, just vibes” ? This is what it means to stare out into the sea, to take a moment for just feeling your feet sink in the sand and the salty wind hitting your face. Vibes. No thoughts.

Give the thinking a rest.

THE WEEKEND

The weekend was positively lovely, until 10:00 PM Saturday when one of Heather’s beagles, Edie, chose violence towards her very elderly sister Boo. But that’s another story (maybe) and sweet Boo Boo is now sporting an atrocious new haircut, requires daily eye drops and an antibiotic. She’s fine. It was more traumatic for Heather and everyone is going to be okay. The rest of our time was carefree and filled with bubble wine. We moved around slowly Saturday morning, eventually making our way to the Iowa State Capitol for the No Kings Rally. I’m not sure what I expected. I have not had the heart to attend any of the previous rallies that have happened in Kansas City. I think a part of me believed that I would be depressed by a minuscule crowd of people.

This was not the case on Saturday.

Thousands of people gathered at the State Capitol building in protest of Trump and his horrific administration. This was also true in Kansas City and cities all across this country. I saw signs in support of funding peer reviewed science and the importance of vaccines. I saw signs in support of our immigrant communities and health care. I saw signs supporting our farmers who are struggling to get decent prices for their crops because of the tariff situation. We heard speeches from local business owners and representatives. There were so many different inflatable costumes! And…there was joy on peoples’ faces. No one was yelling hatefulness. There was zero aggressive behavior, but I mean….inflatable costumes. Nothing says “I’m a ridiculous jerk.” more if you are the type to punch or attack a person wearing an inflated unicorn costume.

I felt something break inside me the minute we stepped into this crowd and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I couldn’t speak and at any minute I could have started sobbing. I’ve been sitting with the why of this for a bit now. Then I was listening to Left, Right & Center on NPR during my drive home on Sunday where they were talking with Estee Zandee, the author of The Necessity of Pruning Our Busy Lives, an article published on The Dispatch. The beginning of this article starts with a description of a book club meeting Estee was attending. This was her first time joining; book clubs were not really her thing, but the invite came at time when she was feeling disconnected. What she discovered was that book club was only a little about the book and more about an open and honest, wide range of topics, dialogue amongst a group of women.

On the contrary, this neighborhood group of women was a terrible book club, but it was an incredible community. Unfiltered. Real. And it came with sticky coasters and focaccia crumbs. - Estee Zandee.

It is not that we do not have connection. I am connected to friends and family through daily group chats. At any moment I can open up my Instagram and know that there messages of shared reels waiting for me to laugh at. I send out birthday greetings to people weekly, but when’s the last time I wished a happy birthday directly to a person’s face? Actually…I did this last week with Nurse Jenn. Being able to wish someone a Happy Birthday to their face is a completely different experience. It is a true, less hollow, connection. It is a connection without the walls of distance or a cold screen.

Setting down our phones to fully interact with the people in the room is not a new concept. We’ve been hearing about the dangers of screen time and its impact on mental health for years now. The media constantly reminds us of all the ways we have become divided and disconnected from each other. And it is so easy to believe. It is so easy to feel alone and isolated. Being amongst that throng of people at the rally reminded me that I am not alone. I am not isolated. Some might say that rallies on Saturday were meaningless. What does it change? Karen Walrond wrote on her Substack “communal compassion is an act of rebellion.” and she’s not wrong. The No Kings rally was a moment for the communities to come together in compassion. Every person left that day feeling inspired and hopeful.

We left hungry for change and joyful that we don’t have to do the work alone.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I’ve been busy. Like Bizz-eeee. Last Saturday was Celebration Nurse Jenn. This included shuffling through the crowds at the Renaissance Faire, something I had never been too here. It’s kind of a big deal with permanent structures and large sculptures dotted around. I took my camera, but only took like four pictures because I felt uncomfortable photographing people. Though I do regret not getting a good picture of a legit looking Santa. Instead, I walked around openly staring with my mouth hanging open. The people watching was spectacular, the crowds were a bit too much, but the weather was perfect. We followed that adventure up with a nice dinner at Westside Local and then a firepit evening in Jenn and Wade’s backyard. It was a great day filled with wonderful people.

