The Fern

One of my favorite times of year is early summer when the ferns begin to grow. Within weeks, they've sprouted up high, sometimes reaching above my chest or head. Their tall, lanky forms make tunnels of green over trails and bite at my arms and legs as I barrel down on a mountain bike.

These vivid plants, with their coiled fiddleheads that expand into large leaves, have been around for millions and millions of years. And though they're most commonly associated with moist woodsy environments, they can live almost anywhere, from high mountains to dry desert rocky surfaces, often adapting to flourish in places where other plants cannot.

Ferns do not produce seeds or flowers. Rather, they reproduce by tiny spores, which are released from underneath their fronds and have half the number of chromosomes needed for a mature plant. Once a spore is set free, it can develop into a thin, heart-shaped structure (gametophyte) that makes both sperm and eggs. The sperm are mobile, actually swimming through water left by rain or dew to fertilize the fern egg.  

There a lots of types of ferns, but here are two that may catch your attention:

-The interrupted fern (Osmunda claytoniana), an excellent example of "evolutionary stasis" as it has not changed (nuclei and chromosomes included) for at least 180 million years. It's common name refers to the gap in the middle of the frond blades, which is left after fertile portions wither and die.

-Resurrection ferns, which can survive long droughts (possibly up to 100 years). During a drought, this fern will curl up its leaves and dry out, turning a gray-brown color. But when just a little water appears, the fern uncurls and opens, quickly restoring to a vibrant green. Studies have shown they can lose almost all their water (even up to 97 percent) and still live; most other plants would die after losing 8 to 12 percent.

Ferns are not without intrigue. In the Victorian era, there was a craze for collecting ferns and using ferns in art. And there are various legends about ferns: in Slavic folklore, if you see a "fern flower" you will be happy and rich for the rest of your live. According to Finnish tradition, anyone who finds the seed of a fern in bloom on midsummer's night will be able to travel to the place where will o' the wisps mark hidden treasure.

The next time you're outside, keep your eyes open for ferns. It most likely won't lead you to hidden treasure, but it might just lead you to an appreciation of something ancient and unique.

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creativecommons/pixaby

To share or not to share

When I first started writing, one of the most common pieces of advice I received was to join a writing group. Share your work, read it aloud, take input and make it better.

It's straightforward, good advice. And for many people, it works really well. Joining a writing group can be motivating, encouraging and an excellent way to improve.

But for me, all that sharing stalled me out. After reading the first chapter of my yet-to-be-written book, I'd listen intently to the feedback and questions that other writers had.

What's the main character's critical flaw?

What if the story had higher stakes, like maybe... death?

What would this sound like if you wrote it in first person? Or started it five years earlier? Or put it in another setting - like, Nebraska, or the moon...

Okay, that last one is an exaggeration. But the lists were often long. All (usually) great feedback, all great things to consider. And yet, for me, the endless options sent me into a flurry of self-doubt and questioning. Maybe the story should take place in an entirely different place or time. Maybe the main character wasn't the right person for the job. Maybe the whole thing should be scrapped and begun again.

But there's an alternative. I first heard about this method from author Jennifer Haigh, who said when she writes a novel, she does not share it until she's far along in the process. She doesn't talk about the idea, doesn't give her agent a blurb on what she's writing - nothing. Talking about a work in progress, she said, was like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne: it can let out all the energy and excitement, and make it difficult to continue.

In an interview with GrubStreet, Haigh gave an emphatic "No," to the question of whether she lets her mother read her work in process.

"I don’t even tell anybody what I’m writing.  And my editor doesn’t know what I’m writing about until it’s too late. I’m super protective about my work. I think that work in progress is very porous and very fragile. … It’s the coward’s way out. I don’t want feedback. That’s just a chilling idea to me that I would show somebody a chapter out of context and ask for feedback. It’s really unimaginable to me."

Now don't get me wrong - my work definitely needs to be edited. But I've found a gentler process that involves a full reading by a trusted editor, and I'm lucky to have an agent who is hands-on with editing as well.

So the bottom line? Use and enjoy writers groups if they help you. Who knows, maybe I'll plug back into one in the future. But don't be afraid to find another editing process that works for you. Different processes work for each of us, and the main thing, at the end of the day, is simply (or not so simply) to write.

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creative commons/pixaby

Flying crows and coming fall

It's beginning to feel like fall here. There's a sharpness in the morning air. The leaves are yellowing, tall grass has turned tan and the last of the wildflowers are drying. Just the other evening, I watched a large flock of crows, 60 or 70 of them, fly just over our house on their way to their nighttime grounds. I could hear their wings rustle through the air. Their throaty calls were brash in the quiet twilight. And I remembered this poem. One of my favorites. I could write a bit about John Hay, or about the time when this poem was written, and maybe I'll do that later. For now, I think it's best to let the poem stand on its own. Enjoy.

