My Scientific Contribution

I now must crow like Peter Pan ... ISI Web of Science shows that my master's thesis publication in Soil Science Society of America has now been cited 5 times. Five times! Apparently my research matter to at least 5 people out there. Perhaps all 5 articles show that my research was wrong, haven't checked that yet, but hooray!

Observation

Today when I pulled into the parking lot at work, there was a gentleman sitting in his idling car. He was shaving.

This is not the first time I have observed this.

It makes me smile.

Wanted: PhDs from Charm School to Teach the World

Jason, my lovely, ditched out on part of his Biology class so that we could spend our 11 month anniversary together. Being the ideal pupil, since the teacher was showing the movie Flock of Dodos that day, Jason ordered it through Netflicks and we watched it last weekend. What a great documentary! Jason and I talked for an hour afterward about it. It's written and directed by an evolutionary biologist with a sense of humor and genuine curiousity about how this controversy came about. He happens to be from Kansas, and so was particularly moved by the controversy in his home state about teaching Intelligent Design (in addition to evolution and other theories on the origin of man) in schools.


I will be giving a bit of the movie away here, but one of his points is that scientists are so appalled by these challeges to evolution and find them so laughable that their attitude is to ignore them. This benefits the intelligent design subscribers because the scientists are seen as snobs. Meanwhile the intelligent design folk can speak in a language that non-scientists can understand.

Controversy is an often-used tool to drive a wedge into scientifically proven phenomena. People love a controversy. "Which side are you on?" people ask each other, and take the bits and pieces of out-of-context fact and sometimes fiction they've gathered here and there to support their opinion. Who has time to actually sit down and synthesize all the evidence? I admit I am in the science arena, and there is absolutely no way any one person can see ALL of the data. You have to pick and choose. You have to know enough to weigh what is important against what is not. It's so much easier to come to an emotionally snuggly conclusion. Evolution is a big example. It's snuggly to believe that gaps in the evolutionary record, or situations of complexity that are difficult to explain (but are in fact explainable), indicate the presence of a divine power.

Global Climate Change is another. Isn't it much more nice and snuggly to believe there is no problem, that scientists are crying "Wolf" in a mad grab for funding dollars? It is true that there are some scientists out there that will say anything to grab those dollars from policymakers. I'm priviledged, so far, not to have met any of them, except for one example whose lecture I attended and who received the heckling of a lifetime from his disgusted scientific audience (incidentally, he was also employed by the Bush administration). There is, thankfully, an ethic underneath science as solid as the Hippocratic oath is for a doctor. Nothing is more disgusting to a scientist than to discover someone fudging a number or twisting a yarn out of data. Caution in interpreting data is taught from the very beginning. So is responsibility to true reporting.

But scientists definitely need to learn how to put up their fists in the public arena. Instead they decline to get into the ring, believing that their numbers and figures and journal articles can take the blows. Well, they don't. In fact, those ways make smart people feel ignorant, and are not going to get anyone on the side of science. People don't have the time to put down their busy lives and read journal articles that make their eyes swim with terminology only a handful of people in the world understand, and will revile scientists for talking over their heads!

Thank goodness for Al Gore, who figured this out long ago. Look how much he has accomplished so far, and he is not (A) valedictorian of charm school or (B) A scientist! Yet people believe him. Imagine what a charming scientist could do. Carl Sagan and Stephen Jay Gould, you left us too soon. We need a JFK or a MLK to further our second green revolution, and to quash the evolution debate.

Volunteers? Please send head-shots and CV's to: anyone who will listen.

I Heart Snow

Today is St. Nick's Day, my 11 month anniversary with my honey, and the first honest-to-goodness snowy day of this winter. I love the way it brightens up the windows, reflecting sunlight. Last night I tried to get my cat to come out on my balcony to taste some snowflakes, but you could tell he was conflicted from the way he hung back and scrunched up his nose. Curiousity .... but alas ... disdain won out. Maybe I'll carry him out tonight.