Michael was in and out for the events of that day in between shuttling the Cabbage around for Speech and Debate. I believe this was their first tournament and they came in fifth out of over a hundred other kids. The Cabbage was given the option to hang out with us at the firepit. They were also given the option to go with us to the Asian food market on Sunday. They declined both invites to stay home and care for themselves after two long days of tournament. But, they made their own lunch on Sunday, cleaned up after themselves, put clean sheets on the bed, and took a shower all without nudging or asking. Sure, I’m proud of them for doing well at the tournament. That’s great, but I really put an emphasis on how happy I was that they had fun and enjoyed themselves at the tournament. I am also impressed with how they took care of themselves. I took a cue from them when I was off Monday and had the house all to myself. I was the only one in the house with a day off in celebration of our Indigenous People. I spent the morning cleaning the house and the afternoon binging Netflix.

Any way…that was last weekend. This weekend is Celebration Heather weekend and we’re celebrating by attending a No Kings protest. I’m sure there will be fancy cheese and wine too. I’ll come home on Sunday and have just enough time to do some laundry before repacking my suitcase. I leave for Woods Hole on Tuesday to close down our lab space for the winter. The plan is to also see Chad and Jess while I am there. They have been driving in their camper van up to Canada. My trip coincides with their return drive back down to Tennessee and I can’t wait to squeeze them both. I’d like to say that things will slow down after this trip but it doesn’t. There will be Cabbage related events. I have to figure out a Celebration Katrina time. Michael’s birthday is in November and even though we said “No birthday celebrations!” for this year because of Paris, I still should take him out for dinner. Before we know it, it will be Thanksgiving which feels more complicated than previous years. I just keep thinking about the tasks ahead with work, a conference in December, and finding a way to see family before leaving for our Christmas Holiday.

Recently, Karen Walrond shared something on her Substack about a reel she’d watched from a woman who liked to set her resolutions in the Fall. She compared it to gardening. I left a comment about Fall being a good time of year for planting onions. Sewing seeds and bulbs of wants and plans gives them time grow. I specifically chose onions because I want a more layered life, one that includes travel and friends as well as new hobbies. I have been thinking about projects and things I want in the next year ever since picking up Karen’s latest book, In Defense of Dabbling. Usually I lean more towards the “why wait?” mentality, but things feel really full right now, but I feel like there’s only one layer to that fullness and it is work. I am more than a scientist. But then I think about all the things I told you above, all the tales of people watching and spending time with those who are dear to me and I realize that my life really does have more than one layer.

But it doesn’t hurt to want more.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Gratitude in list form.

• For three out five days, I have ridden my bicycle to work. Last week after the last ride of that week, I had 585 miles on my odometer and I told Michael that I wanted to put 600 miles on the bike before the end of riding season. I did that and more. Honestly, I didn’t set a high bar for myself but at this point setting any kind of bar and then reaching that bar is spectacular. I am just as proud of myself now as if I had set the bar at 700 miles. I also learned that I do not like 45 degree temperatures for bike riding, but maybe if I wear I hat I will like it a little. I am grateful for these rides not just for physical health but also for my mental health.

• We are having some issues with Mom and my sister is struggling to get those issues addressed. There have been talks of moving her to some different places. Hospice has been suggested and before my sister met with hospice, she asked for a list of questions to ask. I paused and then remembered that my lovely friend, Lauren, is a hospice nurse. I asked her some questions and she responded back immediately and with some really helpful information. I am so thankful for Lauren. Also, Mom is better and the hospice care is helping. I am grateful for my siblings, especially my sister, who have been dealing with all of this.

• A friend/colleague’s mom routinely makes us batches of what we call Magic Bars. They are a delicious chocolate nutty cake bar. He brought them in once and we all went crazy over them so now his mom brings a batch of them every time she visits and we love her for it. Those magic bars got me through some tough days this week and I am grateful.

• Last Friday, Josephine got a haircut and an allergy shot. She’s extra sassy cute right now and no longer itchy. We have had morning cuddles this week since she is back to sleeping under the comforter. Our bedtime routine after Michael turns out the light is for me to roll to my side and then lift the edge of the comforter so Josephine can dive in, which she does with great enthusiasm. It’s adorable and she’s wonderful.

