Morning Colors at Findlay State Park

I like going out to enjoy some classic fall color as much as anyone, and when I have a good friend to share in the experience, it's even better. But I especially seek out the moments when what I'm looking at gets lost in pattern or texture or some other tiny disguising details.

When reflections on water become a Gerhard Richter painting...

And a fallen leaf is transformed by an overgrowth of algae.

On Choice

After a few big plans gone awry, I'm a little leery of making choices. In my down times, I fear choosing incorrectly and continuing down a path of destruction and disappointment. In my better times I realize that many choices are not right or wrong, and that out of my losses have come unexpected gains that I wouldn't trade for anything. This morning I went for a walk in the woods and was reflecting on choice, and also on the beauty that can exist within the temporary. Here are some thoughts.

In work there is purpose

In idleness, rest.

A straight course is efficient,

while meanders reveal.

There is pleasure in companionship

And in solitude, peace.

With permanence comes security

In the ephemeral, bliss.

Each choice is a sacrifice

and an acquisition.

Right can be respectable,

but wrong opens a door to learning.

Experiencing wealth or want

One can find gratitude.

In joy or sorrow

One can feel most alive.

And forever, or fleeting,

Love abides.

Starting Again

I've kept this blog off an on for a few years now and have approached it in a variety of ways. It's been a travelogue, a journal, an art gallery, a place to sort out my struggles, and a place to share some of the cool things I come across as I go about my days. As my posts have evolved to be longer and more complicated, they've also grown more infrequent. I miss posting regularly. And I especially miss taking a little time out of the day to express something simple, personal, and with a little more substance than is typically accepted on Facebook. Right now I'm in the middle of a major life change, and I feel I could benefit from a consistent practice of seeking out, composing, and then sharing something uplifting. When I get in the habit of intentionally looking for the good in life, I often find it. Making this the default approach to my day-to-day has not always been easy. So! "Starting Today", I'd like to set a goal to go about living with an eye toward beauty, be actively curious, seek out little treasures hiding in unexpected places, and then share some of what I find here--simply and without too much pretension.

This afternoon I went on a walk around Oberlin for the first time since returning from New Mexico. The sun finally made an appearance, and I was reminded that pretty much the best time to be in northern Ohio is RIGHT NOW! Fall is just starting to show its colors, wild fields are still lush and blooming, the air smells sweet and warm, and bunches of little critters are still hopping, flying, and scurrying around through the vegetation.

...for amber waves of...ornamental prairie grass.  

I found myself mesmerized by the iridescent sheen of a fly as it stood atop the breast of a decaying catbird. I admired the fine detail of feathers that would soon disintegrate, and imagined myself as a vast collection of reassembled bits gleaned from dirt, and dust, and countless little lives that preceded my own. Elements present in my hair that lived in the feathers of a bird; atoms in the tip of my finger that lined the retina of a prehistoric wolf; traces of water molecules that may have spewed from the mouth of Old Faithful; iron in my blood once suspended within a shockwave sent out after the death of a star...perhaps one observed and studied by distant eyes I'll never see.

Not to be morbid, but when I die, rather than moldering away inside some shiny box, I'd prefer to fall apart quickly--turn into a sprinkling of wind-blown dust and let all my little bits rejoin this cycle of decay and reassembly. Think of all the little things I might turn into someday!

"Can You Walk on the Rings of Saturn?"

There are no limits on the creativity of questions that a curious child can come up with:

“Why is Earth the only planet with life?”

“What would happen if the sun disappeared?”

“If you were to fly a spacecraft to Neptune and go through the gas, would the fire from the rockets ignite the planet?”

“How do we know that Pluto is icy if we've never been there?”

“What happens when you die in space?”

These are just a few of the many questions and comments I encountered last month during presentations about “Seeing the Solar System” that I gave to six 5^th grade classes at Sailorway Middle School in Vermilion, Ohio.

Some of the questions allowed me to go into more detail on the subject at hand:

“Why is Pluto not a planet?”