Attack of the Killer Buffet

Today a buffet table almost killed me. Oh yes, you may think that your furniture is indifferent to your existence, but this buffet of mine had murder in its heart. All I wanted was a surface to put my microwave on and free up counter space, and some nice pantry space below. All it wanted was for me to die.

I speak of a Leksvik Ikea buffet. Spawn of Satan. I recommend crossing yourself after looking at the picture, if you dare.

At first I thought this buffet simply wanted to hassle me. Last night I brought it home, opened the box, and discovered that two parts had been damaged during shipment. They had small gouges and cracks in their finish. Since I'd spent $179 plus tax on the thing, and shopped around for other flatpack self-assemble furniture I'd decided was poorer quality, I felt entitled to have a piece of furniture that at least started out in good condition. I found out that IKEA didn't agree.

I called the store this morning 15 minutes after they opened and spent 15 minutes on hold. Finally a kind voice told me I could bring in the two damaged pieces for a replacement. Great. I drove to Bolingbrook and was helped almost immediately. After poking around a while and not finding any spare parts in their IKEA junkyard room, a nice lady ordered up a brand spanking new buffet from the warehouse. When it came we opened it together. Damaged. Again.

The funny part about that is the lady helping me seemed to think I should be fine with that. Uh, no. The feet were damaged. I was sure that my beautiful buffet would be a rocker. So she acquiesed to ordering up yet another brand new buffet. But after that, sorry, extremely picky and unreasonable lady. So we waited. Another flat-packed buffet arrived and we pulled out the pieces. You guessed it. Again. And worse. This one had a strip of wood peeling off.

I had to pick the best of the brutes.** I chose the rocker set, because upon standing them up I discovered that the feet were only damaged on the inside part, so there were just enough level millimeters on the outside to keep her steady. The others with their rough edges and pieces of veneer falling off would be bait for Rascal to start chewing to heck. As you can see, I had nothing but the best of intentions for my new buffet.

While I was engaged in this tragic comedy, the not-yet-built buffet was no doubt chanting satanic spells and doing black magic dances around my apartment. Because when I finally got out of the store it had started to snow.

I had heard about the wintry mix storm they were predicting. But it wasn't supposed to happen until afternoon! I checked my watch. Oh. It was afternoon. I climbed into my car and made for 355. They would of course clear and salt the highways first, making it the safest way to attempt to get home.

Everything seemed ok, snow hadn't accumulated much, it was just blowing about. But as I drove north it gradually worsened. Cars in front of me were braking, probably to make room for people getting on the highway. I slowed down. This was when the buffet's chanting was no doubt coming to a head.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see the SUV next to me moving erratically. I realize that he has lost control and is skidding and swerving. Suddenly I am skidding too! I'm not sure what brought it on, but I think it was that I was pumping my brakes for the people in front of me and then suddenly got on the accelerator trying to get away from the SUV, and we'd both probably hit the same slick. I pumped my brakes and all of a sudden my car skidded hard to the right and I was practically thrown onto the shoulder. While I have never been able to figure out what to do in a skid situation (what in the world does "steer into a skid" mean anyway?), instinct took over. I immediately let up on the brake and recovered control. I was all straightened out. Behind me I saw that the SUV had skidded into my lane. He was still spinning too. He spun completely around to face oncoming traffic. Thank God no one was there. He regained control and ended up on the inside shoulder, facing the wrong way.

In all seriousness, that moment where I was thrown to the side, I can't help shake the feeling that it was a divine push. If I had stayed in my lane, my car would've been eaten by that SUV.

The buffet sent from Hell had lost. Back in Wheaton, the screws and cam locks fell to the floor, exhausted of their incantation. I went a max of 35 mph all the way home. I got to see another car skid halfway up the embankment. No one was harmed. It all happened in the same stretch. I'd never seen anything like it before. Cars skidding about on the other side of the highway, too. It was like driving in an ice skating rink. You never knew whose butt was going to hit the ground, and if you were unlucky it might happen right in front of you.