• Last night, the cat ran across the living room and pounced into my lap. Once he settled, Michael and I were talking about how the cat should not be alive. Then Michael looked up the average lifespan for an indoor/outdoor cat and discovered he most definitely should not be alive. The average lifespan for an indoor/outdoor cat is four to five years. Albus is at least ten years old and he was hit by a car once. I don’t think he ventures too far from the house these days, but I caught him eating a squirrel in the backyard on Sunday. So he’s still doing wild animal cat stuff. I’m grateful he’s still around and there is a sneaky satisfaction in knowing he prefers my lap to anyone else’s in the house.

• I end every yoga class by telling my students to have gratitude to themselves for being present in class and doing kind things for their bodies. This is something I need to tell myself each night when I lay down in my bed for the night. It particularly holds true for this week. I did something kind for my body every day this week and I was fully present in each day’s tasks. I am ending this week with gratitude to myself.

Usually when I end up writing my gratitude post in list form it means I’m struggling. I think, like many of us, I’m just barely keeping my head a float. Last night Michael repurposed Sunday’s leftovers into our dinner. Then he said “Look at us! Using our leftovers like we’re living in the Depression Era.” I reminded him that we are currently in a depression era, but we laughed about it. Really this is all we can do. Basically, we’re fine. Existentially, we’re struggling.

If I’m stuck, I’ll start a list. The thing about making a gratitude list is that once I write down one thing, I come up with more things to add to the list. It’s like peddling a bike up a hill, starts out slow and there is some effort required. But that moment you reach the top of the hill and then start your descent down the other side feels like a joy ride. This list is an ‘in spite of’ list and the only way to beat the algorithms designed to divide us is to flood our social spaces with goodness, peer reviewed science, and multiple sourced news.

My gratitude is my activism.

AGING AND WOMEN AND PINK PONIES

I hadn’t planned to go the Chappell Roan pop-up concert even though I wanted to go. I glanced at the concert ticket lottery but dismissed it immediately. First, I’m going to Paris. This has been my mantra all year whenever I think about spending money. Secondly, I lacked the energy required just to get the tickets. Then a couple of weeks ago Melissa sent me a text saying her friend had an extra ticket and asked if I wanted to go with them to the Saturday concert. My heart screamed “YES!” while the rest of me said “Let me consult the financial advisor.” Which used to be a magic 8-ball until Michael showed up. I have been teaching extra yoga and I used that as my leverage and that’s how I ended up on the Liberty Memorial Lawn with about 30,000 people Saturday night, dancing around to the tunes of Chappell Roan.

I took very few pictures and most of those were not great, but I was more focused on being present than filming. The concert was great. The ADA services could have been better. Melissa was able to see most of the concert from a big screen, but we had limited access to food and water. Mostly water. The water station was in the middle of a grassy median surrounded with curb, no ramps. So….there’s room for improvements, but all in all we had a really great time. The people watching was spectacular and spotting bare butts (lots of wardrobe choices that included thongs and ass-less chaps) became a drinking game. After the show, Melissa and I sat in the backseat of her friends’ car doing running commentary on the poor choices in footwear for those who walked miles to the concert. We watched one girl take off her boots and walk down the street in her socks. Melissa and I could both recall moments in our youths where we were that girl in sock covered feet, walking down a street.

Oh…youth. I don’t envy it but I envy it a little and here’s why.

During my youthful concert going days, women artists where not the big show. They were the opening act, but not the big 30,000 sold out ticket show. Women were never even marketed for such a thing. Women I’ve seen in concert because they were the opener include Traci Chapman and Annie Lennox. Annie fucking Lennox was an opening act for the Police reunion tour. I would have paid those ticket prices just to see her. Sarah McLaughlin built Lilith Fair while people were telling her that no one is going to spend money on concert tickets where women were the headliners. Lilith Fair toured for two years with sold out shows at every venue. The media was merciless the whole time mocking the event with terms like “lesbian fair” and making fun of the artists based on their appearances. Does any one remember how crazy people went over Paula Cole’s unshaved armpits? As if this is something we should even care about, but it sticks. That gets filed away into the brain of a young girl into a folder labeled ‘Never’. That folder holds all the rules for our bodies. Never get fat. Never be too skinny. Never have hair growing on arms, pubic area or armpits.

