Justice in the World

... comes in many forms.  Today, in Cork, Ireland, I saw one particularly gratifying form of justice.   In one of many (many, many) pubs in Cork city, I came across a beer menu (this is not a surprise). But, then more surprisingly, what to my wondering eyes did appear upon said menu but one shining reindeer:

No, no... that's not how the story goes.  Rather, while gazing at the menu in a cumbersome haze of jet lag brought on by flying halfway around the world from Seattle to Shannon, I saw a form of equality never before encountered in the United States of America:

It's true.  This photograph has not been manipulated in any way, shape, or form.  It is indeed possible to purchase a pint of Guinness at less cost per volume than Budweiser.   While the more rational and analytical of readers might say this is a natural consequence of lower transport costs and taxes (on Guinness) and the opposite for Budweiser in this beer-happy country, I prefer to think of it as a brief moment of sweet justice.   I know I should apologize to any Budweiser fans who may stumble across this blog, but I can't seem to get the words out of my mouth and onto my keyboard.   So, I will refrain.

Budweiser may be the King of Beers, but Guinness actually has the kind of deep, intense flavor that doesn't require intense advertising to market and sell.

My only question today is this:  given this rather attractive and endearing price advantage for Guinness and its many Irish cousins, does Budweiser hold a prayer for selling in Ireland?   Compared to the alternatives, it's hard to believe Bud has a meaningful and appreciable market.  Would you choose a Budweiser over a Fursty Ferret?

... or over a beer that might give you an STD?

The choices for beer and ale here in Ireland are seemingly endless.   I almost feel like a heretic when I choose a glass of wine over a pint of beer.

Oh well.  At least, I'm not choosing a Budweiser!

The Best Vacuum Cleaner Hoover never Made

During my time in China this summer, I simultaneously had a view of the air problem:

And the air solution:

Yet, we don't often link the two.  Sure, it would help the problem if in the next two days or so, emissions of particulates and air pollutants in China would drop by half.  I would even patiently wait two months for such a reduction.  If pressed, I might wait for two years.   But, in the absence of the political willpower and consumer sacrifice required to achieve such a miraculous reduction in toxic air pollution, we might want to consider planting another acre or two (or three) of those interesting green things that stand out in the photograph.

Just one will produce enough oxygen each year to match what two human beings consume by breathing in that same year.  Just one will consume about ten pounds of air pollutants every year and block immeasurable particulates from traveling to other cities and other places on our planet.  

They are simple, common, numerous, everyday... Remarkable, Majestic green trees. By design, they are nature's vacuum cleaner and are equipped with the best HEPA air filter ever made.   Their design goes well beyond anything Hoover ever imagined.   And also well beyond anything we, who stubbornly continue to spew pollutants into the air we breathe and poison the planet we just happen to inhabit, could ever design.  

With this knowledge in hand, we will apply our superior intelligence today, tomorrow, and the next day, well into the foreseeable future... to eliminating far more of these impressive air cleaning wunder machines than we plant.

When it comes to SugarLoaf, the Third time is the Charm

Whidbey island is a rather long and large island, extending 55 miles from tip to tip and between 1 and 12 miles wide, covering over 160 square miles.  At the southern tip, the Washington State Ferry is kind enough to charge us a few dollars to haul us over to the mainland by boat.  At the northern tip, we can drive over a bridge, cross over Deception pass, and drop onto Fidalgo island.

At only 41 square miles, is may look like a dwarf next to Whidbey, but topographically, Fidalgo is impressive.  Fidalgo has several peaks over 1000 feet, which may be wimpy for the mountainous west, but are impressive on a small island.   Anyone with two or four wheels can drive up the side of Mt. Erie and admires the view from the summit, but the lack of authenticity involved in driving to a summit prompts many to move to neighboring Sugarloaf, for a traffic-free hike up to the summit, with an equally stunning view... on the odd occasion when the weather is cooperative.   

To me Sugarloaf suggests the trail must be padded with soft white sand or evergreen needles, and the grade easy enough to "loaf" up the mountain.  A few steps onto the trail will dispel all such illusions and a quick check on Wikipedia tells us that instead, Sugarloaf is named for its characteristic conical shape, similar to the shape in which sugar was produced and sold until the late nineteenth century.

The hike up Sugarloaf is steep but short.  I had done it twice before, only to reach the top and find my head in the clouds, fog, or both.   A summit without a view.

This past Friday, however, after two days of rain and overcast skies, a golden opportunity rose with the sunrise in the eastern sky.  Hopeful, we hopped in the car and headed north, up the island, wondering: would the third time be the charm?

The rest goes without saying.

Sitting atop the summit, a window of time that might otherwise be forgotten, became a moment of simple, unforgettable joy.

A memory  to hold close and warm to my heart, when the rain and the chill comes back in a short few months.

Skiing: Luxury or Necessity?

Many consider skiing to be a luxury, a most enjoyable leisure activity well suited to the middle and upper class as a highly effective way to consume disposal income. Snowboarding, on the other hand, is simply a universally effective means to aggravate skiers.  But, I digress.