When I got home, I faced that buffet. I conquered it. As one last slap, at the very end as I tried to assemble the drawer, I discovered that they had packed two left-side pieces for the drawer. Not wanting to face the woman who thought I was unreasonable, or risk certain death on the road or defeat from the heap of wood before me, I drilled some new holes in that drawer piece and made it work anyway.

Let me just say that my new buffet looks awesome. But I can't help but think it also looks a bit ... defeated?

**I did ask for a partial refund for this not-perfect piece, and I was refused because it was "obviously a manufacturer's defect" and not IKEA's fault. I can see how this would be logical, since it is the manufacturer's fault that they sell their furniture through IKEA. They must know that IKEA likes to drop it and then let their customers discover the problem once they get it home and then tell them that those gouges and dents are part of the piece's "charm". Silly manufacturer. Interesting that we found 3 wrecked buffets, and yet I'm certain they aren't going to take the others off the shelf. Leave them for the next sucker.

Cat House Rules

My 16 pound silver and black American shorthair cat pretty much believes that he controls my life.

There is no sleeping in. As soon at the alarm goes off, he climbs up on my chest and sticks his nose in my face, his whiskers tickling me. "Time to eat! Time to eat!" he is saying. I slide out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, Rascal milling in front of my every step, oblivious to the fact that he is actually slowing down my motions to dispense his kibble.

He makes sure I'm not too messy. I can't leave food out on the counter because he will get into it. Small plastic objects left on tables such as pens or sunglasses are knocked onto the floor and chewed to bits. Trash must be taken out regularly otherwise if it gets a little smelly he'll knock it over and drag it around the kitchen like a racoon.

He is a constant chaperone. If Jason and I try to snuggle together reading books or watching movies, Rascal likes to climb up between us and plop down in the middle, gravity slowly pushing him down between us like a wedge. When we finish eating Rascal likes to sniff the plates to make sure what we ate was interesting.

When I am typing on my laptop, he likes to curl up in my lap. Or sit on the keyboard. It depends on his mood, really, and how much he wants to hassle me. In my lap he often gets tired of my arms dancing over his head as I type, and angry that my hands are too busy to pet him. So he reaches out and bites down on them. I just good-naturedly ignore it and swat him away. But the other day after he released my arm he hissed at me. Hissed. It was the first time ever that I'd heard him do it. My little kitten is becoming a rebellious teenager.

Or perhaps he is still punishing me. Recently I tried to keep him outside my bedroom for the night. I have been suffering from miserable morning sniffles for months now. As the frost sets in and ragweed dies away, the sniffles continue. I'm beginning to suspect my best furry friend. It's tough because he's slept with me for 3 years now. But I had to try.

Scratch scrach. Meow! Meow! MEOW! Scratch scratch. Meowwww. Plaintive wailing. All night. This must be why people in cartoons throw shoes and flowerpots at cats singing on their fences. Finally I gave up, exhausted, and let him in. He immediately jumped up onto the bed, curled up at my feet and fell sound asleep. He was even more tired than I was.

I've known for a long time that it is Rascal, and not I, that make up the rules in my house. Once, on a romp across my keyboard, he sent me a clear message. His back claws slipped under one of my keys and popped it off. I've never been able to get it back on straight. Now that key sits in a drawer, and there is a gaping hole in my keyboard like a face missing a tooth.

Which key do you suppose Rascal dispatched?

"Control," of course.

Novel Countdown

I think I may occasionally report on here my novel's progress. I am currently up to 44 pages, double spaced.

Writing Class

The dead birds on the walls are probably the first things that will strike you as you walk into my novel-writing class. Their glass eyes gaze down at you, their wings and necks are frozen at odd angles. They are ducks, hawks, woodpeckers. Some are stuck to pieces of wood. Some are on the shelf against the wall.

It's an adult continuing education class, and we get whatever random classroom is available. So we ignore the birds except for the occasional pun that leaks into our discussions. Dean, the instructor, occaisionally gets freaked out by them when he turns his head from the blackboard and realizes that one is staring at him.