It’s a big fat file.

But the current generation of youth gives zero fucks about that stuff. They fully embrace all that is their bodies and it is lovely and beautiful. And quit frankly, makes me jealous because of the amount of time spent wasted as a young woman worrying about some aspect of my appearance. Granted, I have now reached an age where I also give zero fucks about how my body might look to others, but that wasn’t always the case. There is so much about being a woman that involves concealment of one’s self, wrapping ourselves up for invisibility but also approval. In 1991, Demi Moore posed nude with a large pregnant belly for the cover of Vanity Fair and people crawled out of the walls to bitch and scream about the indecency of it all. “How dare she?!?” they cried out. “How obscene!” they yelled. Baby Tate, the opener for Chappell Roan on Saturday, stepped out onto the stage in a two piece outfit that showed off a 34 week pregnancy belly and the crowd screamed with joy. They basked in the glow of it. As they should have.

The frustrating part is how long it took us to get here, to a place where woman can be truly happy in their own skin without the judgment. Okay, I know there are still people out there who like to leave their judgy comments about appearances. And yeah, I know a number of those people are women, but those women, those people, don’t get far with their comments before others come in to defend. They quickly get shut down because the world is filled with enough negative noise, we don’t want to hear any more of it. I do not have time or brain space to have the audacity to judge another person’s appearance or read other’s judgy comments.

And I heard that there's a special place
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day - Pink Pony Club, Chappell Roan

The Pink Pony Club doesn’t have to be a place of fiction or an imaginary club. It doesn’t have to be delegated to one tiny crowded building. We may be taking baby steps against the patriarchy and the hate mongers who call themselves christians, but we are making progress.

We are building a Pink Pony world.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I was fortunate enough to be able to attend a lecture by Dr. Jane Goodall at OCU in 2007. Some people flip out upon seeing a celebrity, requesting autographs and selfies. They define ‘celebrity’ as a person famous in the entertainment business. While Dr. Goodall was not a famous entertainer, to me she was a celebrity scientist. Watching Dr. Goodall in Nature documentaries on PBS as a child fueled my curiosity and wonder of this amazing planet. I was raised on the cusp of that whole “Girls Can DO Anything” movement when it was just getting it’s footing. No one ever really said to me that girls can do anything, but no one ever said to me I couldn’t do stuff because I am/was a girl and Dr. Jane Goodall was proof that women could be scientists.

She was also proof that a woman can move through the scientific community with grace and passion.

Jane’s willingness to collaborate was critical for the success of all our work. She was a true scientist. - Dr. Beatrice Hahn

I was so giddy that day I went to hear Dr. Goodall speak. I was like a teen going to see their favorite boy band. I’m surprised I didn’t attempt to cosplay my outfit to match something she would have worn out in the field. Being a fan of a celebrity or sports team or anything happens when the individual forms a phycological connection to that person, place or thing because they can identify with that person place or thing. I am not one to attend vigils or bemoan the loss of many a celebrity. Sure, it’s sad and the talent and entertainment they provided for the world will be missed, but I don’t get choked up over it. I was deeply saddened when I heard the news of Dr. Goodall’s passing. I even cried at my desk and this is when I understood the phycology of a fan. Dr. Goodall was someone with whom I could identify.

My friend Lauren said “A part of me is grateful she doesn’t have to live to see the world come further apart.” It is true that Dr. Goodall was a champion for this planet and while her voice was quiet, her message came through as if spoken through a megaphone. We are terrible stewards of this planet and if I were a god believer, this in itself would be enough to abandon us. I mean, it was the very first thing he gave to us, this divinely appointed act to care for this planet and we’ve done the opposite. So maybe there is something to be said for Lauren’s gratitude. Dr. Goodall lived a long, full and active life right up to the end and she made good use of her time here doing good and leading with kindness.

his alone is an attribute to be admired.