Some were quirky, but oddly perceptive:

“Herschel's telescope looks like a guillotine, but without the blade.”

Model of the telescope William Herschel's used to discover Uranus. From the Herschel Museum in Bath, UK.

“Galileo's fuzzy view of Saturn looks like a pig's nose.”

Some of them allowed me to discuss related topics:

“Why does the Earth go in a circle around the sun?”

“How do you measure the speed of light?”

“What would happen if you fell into a black hole?”

But my favorite comments and questions allowed me--a representative of the Black River Astronomical Society, and the supposed “expert” in the room--to see the things I was talking about in a whole new light. When I showed Cassini's picture of Saturn viewed from its nighttime side, one student said:

“It's like if we had Saturn as a moon on Earth, and it was making a solar eclipse.”

image credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/SSI

And after showing pictures of Mars' surface taken by Curiosity Rover that were reminiscent of the Arizona desert, a shy little girl came up and suggested to me that:

“Maybe a piece of Mars came off and formed part of planet Earth?”

image credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/MSSS

Though her hypothesis was incorrect, the insight behind it led to a discussion about how similar elements and processes formed features on both Mars and Earth.

My talk's focus was that astronomy is a science based on observation, and that there are different things we can learn about our “local neighborhood” based on what we see through our eyes, and various technologies like telescopes, spacecraft, rovers, and even scientific illustration. My goal was to encourage students to visualize the places and ideas they were learning about in class, and to equip them with various means to actually observe some of these objects for themselves. I brought along two telescopes as visual aids—a borrowed BRAS Dobsonian (“That looks like a cannon!”), and a small refractor—and allowed the kids to take turns looking at the mirrors and through the finder scopes (“Whoa, the dots on the ceiling are really close!”). 

The sessions were great fun. There is nothing quite like standing in front of a young audience when they see something wonderful for the first time—hearing that excited intake of breath when the “lightbulb” goes off, or watching a forest of hands erupt when a tricky question yields a surprising answer. And when faced with their awesomely daunting array of questions ranging from “Is a supernova like the Big Bang,” to “Can you walk on the rings of Saturn,” I am encouraged by the engagement and interest such queries display. In a time when media warns of students falling behind in math, science, reading, and creative arts, and when the glitz of commercialism threatens to stifle participation with the natural world, organizations like the Black River Astronomical Society offer a valuable means for children of all ages to get involved with a creative and stimulating science as part of a welcoming local community. I am grateful to play some small part in that mission. Even beyond the enjoyment I get from learning the sky—from acquainting myself with its patterns and cycles, or resolving beautiful objects of unimaginable scale—I've discovered that the driving motivation behind my interest in astronomy is sharing and experiencing it with others.

I'd like to send a big “Thank You!” to Mrs. Julie Zelina at Sailorway Middle School for allowing me, on behalf of BRAS, to participate in her classroom...and an even bigger “Thank You!” to all of her students and their fascinating questions!

7 great reasons for shoveling !#*%

Every Wednesday and Thursday I hurry out of bed and head over to the Oasis Animal Shelter where I spend the morning helping another volunteer clean kennels. My part of the job consists of shoveling big piles of poop out from the outdoor portions of each dog's run, while my coworker disinfects and hoses down the insides, sets down food, and fills each pail with fresh water. We coordinate our movements while allowing each dog some good quality run-around-the-yard, play-with-the-ball, sniff-around-the-fence, and bark-at-the-cats time (don't worry, the cats are outside the fence...and we put food and water out for them too).

This job has equipped me with a nuanced understanding of a range of canine excretions and how best to deal with them. Whisking up the really soft stuff on a humid July day requires a whole different set of techniques, for instance, than does scraping up frozen piles in sub-zero wind chill (the latter often helped along by a good kick from a heavy boot). All the "material" I remove from the pens is piled into a big plastic poop bucket and later washed down an outdoor drain in a soupy swirl of pungent goo. No bones about it: it's all pretty repulsive. When I start scooping I stop breathing through my nose, and generally don't start again until I'm out walking dogs. It's amazing the disgusting things you can handle if you eliminate their smell!