In my younger days, I used to ski a lot, preferring the downhill variety to cross-country for the accompanying speed, thrill, cool clothes, and fashionable status.   Several years have passed, the exact number of which do not need to be stated here.   During that time, I matured, at least in theory... although how much is up for debate.  I grew to love cross-country skiing over its downhill counterpart, not simply because my joints were more likely to survive the experience but also because the peace that came with every passing stroke of ski and pole was hard to find anywhere else.

Herein lies one of the very few downsides of spending the winters in Florida.   Opportunities to ski have become much fewer and farther between.   Nevertheless, every year, when I return to the Pacific Northwest in late March, I make a day to ski in the middle of the craziness that is academic life. This single day of skiing has become an annual ritual.  As I head out in the wee morning hours on my one precious day every year, I find that I am heading to the hills for more than peace and quiet.  Unlike the early days, when all I thought about while skiing was skiing, I can now think about so much more because skiing has become automatic, much like riding a bicycle.

As my thoughts wander here, there, and everywhere, many of the half baked ideas or research problems that have lingered in the back of my mind, unsolved and unresolved, gradually start to become much more clear.  This incubation process is both a result of and a delight with spending hours in this forested alpine world that is both immensely beautiful and profoundly silent.  The blanket of snow that still covers these slopes in early spring has a wonderful way of quieting the natural silence of the forest even further.

In the middle of this silence, my mind naturally wanders to the problems, the dilemmas, the quandaries that have remained unsolved.  Whether they be in research, in teaching, or in relationship, these unsolvables are transferred to a special storage container in my brain.  On skiing day, when all the other cares of the world disappear and the world is white, clean, and at peace with itself, my mind unlocks this Pandora's box of unsolved problems and ponders them ... without my conscious bidding.

As the miles go by underneath the quiet swish of my skis skating along the snow, many of those problems that seemed to be more cerebral spaghetti than pathways of reason, unravel, reform, and reshape over and over again.   Some remain spaghetti at the end of the day, but many become clear, ordered rational solutions to take back home and to work where the cycle of grant proposals, new students, and new projects will soon begin again.

After packing the car up from a long day of trekking through the snow, my body is tired, my heart at peace, and my mind unusually calm.   

I wonder if I can deduct my ski pass and mileage as an employment expense.  

Probably not.   The IRS would likely not understand nor allow.  

Where am I?

Usually, it takes a little bit too much alcohol, awakening in a strange country far, far away, a mid-life crisis, or similar handicap for me to ask this question of myself.   This morning, however, no such extenuating circumstance could be blamed for my befuddlement.   No drugs, no jet lag, no alcohol, no external influence was involved.  I think.

The story goes like this.  Yesterday,  after one of those mind boggling drives through far too much summer traffic forced us to spend six hours traveling 240 miles, Barry and I arrived at my mother-in-law's house in McMinnville, Oregon.   A complete dinner, a conversation, and a movie later, we were all in bed with visions of cooler weather dancing in our heads.  No such cooler weather was anywhere in the immediate forecast, but it certainly didn't hurt to fantasize about it.

In the midst of a deep, steamy sleep, I heard a small noise.  Opening my eyes, I came face to face with a large ball of black fur, in the middle of which lay two large brown eyes framed by two very perky and expectant ears.   What was a small noise in my dreams was now clearly recognizable as a strong whine from an otherwise quiet dog.  There was no question in Belle's mind that at the rather early hour of 4 a.m., I was going to roll out of bed to talk her for a walk.   By the time I finally found her collar and her leash, Belle was quite agitated and it took only a few feet from the front door to figure out why.   This 4 a.m. bout of diarrhea was followed by the 5 a.m. distress, the 6 a.m. walk, and the 8 a.m. rousing when I decided to give up hopes of sleeping and get out of bed for good.  

By the time I walked out the door to search for my morning latte, the lack of sleep (or age or some other defect of personality) was making me a little dimwitted.   I was totally unprepared to turn the corner and find a pipe spewing large quantities of water into the yard, attempting to make waterfront property out of the front lawn.   A little panicked that this house wasn't quite ready to be converted to a houseboat, I loaded Belle into the already overheated car and searched to and fro for something that looked like a water supply valve (although I would have happily settled for the on/off switch for the sprinkler system).  After an unsuccessful round of searching, I called The Spouse and not surprisingly, could not reach him... this was a result of the recently passed commandment that "Thou shalt not have thy cell phone on while playing golf".   After pursuing another round of equally unsuccessful options, I called 911.  The lake in front of the house was continuing to expand at an alarming rate.  The woman on the other end of the call was quite gracious, and I was repeatedly apologetic for calling with what might have been a non-emergency if you weren't looking straight at Old Faithful heaving forth directly adjacent to the foundation of a home.  

I was beginning to think this wee little drama would end well, when the 911 operator asked "Where are you?." It took me a few seconds to realize I had no idea where I was. All the mail was delivered to a post office box.  The house had a number on it, but no street signs were anywhere in sight.   And, there was no one around to ask this deep but important question:  Where am I?

I felt beyond stupid saying "I dunno" into the phone.  