Last night we broke down plot and discussed how you develop the arc of a story. You start with a protagonist who has an object of desire, and motivations behind him that propell him to that desire. But alas, there are conflicts! Inner conflicts (emotions, hang-ups), personal conflicts (people in the protagonist's life), and environmental ones (forces of nature).

I am a protagonist! The object of my desire is to write a novel. My motivations are many -- my love of writing, my wanting to share a story and my perspective, the sense of accomplishment, the possibility of success. My conflicts are many -- inner: doubt, maybe I'm not good enough, maybe it'll be terrible, maybe I'll get bored with it after 30 pages, maybe I'll never get to 30 pages because I'll be trying to make the first 20 perfect. personal -- the time demands of my friends, family, and boyfriend (not malicious, of course!) environmental -- beautiful fall weather beckoning me outside, the time required by my job, chores, moving at the end of this month, even the writing class itself! Will this protagonist be able to rise above these conflicts? Or will she fall short, but learn something about herself in the process? ... stay tuned!

Astronomologic ...

I was thinking about the word "Universe". "Uni" must mean "one", like unicycle, or unity. And then "verse" makes me think of a song or poem. So, being part of this universe is like we're all a part of this one complex and beautiful song, and everything that is working within it has rhythm and purpose in one vast sonorous symphony.

Note: I was not drunk when I wrote this. But I was a bit tired.

Dragon Fly

Today a brilliant green dragonfly with a wingspan larger than my hand flew into our lab. We were harvesting pots of switchgrass and the doors were wide open since one person was running in and out with the plants she was rinsing the soil from. He came in and hovered a bit around our pots of switchgrass, no doubt wondering why things seemed so familiar and prairie-like but also so strange and lab-like. Then he came around the chest freezer and hovered on the other side of this cage-like partition, right at my knees, just so I could have a really nice look at him, before he ascended out of sight.

I am pretty sure Jason sent him, on his way out of town to Michigan for 9 days for work. Thank you, love!

The Party that Shall Not Be Named

Had to go check out the Party that Shall Not Be Named in Naperville tonight to see all the Harry Potter revelers. As you know, tonight is the night!! Check out the boxes of books at the Barnes and Noble all labeled "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL JULY 21!" Naperville was transformed into a more magical world. I saw Dumbledore, Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Dobby, Rita Skeeter, Professor Magonigal, many quidditch players, living portraits ... here's one of Ron and Hermione ... and Potter Potties, gotta love it ...

Storm

Yesterday I drove directly into the red part on the radar map, just trying to get home to my no-doubt terrified cat. The sky was haunting. flashes every other second illuminated a claustrophobically low ceiling of grey clouds. I had the impression that God was soldering together heaven and hell, sparks flying everywhere.

On the highway I met the rain. It rattled my car until I was imagining it being pounded apart around me, paint striped off, belts shaking off their rotors, bolts dribbling behind me. I actually felt like I was swimming. Like my car was gliding instead of driving, wake churned up behind me, and I squinted into the windshield as if trying to blink away the water flooding the glass. There were seconds when I saw nothing but spiraling rivulets of water. Seconds where the scene before me was lit up as bright as noon by another flash of lightening. The ramp I took from one highway to another reminded me of a waterslide from a few years ago.

I took refuge for a little while under an overpass. I was just tired of driving. I threw on the hazard flashers and let trucks and cars fearlessly stream by me, dousing me with wake and mist. While just beyond the bridge I hid under rain pummeled the asphault, it boiled a pot just after you add the pasta. I had passed some other cars doing the same. Finally I got the guts to merge back on the highway, but only for a little while. I quickly got off and took side-streets home.

I wanted to write a poem about this. But instead it took too many words. Prose was streaming out of me. And the chaos of the storm wouldn't line itself up neatly into rows of verse. So this is my poem.

