The Nature of Science at Brookhaven Lab

On a secluded patch of land in central Long Island trees blocked any view of the buildings I knew were there. I paused my rental car at the guard station to receive a pass and drove cautiously as if something or someone was about to stop me. This is the campus of Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, New York, approximately 50 miles from Manhattan. Like many people I have an unsettled relationship with science. For me, it’s a what-could-have-been feeling mixed with you-made-your-choices. Decades ago, I wanted to be a scientist.

I’m exploring what access the public has to our national laboratory system. Magnificent in scale, these palaces of inquiry are more industrial than lush, but they elegantly balance mysteries with explanations. Unlike static Mt Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, or Statue of Liberty, our national labs are always a work in progress.

Before 1947 Brookhaven was a U.S. Army training camp. After the camp closed it grew into a national laboratory. Home to the first nuclear reactor in the United States. Home to the first reactor designed for medical research. And home to the soon to be Electron Ion Collider, which will explore how the proton got its spin and the still mysterious strong nuclear force that binds atomic nuclei together. The designated effort of the Department of Energy, Office of Science national labs is to solve human energy demands. That quest takes into account how the universe was formed, “seeing” matter’s building blocks, and learning from nature’s amazing ability to self-organize. I hope my enthusiasm will camouflage my Wikipedia-level knowledge of science.

The size of Brookhaven is deceptive. Its sprawling 5,280-acre campus is pocked with 300 buildings that catalog years of architectural history spanning from pre-industrial red brick low rise to LEED-certified modern steel frame.

The mammoth machines constructed here and the people who operate them hold the power to prove ideas right or wrong. They identify those with potential to change the future, or not. Either way, answers get found and new questions arise. So much begins here. This is the land of big science, basic science, experimental science, user science. The difference between ideas and experiments is as plain as that between a water faucet and white crested rapids. I grab my raft. I am thinking big, as in universe big, but the actual experience directs me to think small, as in atomic nuclei small.

I’m greeted by a manager in the Communications office and two staff members. I’m looking for a good reason to trust science, to come and see how science gets done, to be awed by science that benefits all humankind. We sat down at a large conference table where the manager click-started a Power Point presentation and handed me a site map. He’s been working at the lab for 27 years and still maintains excitement about his work. “No one really knows what it is like until they are here,” he said. I’m ready!

Our first stop is the Center for Functional Nanomaterials (CFN). At the CFN size matters. A nanometer is one billionth of a meter. A grain of salt or strand of hair is considered large in this microscopic world. I remember my first peek into a microscope was in a crowded fifth-grade Catholic school classroom with 55 students. When I asked my parents for a microscope, they thought it a ridiculous request for a girl.

Objects not only look different by scale, they behave differently. Think of the sounds coming from different sized pipes on a church organ. Or how light rays of different wavelengths emerge from a prism at different angles.

Scale helps scientists understand how nature self-organizes and opens the door to new energy efficient nanomaterials, as well as biological and industrial processes. Ash from forest fires and volcanic dust are naturally occurring nanomaterials.

Self-assembly is how evolution solves problems. In nature, if something is still here it knows how to exist. What are the structures that support that existence?

Through the eye of a moth

As an example, at the CFN observing the organic structure of a moth’s eye revealed an anti-reflective quality. This led Brookhaven scientists to create a nanotexture that increased solar cell efficiency. Like the eye of a moth, the solar cells harvest light rather than reflect it.

The glass walls, computers, and clean rooms in this building don’t suggest organic life to me. I can’t see what these scientists see. To me the shape of things are static. A leaf, a blade of grass can be held in my hand. I can draw a picture of it. However, depending on the scale, objects can be modified in different ways. At the macroscale, I can bend the blade of grass but the composition of it is static. At the nanoscale, I can’t bend the grass but its molecular structures can be modified.  For example, scientists can apply coatings containing organic molecules to develop a flexible shell. They learned to direct the organization of objects the way nature does, creating structures with new properties.

The idea is not new. Ancient Islamic potters and medieval European artists employed nanomaterials by grinding silver, gold and copper metals into powders to add luster to pottery and color to glass. Such uses were confirmed through electron microscopy and precision spectroscopy using laser light sources. In ancient India therapeutic processing of minerals and metals continues today in their Ayurvedic system of medicine. However, the scale to which scientists can “see” and direct nanoparticles is new.