I am truly grateful to have had that opportunity to hear her speak, but I am also grateful to have lived in her timeline. She greatly influenced my science trajectory, but now I’m thinking of her methods in activism, how she advocated for science and the planet without screaming and was still heard. If you speak with authority in a quiet voice, people tend to lean in to hear you. She was a master at this tactic. I’ve started following more scientific journals (the real ones with peer reviewed articles) on Instagram. I’m changing my tactics in the battle against misinformation by flooding my Insta stories with science from those peer reviewed accounts. No more arguing or doing the research to fact check other’s latest dumb meme. Just flooding the interwebs with actual science.

I am learning to speak quietly with authority.

A TREE GROWS IN HER

A medium sized Bonsai tree was growing off the side of my right low back region. I broke it off, but it left behind a woody stump and I couldn’t stop running my fingers over the transition between my skin and the rough bark of the stump. I was fascinated and disturbed by the feel of my skin shifting from smooth to rough and hard. I didn’t know what to do about this stump and in my indecisiveness, the tree started to grow back. I woke up before I could decide on whether to rip the tree off my body again or to just tend to the tree.

Tend to the tree.

If I’d stayed in the dream just a few more seconds, I would have chosen to tend the tree. My body had created this beautifully perfect little tree. That in itself is extraordinary. The fact that I tried to remove it makes me irritated with myself. But also not surprised. I think most people’s first instinct is to remove the thing that suddenly shows up on their bodies that doesn’t seem normal. Moles. Fat. Warts. Bugs. I could make a decent list of things I don’t want attached or growing from my body. Ticks! Almost forgot about those. Sprouting any kind of plant from the deep base layers of one’s skin would seem alarming. Instead of approaching this in a literal sense which is my go-to analytical approach, I need to be looking at the abstractness of this dream.

I spent Sunday wandering the Nelson with Todd. He had spent his week visiting family in Oklahoma and made Kansas City his last stop before flying back to Portland (and all the terrorists). We haven’t seen each other in years, not since the last time I was in Portland which was in 2018. In that time, we also fell out of the habit of just checking in with each other. A few months ago, it hit me that I had not spoken to Todd in quite a while, so I sent him a postcard. Then he sent me a postcard from Ireland and we were back on track. Except we both agreed it had been a ridiculously too long of time since we’d seen each other’s faces. When I met him at arrivals, we grinned at each other like idiots. Then I dragged him off to do some touristy things because the last time he was here, it was to see Chris, who died four days after Todd’s visit.

As we wandered through the photography section of the Nelson, Todd first said some nice things about my photography practice. Then he asked me how that practice was going and I winced. Other than occasionally printing out new postcards, my photography practice is barely treading water. I carry my big camera with me every day, yet I can’t tell you the last time I took the camera out of my bag. The few times I’ve had it out, I felt like the pictures were not worth processing. I did manage to take some good photos at the OKC zoo in August but I have not been actively pursuing my practice this year. I have not been actively pursuing much of anything this year. I told Todd that there’s nothing in my photo collection that I would want to hang for a showing. This is the truth.

We eventually made our way back to my house and on the way the Bridge started playing my favorite Belly song. I paused our conversation so I could turn it up and we both sang along.

Big red tree grew up and out, Throws up its leaves, Spins round and round.

So take your hat off when you’re talking to me and be there when I feed the tree.

- Tanya Donelly

Someone asked me once what I thought those lyrics meant. My interpretation has always been that this song is about caring for someone or something. Sometimes I think the tree is a gravestone Tanya Donelly is tasked with keeping clean and cared for. We take our hats off out of respect and she’s saying “Show me some respect and be there in support while I care for this thing.” I think in this instance, I’m the one that needs to show a little respect to myself by allowing space on my calendar to tend and care for not just this metaphorical bonsai tree, but for all the little blooms of creativity that sprout from this body. I typed this last part while 10,000 Maniacs crooned into my ears.

To be part of the miracles you see in every hour
You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky
It's true that you
Are touched by something
That will grow and bloom in you

These are days - 10,000 Maniacs

My music has been nostalgic of late and it’s sending me signals and notes.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I have the weirdest look on my face.