Despite what you might think from this description, the Oasis dogs are really well cared for. Their pens, which have space to move both inside and out, are cleaned three times daily. They do not go hungry or thirsty, they are warm in the winter, and music is left on for them when we leave. Veterinary care is given when needed. And unless the weather is REALLY bad, in addition to yard time, they get walked at least twice a week. Their lives would improve a lot with adoption, but until then they make do just fine.

Well that is all fine and good, but what really compels ME to return every week just to shovel more of their stinking !#*% for no pay? Ha!

Today I found 7 reasons:

#1. Chloe...

Quiet, intelligent, patient, disciplined, and great on a walk. When Chloe jumps up to give you loves, you know she really means it.

#2. Paddy.

A dedicated and exuberant player, she LOVES diving through the powdery snow.

#3. Buddy.

A booming voice and tough exterior belie a heart tender as a puppy's. Buddy is the perfect name for this big guy.

#4. Herbie.

Total sucker for a good belly rub...especially when it means he can also roll around in the snow!

#5. Ronnie.

A bit intense on a lead...especially when the ground is laced with deer track! You can always tell this girl means business.

#6. Sassy.

Scruffy little ball of fluff and affection...what's not to love? 

#7. Blade.

A big heart in a little body. When this feisty little chihuahua finally warmed up to me...transforming in weeks from a nervous introvert snarling in the corner, to my most eager and devoted Oasis friend...I was a goner. I ADORE this little guy!

There are lots more dogs at Oasis, and every single one provides another reason for me to put up with the early alarm, and the joyful need to scoop little piles of steaming !#*% for a couple of blessed mornings each week.

Perseids on Killdeer Mound

On the night of August 11th atop the Killdeer Observation Mound at the Wellington Reservation, a large group gathered last to watch for Perseid meteors.

Earlier in the week I'd volunteered to do a night sky program for the occasion and had been studying up in preparation. When Rob and I arrived at the mound around 9:45 pm, four early birds had already claimed their prime blanket spots and were eagerly watching the sky. I introduced myself and offered to give them a preview tour of the constellations. It was great fun! The four were attentive, asked a lot of questions, and perhaps spurred on by their interest and enthusiasm, I performed with confidence and excitement. We also saw what ended up being the best meteor of the night...a brilliant green Earthgrazer that streaked through Hercules and left behind a trail visible even in the darkness and (unfortunately) gathering haze.

The rest of the group--33 in all--arrived a little after 10:00 pm. Led to the mound by park naturalist Becky Bode, most carried blankets or lawn chairs and hurriedly scuffled around for the best observation spots. Once settled, Becky asked everyone to shut off ALL light-producing devices and introduced me as a representative of the Black River Astronomical Society. I jumped in to an explanation of the Perseids' origin and advice about how best to observe them. By this point, more and more of the sky was becoming obscured by thin clouds, so I stressed that even if we didn't end up seeing many tonight, there were likely to be Perseids visible for the next few days. And even if worse came to worse (this is Ohio after all), and the whole rest of the shower ended up entirely clouded out, I advised them to check out spaceweatherradio.com and listen to the radar echoes of meteors shooting through the upper atmosphere high above the clouds.

The night's second constellation tour was a little less successful. In the thickening haze, even the Big Dipper and the normally striking Summer Triangle were starting to look a little washed out. Still, there were moments of clarity, and toward the end of the night's observation it was possible to discern the glowing clouds of the Milky Way from their earthbound counterparts.

The majority of our group picked up at 11:30 and headed back, but Rob and I hung around for a few extra minutes chatting with Becky and watching the sky with another young BRAS member who'd brought his camera and tripod up the mound to try for some meteor photos. On our way back to park headquarters (about a mile from Killdeer Mound), Becky pulled out a bat detector and we stopped to listen to the low fluttering of wings whirring softly through the night air.

Another Perseid program is scheduled for tonight at the Wellington Reservation. I really hope the forecasted scattered thundershowers will scatter elsewhere!