A research team from Columbia Engineering and Harvard University used tools at Brookhaven’s CFN to view, measure, and image cross sections of butterfly wings at a nanoscale. Once thought to be useless membranes, the wings of butterflies were revealed to have incredible temperature control and a sophisticated sensory network. Such knowledge brought them closer to developing new radiative-cooling materials. Maybe one day advanced flying machines!

Before we leave CFN, I looked into a glass cubicle where two young scientists were crouched in chairs with their eyes fixed on computer screens. A pink hoodie encircled the woman’s neck. I could not hear their voices. They were like tigers scenting prey, unaware of our presence.

Let There Be Ultra Bright Light

The concrete floor in the building that houses the National Synchrotron Light Source II (NSLS-II) is clean to a shine. It is so expansive that scientists ride adult-sized tricycles to get from one area to another. Octopus like cables extend from the stainless-steel machines that sparkle under the fluorescent lights dangling high overhead. The quiet in this grand space is unexpected.

The National Synchrotron Light Source II building at Brookhaven.

Shining light on a metal knocks some of its free-flowing electrons out of the metal completely. The discovery of this law, called the photoelectric effect, landed Albert Einstein his one and only Nobel prize. At the NSLS II, electrons are extracted from materials such as metals then accelerated to circulate around the half-mile storage ring at a temperature hundreds of degrees below the freezing point of water. While racing around the ring, the electrons emit ultra-bright X-rays. However, emitting light causes the electrons to lose a bit of their stamina, so at a precise moment the electrons move through well-tuned superconducting cavities to gain their momentum back. Kind of like pushing a child on a swing. The NSLS-II shines its intense waves of light to “see” atoms that measure one-thousandth of a billionth of a meter. This kind of science led to advances in CT scan technology as well as discoveries in chemistry, matter physics, and biology.

Three of the beam lines here were used to characterize the atomic-level structure of viral components in COVID-19 and how they connect with receptors on human cells. Scientist from pharmaceutical companies, academia and Brookhaven lab collaborated in the search for antiviral agents and targets for vaccines.

From the sub, subzero cold environment inside the NSLS II we moved to the STAR (Solenoid Tracker) detector on the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider (RHIC). A temperature that is 250,000 times hotter than the center of the sun is generated. Such contrasts intrigue me. I remember going from being popular to being ostracized the day my seventh-grade teacher announced I had received the highest grade on a science test.  Higher than the boy brainiacs? It was a fluke I told my fleeing friends who were more interested in go-go boots than how temperature impacts atoms.

STAR tracker

When we reached RHIC, the largest circular particle accelerator in the U.S., I’m introduced to a nuclear physicist who is flanked by coils, cables and pipes that make up STAR, a heavy ion detector stationed on RHIC’s 2.4-mile ring. STAR is as big as a house and I am invited in.

STAR detector

When I see the few women of my generation leading important science projects and the following generation of women achieving their goals in science, I realize that my career detour was only in part due to cultural and familial influences. What really halted my pursuit of science was high school math. I was terrible in math.

I saw only a fraction of what they do at Brookhaven and certainly didn’t understand all of it. It’s like being in the foothills with only a view of the mountains. Yet, any scientist will say there is always more to learn no matter where you start. This thought diminishes my regret of not being science savvy. I, like others who visit our national science labs, always want to know more.

In just a few hours my view of the world changed. I drove slowly on the road that led me away from the lab. Sunlight twinkled between the tree branches in a most perfect way. The autumn spray of color surrounded me. I smelled the musty ground that waited for leaves to fall. I imagined all the extras science will bring and all that nature has yet to reveal.

Meeting Mustapha in Morocco

Shoreline in Rabat, Morocco’s capitol city

I was nervous when I first arrived in Morocco. My muscles tensed. My head got light. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, breathed slowly in, out. I reminded myself that I came to Morocco from Chicago to experience a culture different from my own and that of my ancestors. It is a country whose people practice different religions, speak different languages, hold a longer history, and created a kingdom. My intent was to visit its four imperial cities – Rabat, Meknes, Fes, and Marrakech. I did so much more.

I pulled out a crinkled paper in my pocket that had Mustapha’s phone number on it. He is a Sunni Muslim of Berber (Amazigh) origin, Northwest Africa’s indigenous people. He grew up in the western Sahara Desert near Marrakech, a descendant of nomads, and is now owner of Roaming Camels Morocco. He met me at a designated meeting spot near the train station in Casablanca. His black framed glasses complemented dark fuzzy hair that dropped to his shoulders. A neatly trimmed mustache and short beard surrounded his smile that when widened revealed silver braces on his teeth. A string of leather around his neck dangled a silver pendant, called a Tifinagh or yaz. Of its symbol Mustapha said, “For the Berbers it symbolizes freedom, peace and dignity for all people.” He gave me a quick rundown on what to expect while in Morocco. “It is a progressive Muslim country. You don’t have to cover your head or bow for prayer. The Moroccan people are very friendly so don’t be surprised if you are invited to their house or they put their arms around you. This is normal.” He cautioned me about fake tour guides on the streets and how to take normal precautions while traveling.