The Crows At Washington

by John Hay

Slow flapping to the setting sun

By twos and threes, in wavering rows.

As twilight shadows dimly close,

The crows fly over Washington. 

Under the crimson sunset sky

Virginian woodlands leafless lie,

In wintry torpor, bleak and dun.

Through the rich value of heaven, which shines

Like a warmed opal in the sun,

With wide advance in broken lines

The crows fly over Washington.

Over the Capitol's white dome,

Across the obelisk soaring bare

To prick the clouds, they travel home,

Content and weary, winnowing

With dusky vans the golden air,

Which hints the coming of the spring,

Though winter whitens Washington.

The dim, deep air, the level ray

Of dying sunlight on their plumes,

Give them a beauty not their own;

Their hoarse notes fail and faint away;

A rustling murmur floating down

Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms;

They touch with grace the fading day,

Slow flying over Washington.

I stand and watch with clouded eyes

These dim battalions move along;

Out of the distance memory cries

Of days when life and hope were strong,

When love was prompt and wit was gay;

Even then, at evening, as today,

I watched while twilight hovered dim

Over Potomac's curving rim,

This selfsame flight of homing crows

Blotting the sunset's fading rose

Above the roof of Washington.

__________

www.ct.gov | gf.nd.gov | www.recreation.gov

Ketchup, Quicksand and Slime

Want to get that ketchup out of its bottle, survive a plunge into quicksand, or make some really cool slime?

Then it's helpful to understand non-Newtonian fluids. Which means first understanding what Newtonian fluids are.

Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727) was one of the greats when it comes to science. Classical mechanics, laws of motion, gravity, calculus, reflecting telescopes… Newton discovered and defined a lot.

He also observed fluids and found that when fluids are heated, they’re easier to pour (aka, less viscous), and that when they’re cooled, they’re harder to pour (aka, more viscous). Most fluids – water, oil, alcohol – follow this trend. Their viscosity is impacted by temperature.

But for some fluids, viscosity is impacted by other factors besides temperature, such as squeezing and stirring. Those are non-Newtonian fluids.

Ketchup, for example, gets thinner or less viscous when stress is applied. That’s why if it’s stuck in a bottle, you hit the bottle to get it moving. Eventually, after you’ve shaken it up, it will return to its more viscose state.

Quicksand is another example, but of a different nature: it gets thicker or more viscous when stress is applied. Struggle in quicksand and it strengthens its hold on you, making escape more difficult. But if you find yourself in quicksand and relax, your body (which is less dense) will float.

If you want to experience the properties of quicksand without any danger of being trapped, mix up some cornstarch and water. It looks like a liquid, but when you squeeze it, it turns to solid. Stop squeezing (remove the stress), and it becomes a liquid again. Another example is silly putty: hit it with a hammer, and the hammer bounces off, but push it slowly and you can flatten it with your hands.

You can also play around with non-Newtonian fluids by making slime. Start with glue, a polymer (which is made of very long chains of repeating molecules), then add borax. The protein molecules in the glue and the borate ions cross-link, preventing the long chains of glue from sliding past each other.

Playing with slime, you can observe its liquid properties (it stretches easily and will drip off the counter), and its more solid-like properties when stress is applied (pull it hard, and a piece will snap in two).

Observe long enough, and you just might feel a bit like Newton himself.

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Portrait of Newton by Godfrey Kneller | This story references information from "The Science of Slime" at www.acs.org

The Virus

Life, but not it’s own,

borrowed from another.

A shady spot – chemical or life form or just entirely

different.

Tiny, tiny thing

(millions on a pinhead, for scale).

Mere genes in a protein coat

coming in an array of beautiful shapes and flavors,

all so the virus can pop onto a cell and then enter

without knocking.

Once inside, it commandeers and reprograms the cell’s own hard-earned organelles

making them, eager slaves that they are, do its dirty work:

Copy down the viral recipe. Then use it to make more of the one thing the host cell does not want:

viruses.

Even the ingredients called for belong to the cell:

nucleotides, enzymes, ribosomes, tRNAs, amino acids, DNA mixers, energy.

The virus comes empty handed

and requires everything.

Suddenly, spontaneously, viral bits begin to self-assemble inside the host cell

poor, poor host that it is

And then, hundreds or thousands of the new viruses leave,

exit

usually destroying their host in the process.