Finally!

Thursday night was clear as a bell.

Hungry for stars, I gathered up my red light, green laser, binoculars, and library copy of H.A. Rey's "The Stars: a New Way to See Them," and persuaded Rob to join me in search of a good dark wide-open sky. We drove south, planning to check out the Charlemont Reservation...an unimproved park that I'd heard from fellow BRAS members had no restrictions on usage after dark. A few stray fireflies still lit up the fields along the way. Not too long ago, those same fields would've been positively aflame with little trails of green phosphorescence rising like hot embers from rows of young soybeans.

Just south of Wellington I impulsively turned onto my old mail route, curious as to whether we might just as easily find a good parking spot somewhere along the lonely farm roads. Sure enough, just east of Findlay State Park we turned onto a gravel road bisecting two fields of corn and found a little shoulder turnout well away from any homes, streetlights, or tall stands of trees. The darkening sky opened above us like an embrace...a glaring Venus hung on the horizon, the summer triangle edged toward zenith, and the great swoop of Scorpius virtually erupted from its southern abode.

Rob pointed up at a quickly moving speck just below Lyra, "Hey look...a satellite." "Two..." I added, noticing another trailing about a hand's breadth behind, "and watch, the first one is about to flare!" In the next few seconds, the first satellite grew in brightness till it surpassed even brilliant Vega: an iridium flare. Caused by sunlight momentarily beaming off the reflective surfaces of communication satellites, iridium flares can be easily predicted by consulting Heavens Above (much to the delight of star-party audiences), but our spontaneous encounter seemed especially thrilling.


My goal for the night was to better learn a few less-familliar constellations and stars...Ophiuchus, Chepheus, Draco, Boötes...I haven't been out under a dark sky nearly enough in the past 3 years, and some of my skills have grown a little rusty. As I explore the future possibility of working or volunteering with the park service's Dark Rangers, I want to make sure I'm at home finding my way around the celestial sphere. To help get the ball rolling again, I checked out H.A. Rey's book at the local library a couple weeks ago, and have since eagerly awaited a clear night on which to use it. Filled with helpful guides and interesting tidbits of science and folklore, its welcoming and lighthearted approach can help demystify the night sky for stargazers of all ages. I'd heard others sing its praises ever since I joined SLAS years ago, but hadn't delved in myself until now.

As the sky darkened the Milky Way emerged from obscurity (the first time I'd been able to see it in ages), and we easily lost track of time. Not a single car passed our little turnout...though we occasionally heard one rumbling off in the distance. We took turns scanning the sights (especially in the south) with our binoculars. M7 (Ptolemy's Cluster), M8 (Lagoon Nebula), and its nearby companion M20 (Trifid Nebula), are all old favorites, but I immediately regretted not bringing a second reference to help identify the myriad "faint fuzzies" that also came into view.

At one point, I looked to the east and was stunned to see a dark-orange gibbous moon hovering between stands of tall corn directly above our little gravel road. The sight was glorious to be sure, but meant that the sky wasn't going to be getting any darker. No matter. It had been a good night, and I had work early the next morning. We gathered our things and returned home happy.

Utah Visit, July 2013, #7: all the rest

I've now run out of pictures, and feel like I haven't even told you the half of it. I guess I covered all the big super-adventures, but still failed to mention all the other important stuff.

Like the wonderful time I spent on walks with my mom, and pushing fully laden flat beds up Costco's parking-lot hill to equip her truck for a job on the Salt Flats...hanging out at home with my youngest sister and her adorable (and growing) family...meeting my sister Shaun's new husband (a winner for sure)...and all of us preparing home-made pasta with home-grown sauce fixin's, and playing board games together around the dining room table...board games created and published by my incredibly talented brother-in-law Ryan (find and purchase them on Amazon, or at Red Raven Games).

I didn't tell you about looking at Saturn through a borrowed C-8, seeing old SLAS friends at Denny's and Harmon's, or staring at the enormously bright double rainbow that shone above the mountain foothills during an evening rainstorm in the final few hours of my stay.