Surely having to control the urge to laugh at me (which I understood), the 911 operator was able to track down my address based on the tiny disconnected bits of information I did have available to me.   Henceforth, she also tracked down the water company for me and the house no longer has visions of becoming a houseboat in the near (nor distant) future.  

Where was I?  Without luxury of GPS, internet, or other assisting technology, I had no idea.  

Today was a good reminder that keeping the basics within arm's reach is almost as important as keeping cell phone, text, e-mail, twitter, and facebook nearby.  

At the time of this writing, Belle is sleeping it all off, quite peacefully at the other end of the air conditioned living room.   She knows where she is. She's among her people.  She doesn't need a GPS, the internet, or 411 directory to tell her anything more.  

Nietzsche was right ...

...and I bet he is pleased with himself. Scientific research has confirmed the great philosopher Frederick Nietzsche's idea that "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger". Some negative experiences in life do indeed help people to develop coping abilities which, in turn, help them to manage future life difficulties with greater wisdom and strength.   In verifying Nietzsche's position, science has lagged behind, taking over 100 years after his death to prove this particular premise.  But, scientific research may have also been looking in the wrong place for confirmation or denial of Nietzsche's premise. Hence the 100 year delay.

I don't mean to minimize the thoughts of the deeply intelligent, and intellectual man that philosopher Frederich Nietzsche was, but it is possible that another portion of the living kingdom on earth already had this particular piece of philosophy figured out well before Nietzsche took his first step on planet earth.

Almost eight weeks ago, on Whidbey Island, Washington, an annoying and intense infestation of tent caterpillars hatched, wreaking havoc whereby hundreds of thousands of caterpillars began eating leaves by the millions across the island. Some trees emerged from the invasion almost leafless, pathetic, and seemingly unable to photosynthesize.

Yet, three weeks later, while the tent caterpillars emerge from their many cocoons as moths, the trees have responded to the infestation en masse.   It would be easy to believe that these poor trees would just limp through the season and hope for a better experience next year, getting by on whatever remaining photosynthesis they were able to manage.

Instead, they have responded with a rather endearing exuberance of new foliage, leafing out again just a few short months after their initial emergence from winter.   The result of the tent caterpillar's attempt to destroy has been the opposite of what was expected. Instead of acres of frail, struggling, even dying trees, we have many more trees which look like this:

The trees know the truth about the whole situation. What has not killed them has indeed made them GREENER.   The trees have simply passed that philosophy along to humans and modified a word or two to make this fundamental premise suitable to mankind.

Maybe the trees have other things to say to us as they stand quietly by, leafing out, producing bounty from wasting.  Maybe, we just need to listen a little bit more closely to them and, in so doing, we might find that the philosophy posed by the trees is as wise as Nietzsche.

As a side note, I bet the trees would never ever venture to say "God is dead" as Nietzsche did either.

And in that, lies true wisdom.

Welcomed Home by a Flash of Yellow!

I first noticed two things upon returning home from Shanghai (beyond my husband's love, of course, and the fact that he was graciously driving me home and absolving me of any responsibility during my first day back in the U.S. of A).

I noticed that the clouds in the overcast sky were in three dimensions.  Regardless of the gray, these clouds, unlike the overhead sky in Shanghai, were distinct, textured, and observable.  Between the clouds and my eyes... was a welcome blanket of clean, clear air that allowed me to see the level of detail that made the clouds beautiful, regardless of their color or weather forecast.   Frequently, during the ride home, I gawked at these clouds sprinkled across the gray, overcast sky as if they were the latest iPad, iPhone, whatever.   I vowed never to complain about clouds again.   We'll see how far that promise lasts into the rainy season in Western Washington.

The second thing I most noticed on my return was the Washington State bird perching itself on the feeder right outside my bedroom window:

Despite being the state bird, the American Goldfinch is not a frequent sight in my world. Because these goldfinches molt twice a year, however,  it is almost impossible to miss the bright flash of freshly molted yellow streaking across the sky during late spring and fall.   This one was headed toward the nearest bird feeder, of which we have plenty.   As my beautiful little, freshly re-feathered friend, perched outside my window, I couldn't help but believe that I was being welcomed back to the beautiful, clean air state of Washington:

I'm not naive.  I'm sure this lovely goldfinch was only after the feast at the bird feeder, because he is one of the strictest vegetarian feathered feeders on the planet, refusing to touch an insect much less consume one, unless he is in very dire straits.   His strictly vegetarian diet encourages me to keep full the many bird feeders that are spread across our property in key locations for bird gawking. Despite the bird's true reasons for perching outside my window, I felt special nonetheless.  After my trip to China, I reserve the right to reconstruct reality to suit a naive and optimistic view of the world.  

I can also identify with my little feathered friend here.  The American Goldfinch migrates not by time of year,  not by predetermined GPS setting, but by temperature.   When it reaches zero degrees or thereabouts, these lovely birds just fly south until the temperature warms up.  

This has become one of my more frivolous goals in life.  When it gets cold, simply head south, until it doesn't feel cold anymore.  Who cares what time of year it is?  Who cares about employment?

Oops, that may be where the naive and optimistic view may venture too far...