Monday, I was helping one of our Postdocs set up an overnight time lapse on a complicated microscope. He is not from this country and asked me when was it going to be Fall in Kansas City. I then had to tell him that today is the very first day of Fall. It felt a little like that moment when Talaura told a woman she was currently standing in Times Square after the woman had asked Talaura for directions to Times Square. That moment will always be funny because the woman didn’t believe Talaura and was all “No, no, no. The place where they drop the ball on New Years.” and Talaura had to literally point to the spot where that happens for the woman to finally say “Oh! We’re in Times Square!”

My conversation with the postdoc about Fall was almost the same because I had to pull up proof of the Fall equinox. Then he was like “no no no, when is it going to get cool and nice outside?” So I told him about weather apps and climate change and that I had no clue when the weather was going to be “cool and nice”. Personally, I think it’s nice now with a high of 83 degrees. Then I had a conversation with a grad student about excitation lasers and why you don’t want them all on at the same time when you’re imaging. I’d explain something, she’d repeat what I told her and then say “I don’t understand.” Eventually, after a full interpretive dance performance of why you don’t want all the lasers on at the same time while imaging, she nodded and said “Okay” and walked away. My left eye was twitching by the time we parted ways.

Oh, I didn’t mention that also on Monday, Josephine and I where almost mauled by another dog at the park. I managed to keep Josephine safe while screaming at the dog. The owner did his best to cal the dog from his prone position behind some bushes. No one was hurt and I understand the dog was just protecting his human, but come on. A leash? A rope? Something? Would have been nice. Why does every week have to come in hot with dog attacks and difficult humans?!? I didn’t even make it through Tuesday before having to explain to four different people why Tylenol is not the cause of autism and why you should absolutely not trust any ‘science’ that comes from this administration. They can’t even pronounce the words and I have serious doubts they even understand basic data graphs.

Wednesday morning, I crawled out of bed for the morning walk and said to myself “I just have to make it through the day.” Except that was kind of a lie. Of course I had to make it through that day, but there were still two days left in the week. And while I walked Josephine, my brain picked over why every day kind of feels like a slog or a barbed wire wrapped hurtle. What is so tiresome and irritating about my work days that has me giving myself survival pep talks mid-week? Is it just a simple need of a vacation? I have no interest in staying home for a week and I do not have a budget right now for a run-off-to-remote-location vacation (have I mentioned I’m going to Paris for Christmas?).

When I think about taking time off right now, it’s to do things like go to the dentist or make a drive down to see my mother (who is struggle a bit with old age problems). I will be traveling at the end of October for work. This is sort of a getaway. Yes, I will be working but the environment will have ocean views and New England Fall vibes. Besides, all of this is weeks away from now. Michael told me about reading somewhere that weekends should feel like vacations. I replied that I already knew this and that is why I dust and declutter the house on Tuesdays and clean the bathroom on Thursdays. The problem is, I can’t do everything. Grocery shopping still happens on Saturday morning. Vegetable prep, kitchen cleaning, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, putting away my clothes. All of this happens on Sunday.

So on Thursday, I had a flu shot scheduled for 8:10 AM (at work) and dentist appointment at 10:00AM (near work) and I just decided to take the day for myself. I get one personal day a year and mine has been lingering in the pile of vacation/sick days since January. I just had yet to come up with a date or an excuse to just not be at work. That morning, I woke up to the sound of my alarm and Josephine snuggled under the comforter. I took this as a sign to skip our morning walk but chose to ride the bicycle in to work. I got my flu shot and then rode my bike over to the dentist’s office where I was told my teeth are healthy and I’m doing all the right things. Then I walked a block over to Anthropologie to check out the extra 50% off sales rack and bought the most cliche French looking outfit. All I need is a beret and maybe a pencil thin curled mustache.

I left the shop, hopped onto the bike and rode over to the Trolly Track Trail. My next stop was the Soap Refill Station but I had about four miles to go and for most of those four miles, I had the trail all to myself. I was in no hurry and I peddled along at a leisurely pace. The sun was shining and the leaves are just starting to change. The air had that crispy feeling of Fall even though the sun was warm. Part of the trail runs between the backyards of a Brookside neighborhood. So either side is shielded from road noise and shaded with big ancient elm trees. I soaked up the quiet as I peddled along. Then I made it to the soap store and was the only patron. I had a lovely chat with the young person running the shop while I filled a spray bottle with multipurpose cleaner and then I rode home. I still ended up doing my usual Thursday chore, but I spent a lot of time not working or checking emails.