Yucky

I've never felt sympathy for aliens before. But here I am, lying in my bed, sniffling, mouth breathing because my nose is clogged, my face sore from sneezing and being swatted at with tissues, feeling that if jason, the sweetest man on earth, saw me like this, he might reconsider his epithet "my pretty", and I feel sorry for those aliens. You know -- the ones in that movie that were slaughtering all humanity on earth, zapping them into dust with lasers or grinding them up and using their blood for fertilizer, from that awful remade movie with Tom "Can I Be Any Weirder" Cruise, and the little girl with the very memorable shriek. We had a common enemy, me and those unbelievably nasty aliens -- the common cold.

Rascal is looking at me as though asking what I've done with the girl that normally feeds him. She's here, curled up into fetal position inside this body possessed by cold bugs. When I have a cold, I feel insulated from the world. As though my head is burried under large heavy pillows. Sounds are dulled. My brain is fuzzy, as though operating on low oxygen. I'm more thoughtful, more introspective, though the thoughts come more slowly and are punctuated by a refrain of "ughs" and "icks".

Who likes being sick? There have been many days that I've foolishly wished I was sick, to have an excuse to stay home and clean house or lie around with Rascal all day. But the actuality of a sick day is more frustrating than relaxing. You stand up to do some chore or other, and you get tired much too quickly, realize you're making yourself dizzy or your throat feels worse, and soon you're back in bed, cursing the bugs again. Feeling wrathful like a lazer-wielding alien.

Bird Paradise

Saturday. An overcast sky, a cool almost-but-not-quite spring day. Jason and I seize it, we've been waiting a long time for a weekend day like this one. On the way we stop into Caribou for vanilla latte (his) and chai latte (moi), then drive on to Delnor Park in St. Charles. We take the path out of the little parking area, and the park belongs only to us. The trees and brush are speckled with green, no full leaves yet. You can still see deep into the woods through almost barren branches. We sip the lattes in our hands, warmth seeping from the paper cups into our fingers. I brought the list of local birds that he'd given me. A guide to the birds of DuPage County that he'd found for me in the arboretum bookstore. We are in Kane County just then, but never mind, close enough. Jason's binoculars were tucked under his arm. "Canadian Geese", he points down by the water. They nuzzle each other just near the dam, and we chuckle a bit. Even though they're unimpressively common, they're still on the list, and I mark them off. It takes a moment for me to realize why Jason is intent on some trees about twenty feet in front of us. I see them. Tiny birds fluttering in their branches, barely visible to me, their dull coloration blending in to the woodsy backdrop. "Kinglets," he says, and puts his binoculars to his eyes. "Golden-crowned," he adds. He hands off the binoculars to me, and I squint through them, trying to find them in their limited field. It takes forever for me to trap one in my view, since they flit from branch to branch and only alight for a moment, tense and turning their heads every which way. They must also have ordered an extra shot of espresso in their morning coffee. And finally, once I find the small bird, it takes even longer for me to spot the tiny yellow stripe on his head which separates him from his ruby-crowned cousin. We get a little closer and ... I see it!

Also spotted that day ... ruby-crowned kinglets, mallards, mourning dove, great horned owl (but we saw that earlier by the courthouse in Geneva), hairy woodpecker, northern flicker (beautiful colors!), eastern phoebe, white-breasted nuthatch, brown creeper (Jason's favorite), american robin, dark-eyed junco, common grackle, and the infamous "jason e" bird.

Walking Through the Lilac Park in Winter

for jason e

Whisps of white shift over the brick path;
Powder swirls around my ankles.
No footsteps in the snow but mine,
And they are quickly swept away.

The park sleeps, tucked in for winter
Dreaming of spring sunset strolls,
Trilling warblers, lilac perfume,
A gallery of tulips nodding in the breeze.

In a warmer season I would meet you here,
Take your hand, lead you down this path
To discover some shady and fragrant corner,
And lie on the grass, the blades tickling our legs.

But last fall, the watercolor landscape bled
To brown, tapestries torn from every branch,
and every private room exposed
To austere sculptors: snow and ice.

Yet, I love that I met you in winter.
A metaphor for two people who love poetry:
Our hearts two bulbs in frozen ground
Full of hope for wet spring.