The damage is not yet finished

for the new viruses move on to the host cell’s neighbors,

friends and family,

and take them over, too.

Our defenses are strong,

but so are viruses.

That one flu – remember – killed 40 million of us in the span of

two years.

But sometimes we can use viruses,

harness their power

to kill off bacterial infections.

Use the enemy to fight another enemy,

and hope it doesn’t then come for us.

__________

Creative Commons/Pixabay

Magical tidying and writing books

I came a bit late to the Marie Kondo phenomenon. But as soon as I started reading her book, The Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up, I knew I could never go back.

I've always loved organizing. Getting rid of things, decluttering. But often the process was tedious. I'd stare at my closet, unable to let go of that scratchy yet fashionable gray sweater I'd never worn, or the striped skirt that wasn't exactly my style but still very practical. 

Does all of this spark joy? Probably not...

Reading Kondo's work felt revolutionary. Instead of focusing on what to toss, Kondo teaches you to focus on what to keep. And to determine what to keep, you physically hold each object and determine whether it "sparks joy."

Kondo has a whole method, which I (more or less) followed. The process was exhausting, but did result in a tidier house. (Though it still gets untidy, and requires periodic analysis of the joy-sparking ability of new things that have pushed their way in.)

One surprising benefit: I learned to trust my gut and determine what I truly loved. Not just what I might need, or what I thought I should have - but what I loved.

As Kondo writes (both in her original book and her new graphic novel, The Life-Changing Magna of Tidying Up), each of us knows immediately what "sparks joy." You can just feel it. No analysis, no pro/con list needed. It's a gut-level reaction. For me, I may smile or feel a fondness or a lightness when holding something I love.

Not my office, but I wouldn't mind if it was.

Learning to listen to that little voice, to give weight to that which I love, has been helpful in my writing process. I'm not writing just to create a good, marketable story, but rather, to follow a fancy or to dip my toe in something that interests me. 

Writing, painting, acting - all art depends on millions of choices, one made after another. Do I dip a brush into navy or aqua? Elevate my voice or lower it for emphasis? Start a scene here or there?

It's impossible to make every choice like a master analyst. You must often go with your instinct. And amidst my piles of clothing and old papers and pots and pans, I feel I have improved my skill at doing just that.

So thank you, Marie Kondo. Not just for a tidier house. But a happier, more creative life.

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pixabay.com

Lose it all, try again. Repeat.

That's how I'd sum up the story of John James Audubon's life. 

It sounds less like a scientist's life, and more like the saga of an artist. Which maybe all scientists are. Afterall, they go after that great unknown, with no idea of what they'll find, if anything.

Audubon is known for his work with birds: he discovered new species, studied their behavior (he completed the first known "bird banding" experiment in the United States, learning that certain birds return to the same nesting spots each year), and created the massive The Birds of America, known as one of the finest ornithological works ever made. 

But his fame and fortune were never guaranteed. Audubon's birth mother died a few months after he was born. When he first arrived in the U.S., he came down with yellow fever. After a visit back to his father in France, an English privateer overtook his ship (Audubon survived, somehow keeping his gold safe). Rats ate his collection of sketches (more than 200), but after weeks of depression, he decided to make the sketches again, this time even better. He went bankrupt in 1819 and was thrown into jail for debt. He made portraits and taught drawing to make ends meet. His wife taught school in order to support their two sons.

About those years when success was nothing more than a dream, he wrote, '[M]y heart was sorely heavy, for scarcely had I enough keep my dear ones alive; and yet through these dark days I was being led to the development of the talents I loved."

Somehow, Audubon stayed focused on his goal: to find and paint all the birds of North America. He attempted to paint one page each day. He was always working to improve: when he discovered one new painting technique, he decided to redo his earlier works. 

Then finally in 1826, at the age of 41, Audubon headed for England to show others his paintings. His work was extremely well received and he raised enough money to begin publishing his book.

Per one reviewer: "All anxieties and fears which overshadowed his work in its beginning had passed away. The prophecies of kind but overprudent friends, who did not understand his self-sustaining energy, had proved untrue; the malicious hope of his enemies, for even the gentle lover of nature has enemies, had been disappointed; he had secured a commanding place in the respect and gratitude of men."

Success - finally!

Stories like Audubon's are always stirring. Because they remind us that it takes courage to venture into the unknown. To sacrifice for a dream when the results are not guaranteed. To listen to that small yet insistent voice that tells you to keep working, keep improving, keep trying.

Maybe it's birds. Maybe it's a book. But it's brave to follow those dreams. And see where they take us.