I spent a lot of time just doing nothing.

This morning, Josephine and I got up for our morning walk without groans or blinks. I did not start my day with dread even though I knew there would be at least one email waiting for me in my inbox that was probably going to make me lose my shit. I was gentle with myself as I rode my bike to work and allowed myself to be slow going up that hill between 63rd street and 59th, even though I know I can bump the electric bike up a level (I feel like using anything higher than a level two assist is cheating). Right now, I’m waiting for a researcher to show up so I can help him image some bacteria. I’ve read that annoying email and since it’s addressed to a number of people, have chosen to ignore it and let someone else respond. There’s a rainbow on my wall to my left, formed from the bright sun streaming in through the window on my right. It bounces off the glass at the top of my cubicle, but only forms the rainbow when the angle of the sun is just right. Between now and the Spring, the angle of the sun will be just right.

Rainbow season has started.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Something bigger than a bee zipped by me during one of my morning walks this week and it took me a moment to realize what I had seen or was seeing. It was a hummingbird moth and it stuck around, competing with the bumble bees for the nectar in these Lantana. But briefly. Hummingbird moths move quickly and do not hang out, savoring their meals. They’re nothing like the hummingbirds that frequent my feeder. I have one that sometimes just perches there for long minutes at a time. The hummingbird moth never perches and is extremely difficult to capture on camera.

I was lucky.

This particular hummingbird moth is also known as a hawk-moth or sometimes the Sphinx moth. Those large brown or green caterpillars with posterior horns that you you sometimes pull off your dill or tomato plants eventually turn into one of these moths. They’re great pollinators and according to my research, they are not rare. Yet, they seem a bit rare and elusive to me. This is the first one I’ve seen all summer and this is the very last week of summer.

This is the very last week of summer.

Early in the year, I struggled with finding a reason to do much of anything. All I could do was worry about my job and what would I do if I lost this job. The more hits and restrictions that this administration put out on the NIH and the CDC, the more I stressed. I knew that there would be a trickle down effect in their restrictions and worried about that impact. As a result, I threw myself into my work like never before, to the point of having dreams where I am troubleshooting microscope problems. Someone at work joked with me about this recently and said I was living the dream. While I am not as worried about losing this job as I was at the beginning of the year, I am still very busy.

The threats are different now. The disappointments are greater. I never realized the number of people I know who have been hiding their own homophobia and racism, while calling that hateful rhetoric “the Lord’s work.” I always think the best of people and then they go and show their true colors by posting some stupid meme of support for the latest Nazi in the spotlight. I wonder how it is I could have believed they were good people to begin with. And for some time now, that disappointment of knowing people who support racism and bigotry, has been a weight, an embarrassment really.

Now I think about that hummingbird moth, zipping around the Lantana and sharing space with bumbble bees. It stayed focused on it’s one task of gathering nectar. What task can I stay focused on? It’s certainly not changing people’s minds or removing the sludge and hate from their souls. I’m not a miracle worker, but I am pebble. I know what happens when a pebble is dropped into a body of water. I know about wave theory and objects in motion. Supporting and helping my community to help and support young people in the LGBTQ+ communities creates a wave. Supporting my local TV stations like PBS ensures that I have access to unbiased news sources and educational programs creates a wave of knowledge. Supporting and voting for candidates who serve their communities by promoting policies (health care, public transportation, appropriate taxes, school systems) that better our communities, leads to even bigger waves.

This year will be over in a blink. All of this is temporary. I truly believe that if we focus on caring for those people this administration is targeting (Brown people, Black people, LGTBQ+ people, our unhoused people, our people in poverty) we can make great waves of good change. But in order to do that, we’re going to have to filter out the noise coming at us through social media and that includes some people you thought you knew. We cannot control other’s action, but we can control our own actions and how we respond to those actions.

I am finding ways to make my heart feel as light as a hummingbird moth while being a pebble.