I think of you as I walk through this park
With frost on my lips,
My body clenched against the chill,
And I wonder if this winter stratified our souls.

I recall the sunlight in your smile
And the tiny green leaves in my heart –
The ones waiting for the thaw --
Begin to unfold.

Southside Irish Parade

Last weekend I went with family and boyfriend to the South Side Irish Parade. I had never witnessed this spectacle before, so I thought I'd report back my findings:

Green Dogs: 2
Kids sleeping in wagons: 4
Men in Superman Costumes: 1
St. Patricks: 1
Irish Dance Schools: 4+
Drunk People: 1000s
Non-Irish People: 1000s
Irish Sweaters: 108
Candy caught by myself or sister: 0
Hugs given to Tony the Tiger by sister: 1
Amount of money owed to sister for aforementioned hug: $5
Bagpipe bands: lots
Men in Kilts: lots
Women in Kilts: some
Trekkies in parade: 1
Giant wrenches held by pipefitters union members: 2
Number of different potato dishes in Irish lunch buffet: 4
Giant walking glasses of Guiness: 1
Migrating Sandhill cranes spotted: 100s
Number of people crossing street in middle of parade when technically not allowed to: 5
Number of people not wearing green: 4
Green beers spotted: 5
Buckets of beer spotted: 10
Boys I kissed: 1
Boys I held hands with: 1
German boys I was in love with: 1
Irish boys I was in love with: 0

Germination Instructions

(warning -- sappy alert)

Jack, my hiking buddy, has been sending me emails asking for my "expert" advice. It seems that he has a little horticultural problem. The seeds he special-ordered, for an exotic tropical African plant that he'd very much like to grow for its delicious berries, will not take. These berries are special, Jack tells me, because if you put one under your tongue, everything sour will taste sweet. Pure lemon juice transforms into sugar water to your senses. The instuctions ask for acidic soil, so he's practically nuked his soil with sulfur. And he's tried to counteract the buffering in the soil by diluting it with sand. He's also bought a pH meter from Home Depot that reads "7" no matter whether you put the sensor in bicarbonate or carbonic acid. But the seeds just sit in their pots with their non-existant arms folded and shaking their non-existant little seed heads, "uh-uh, no way". Some have even germinated with much promise, only to die back immediately, "psyche!".

For a while I was having a little bit of a love problem. I put my heart out there more than a few times. So many bad dates. So many good dates that turned out to be with bad boys. So many, in fact, that as a scientist and an analytical thinker I started to think that since I was the common denominator on all these dates, that perhaps I was the problem. I was too picky, or too sensitive, or too nice, or too ... something that I didn't know, and would never be able to fix. A couple times love even sprouted, only to die back. Nothing stings quite like that. To think you finally have it all figured out, and the rug pulled out from under you. Meanwhile my friends around me seemed to find love so effortlessly.

For Jack, I've been trying to come up with the secret to his seeds. While this is definitely not my area of expertise, I did take a plant propagation class in school, where I learned that some seeds are tougher than others. Some can be dropped haphazardly onto any soil, any conditions, and they will just grow like mad. Some require a trick to germinate. For example, some seeds need to be soaked in acid to mimic what it is like to pass through the gut of an animal that happened to munch on the fruit they hid in. It's a trick the plant evolved to have - so that they would not germinate in the wild until an animal had the chance to carry them a ways from the mother plant, and euphamistically, to ensure that there would be nutrients deposited all around the baby seed. Horiculturalists will sometimes "scarify" these seeds with hard seed coats to get them to germinate. They will file tiny scratches into the seed's outer shell to give the tiny embryonic plant inside a chance to break through.

Fire is another such trick. Pictures of Yellowstone following the great forest fires in the 80s famously depict the masses of purple fireweed that sprang forth out of the scorched earth between the blackened and barren tree stalks, having lain dormant in the soil for ages waiting for the signal of intense heat to inform them that the previously closed forest was now allowing light to shine in. There are also some pine cones that will only open to release their seeds after they've been subjected to fire.