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American Crow | Audubon by James Syme, 1826 | Barn Swallow

Raven or Crow?

Ravens and crows are often confused. They're both fairly large, black birds, and and can be hard to tell apart. Below are a few tips on telling these two winged creatures apart.

1) Ravens are bigger. With an almost 4-foot wingspan and a length of about 27", ravens are larger than your everyday crow, which has a wingspan of 3 feet and a length of 20". 

2) Ravens are usually seen alone or in pairs. Crows, on the other hand, are very social and travel in larger groups, which may number into the thousands.

3) Ravens have a very large bill, while crows have a more moderate-sized bill.

4) In flight, ravens have a diamond or wedge-shaped tail as several of their central tail feathers are longer then the outer tail feathers. Crows, on the other hand, have tail feathers of equal size that spread out like a fan. Ravens' wings have four feather "fingers" while crows' wings have five feather "fingers." And ravens are known for their graceful flight, which includes soaring, gliding and slow flaps.

5) Listen to their calls: ravens make a "deep, throaty croak," while crows have more of a "strong, harsh caw," according to allaboutbirds.org.

6) Want to attract crows and ravens to your yard? Put some food out, such as peanuts (for crows) or bird seed and pet food (for ravens). Or just leave the garbage accessible.

The next time you see a big black bird, stop and take a closer look. Chances are, you'll quickly be able to figure out which of these common birds you're seeing. Try it out below...

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pixabay.com

Feed that monster

Sometimes it’s hard to write. Things come up – work, family, vacation, illness, life – and writing isn’t the easiest thing to slip into the spaces.

That’s why each of us needs our own, personal, “art monster.”

I first heard this idea from Lauren Groff, award-winning author of the novels Arcadia, Fates and Furies and more. When speaking last year, she talked about sticking with the artist’s life, even through times of crummy jobs and uncertainty.

“It’s hard, it’s so hard to be a creative person,” Groff said.

But what gets you through the bad times, she said, is waking every day with a commitment to your art, then practicing that commitment. Even if it’s not good in the beginning (because, as Groff said and as we all know, it’s never good at the beginning). You have to keep going and know that you are good. Have faith in yourself.

And that’s where your personal art monster comes in.

“Have an art monster inside of you, and feed it and let it live. Let that art monster stomp around the house,” Groff said.

And while it’s stomping and taking up space, rearranging your life for a bit, sprawling out over your chores, shoving your “real” work to the side for a moment, it’s telling you that you are good. Saying that you’re worth it, that you can do it.

“It’s about knowing how good you are on the inside and having that faith,” Groff said.

I collaged the idea of an art monster soon after hearing Groff, and ended up with images that reflected a sneaky, creative force, one that slips in through the night and early morning, working without being loud about, though it's still insistent and real and hungry. And while I feel those images still hold true, I’m ready for a louder monster. One that wants to do some stomping. To yell and shout. To say it’s hungry. To jump up and down, and push things around.

It’ll be hard, especially with summer and its strange schedule and extra trips and other fun stuff. But today, at least, I’ll sit for a minute and listen to that monster. And make some space for writing. Because all of us – me included – are worth it.

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pixabay.com

On hiccups

Oh diaphragm,

you – hic – dome-shaped mass of muscle just below my lungs

that pulls down to pull in air, relaxes to push it out.

You work – hic – perfectly, most of the time.

Except for now.

Hic.

Did I swallow air or eat too fast or drink too much or – hic – is this merely some result of an amphibian ancestor's gil control? Whatever it – hic – is, it’s annoying. Really.

Caused by your contraction, just half of you (odds say the left) that starts to – hic – suck in air, until that’s cut short when the glottis, which – hic – resides in the small space between my vocal cords, snaps shut.

Wham. Three-hundredths of a second after the air intake starts

it’s – hic – ended so suddenly I make this sound.

Wait for it.

Hic.

Maybe the phrenic nerve, you know, that controls you, diaphragm, and talks with the brain about what’s going on in my neck and body is – hic – irritated. Or the vagus nerve, connected to the larynx, may be upset.

Dare I say the resulting outburst is – hic – childish?

I can – hic – sometimes make you go away. Overload the phrenic and vagus nerve systems or interrupt my breathing.

Bite a lemon, pour a spoon of sugar on the back of my tongue, get scared, hold my – hic – breath.

Often nothing works. Except for a spoon of my friend, peanut – hic – butter.

Cognitive behavioral therapy, one doctor calls it: I control my breathing and think about moving the smooth, nutty food through my mouth and down my throat. And just like that

they’re gone.

Until next time.

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pixabay.com