I didn't even mention the drive up to Brighton with Mal and her two kids...we spent a lovely hour strolling around Silver Lake...watching the ducks, admiring (and in Zoe's case tasting) the pretty rocks, and saying hello to Mickey Mouse on Mount Millicent...now, why in the world didn't I take any pictures of that?

I didn't mention that I missed seeing all my old music buddies...wished I could've spent a day or two more with Dad to visit Grandpa Ricks in Idaho...couldn't squeeze in a visit to the Salt Flats...or Antelope Island...or Timpanogos...or any one of a thousand other sites around the state...

...sigh...

I took the red-eye back to Cleveland, stepped out into another hot and muggy Ohio sunday, and puttered around at home till Rob returned from Poland later that evening. After dinner he pulled out his phone and showed me all the pictures he'd taken in Warsaw: the city, conference sites, and a few of the famous physicists with whom he'd shared the week. I blushed as he pulled out a gift...a gorgeous amber necklace...just my style.

Real life has descended again...and to be sure, there's lots of good in it as well. The long-overdue visit to Utah gave me a shot of much-needed vigor, and I hope it doesn't take me quite so long to muster a future return. In the meantime, I'll keep looking for ways to discover the best in what's around me here and now. Thank goodness for those fireflies! And BRAS, Oasis, baby groundhogs, fields of daisies, the metroparks, fresh chévre, backyard deer (and baby deer too!), free Oberlin Conservatory concerts, cardinals, goldfinches, bluebirds, orioles, the Ritchie Ledges (I should write a post about them soon), full moon walks at the Wellington Reservation, early-morning ground fog, spring peepers, the Cleveland Orchestra, albino squirrels...and all the other cute little squirrels and chipmunks and bunnies for that matter...

Ok, I'm out of breath. But I think you get the idea.

Thank you again to those who enabled my Utah visit, and all the rest of you that helped make it so memorable.

Utah Visit, July 2013, #1: My Map of the Week

The final approach into Salt Lake City is advertised over the plane's intercom. I rouse from half sleep and look out the window, hoping to see a familiar pattern of lights. There are areas of black interspersed among glittering gridlines...great, dark, irregular splotches without a single candle of illumination...a tell of contoured terrain...unsettled areas of mountain...salt flat...lake shore. Some of the lights ascend to eye level and shine brighter...is that the mine? I recognize the radio towers on Farnsworth Peak, and the Oquirrh Mountains, once a familiar sight from my bedroom window...and now the smokestack at the point of the mountain...the pools of slurry...gray on black, edged in by glaring white spotlights. I peer across the aisle for a view out the opposite window...ah...there's the city! 

We're out over the lake now...swirls of gray that I know will present more color at sunrise. 

So reads an excerpt from my little sketchbook journal: an entry made while on approach into the Salt Lake Airport...the first time I'd been "home" in three years. The week that followed was filled with adventures of the best kind shared with people (and animals) for whom I care deeply. While planning the visit, I'd hoped to spend every waking minute outside: reveling in the mountains, desert-dry air, starry skies, and all the heart-stoppingly lovely (and immensely quirky) vistas that Utah has to offer. 

And with a few notable exceptions (those ever-elusive starry skies) I succeeded...

Over the next few days I'll share a few of those adventures...if only to extend the visit a little longer in my own mind. Maybe it will help me readjust to the flat, wet, buggy, welcome I received upon returning to Ohio...sigh...

Alright...enough of that...Ohio certainly has its charms: fireflies and bluebirds, metro parks and river gorges, the Feve and Black River Cafe...and all my friends (furry and otherwise) at the Oasis Animal Shelter. Comparing Utah to Ohio is like comparing apples to oranges...or maybe brine shrimp to lobster (I myself prefer watching the colorful frills of the Great Salt Lake's most notable aquatic resident to eating a lobster tail...but understand if you feel differently).

In any case, forgive me if I gush a little. I certainly wouldn't be the first.