Cold can be yet another trick for germination. Seeds may require "stratification", a period of cold and dampness, basically a "winter". Purple liatris needs this for one, a prairie flower. The prairie is a clockwork of plants that bloom at just the perfect time during the season. Too soon and they may be burned by frost, too late and they may be shaded out by taller prairie grasses. Some wait until very late when the grasses dry out and fall back before making their late appearance. All must be timed perfectly with when their pollinators will be able to find them, bees, moths, butterflies, even wind.

It would appear that my own heart required some tricks for proper germination. It needed to be broken a few times. To be devoured by loves that ended up not working out so well. To have little holes filed into it, little hurts from when I felt crushed by others, little emptinesses from times in my life I will miss. My heart needed the fire of someone passionate to bring it to life. It also required a "winter", a barren and loveless time where I felt spring would never come, to truely appreciate it when it did. And it needed for the timing to be just right.

I still haven't figured out the secret to Jack's seeds. But I believe I may have found the secret to my own germination problem, since I already feel the tiny leaves in my heart unfolding ... jason.

An Announcement

I love Jason!

How We Met

One of the first things someone will ask when I introduce Jason, is "How did you meet?" It's a very simple question, really, and this person is expecting the simple and true answer that I will give them: "Through friends."

But it always gives me a moment of pause, a moment of my life flashing before my eyes, and the parts of his that I've learned of so far, and I want to start at the beginning, the very beginning: when he was born, and when a few years later, I was born, and all the circumstances ... where he lived, where I lived, that we did not live near enough to each other to meet at the wrong time.

His grandfather introducing him, as a boy, to a great love of nature, a great blue heron just around the bend of their path, his head turned to their footsteps, wings quivering in readiness to leap into the air, and into a boy's heart. My dad taking the little green paperback dichotomous key around the backyard so that we could key out the apple tree, the ash, I still remember standing under the ash tree with the leaves in my hand, and it was a new and exciting game to know that this was not just any tree.

We both loved dinosaurs, and for some reason, the stegosaurus. Perhaps we were both pacifists from early on, going for the vegetarian one. When he was catching dragonflies, I was catching fireflies, and I left mine on the picnic table overnight in a jar, and coming back the next morning to grave disappointment, while he raised his more mercifully in an acquarium.

And then there were the hardships and heartbreaks we endured, each with its lonely pain, where knowing that the other person just existed might have made things tolerable. But without that knowlege, with no crutch to stand on, we learned so much more, and became who we are. We learned we are fragile, but we endure. There were our almost-loves, our almost-forevers, and when they ended, we had to trust that was for a reason, one that we wouldn't know for a while.

I don't know, yet, what inspired Jason to first love and write poetry. But I didn't like poetry at all until my senior year of high school, when I had an influential teacher named Mr. Brown who introduced me to the modern poets. Perhaps if I hadn't been able to love and appreciate poetry, I wouldn't have been able to love and appreciate Jason, since it is so much a part of him.

And then there were the moments that turned the trajectories of our lives in wild directions, but directions toward each other none-the-less. A moment on a mountaintop in Colorado for Jason which made him reconsider what was important to him. A moment in an ordinary hallway for me, when I was introduced to the first soil scientist of my life, who happened to be looking for summer help.

And there was a time when we were very far apart, in California. I loved it there. I had a life there. But something called me back - my family, a job waiting for me. But maybe something else, too. In fact, it always felt like Cali was temporary for me, from the day I arrived.

And then our mutual friends -- only two degrees apart we were, for many years. Our email addresses in mass emails inviting us to things were nearer to each other than we ever were. Thank goodness Susie came to work at Argonne. Thank goodness Susie's father knew our boss at Argonne from college. Thank goodness I came back to Argonne and met Susie, and that Susie knew a certain Kelly B., who knew a certain boy. And thank goodness we didn't meet sooner. We both agree that timing could have hurt us.

So how did Jason and I meet? Maybe next time I should be ready with the answer I feel is closest to the simple truth: "A miracle."