I was hungry so we went to a nearby restaurant. A starter dish for any table in Morocco usually includes bread, olives, and cheese. The tagine (Moroccan stew) was served hot in a ceramic dish with chicken, potatoes, olives and sliced vegetables. The waiter exaggerated the pouring of mint tea, outstretched his arm toward the ceiling while the tea cascaded down like a waterfall into the glass. A tourist favorite, I was sure. But ah, the scent of mint leaves. The food was fresh, as if it had just been snapped from the ground. Organic is the rule in Morocco, not the exception.

Tree lined boulevard in Rabat

Arabic and Berber are the country’s official languages but in Casablanca, French is likely. In Tangier, it’s Spanish.

Rabat

After an hour-long train ride to Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, I saw a French influence in the streets’ curly cast iron light poles, tree-lined boulevards and French colonial style architecture.

But all that changed as I moved further into the old section medina (market) where food stalls and shops lined the narrow streets. I was on my way to the Udayas Kasbah, which is a walled city within the city, when I saw the sky spreading itself gallantly over the Atlantic Ocean. An upsweep shoreline was populated with tombstones that looked like an assembled crowd watching the waves slip onto shore. The Kasbah was originally built to fend against invaders and pirate ships. Later it became home to sultans as well as Muslim immigrants fleeing Catholic Spain.

I followed the Kasbah’s winding paths and got lost in its maze. My anxiety grew. It was hot in early March. I feared I might faint. Thoughts of a foreign hospital clouded my thinking. My breath quickened. I tried one path and then another and backtracked trying to find the spot where I started. Watching me was a woman with her head veiled and a cat at her feet. She pointed to where I needed to go. “Sukran,” Thank you, I said. I would learn that the Moroccan people have low tolerance for anyone in distress. They will help. Mustapha was right about that.

Freed from the Kasbah’s web, I headed over to the King Mohammed V mausoleum. Royal guards dressed in red uniforms stood frozen on horseback. Others stood erect under the scalloped arches of the white stone entrance. Out of respect I covered my head with a scarf. I stood on a marble floor beneath the wooden gold leaf ceiling in a viewing gallery above the revered king’s tomb. He was a freedom fighter who helped his country gain independence from France.

Royal guard at the King Mohammed V mausoleum

 

Meknes

A landscape view on the train to Meknes

On the train to Meknes the countryside reminded me of Tuscany with its rolling green hills filled with fields of herbs, orange groves, and olive trees. I arrived on a Friday, the Muslim day of devotion. On this day families solemnly celebrate Allah’s mercy and blessings. It’s reminiscent of the way Sundays used to be observed in the U.S. Many of the shops were closed. The squares were nearly empty. Of the quiet Mustapha said: “Inside the mosques people are asking for and giving forgiveness.”

In preparation for this day of prayer, on Thursdays many Muslims go to a local Hammam (bathhouse) where they engage in traditional bathing and cleansing rituals. Mustapha told me a story of his own childhood. “As a young boy I attended with my mother but when I got older, I no longer wanted to go to the Hammam with her. I was embarrassed because girls my age were there,” he blushed at the memory.

Moulay Idriss

At the nearby sacred pilgrimage village of Moulay Idriss, non-Muslims were not allowed in the mosque. I climbed up what seemed like a thousand steps past the communal bakery to watch the sun set and listen to the Islamic call to prayer echo across miles of valley hills. I let the scene sink inside of me.

Sentissi Mosque in Moulay Idriss

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs the village was dark, lit only by candles. The glow added to the romance of this idyllic place. Then I realized that the village was dark because the electricity had gone out. I rejoined Mustapha for dinner with a family he knew. He was dressed in traditional clothing, a white cloth turban atop his head and a shoulder-to-toe blue kaftan. While preparing food in the kitchen with the family, he told me: “The women make couscous and the men make tagine.” The kitchen was lit by candles and food prepared without electricity. The family offered for us to spend the night. I slept comfortably in a small room off the dining area. Floor to ceiling tiles covered the walls.

Fes

Train station at Fes

I was amazed at how easy it was to travel by train in Morocco. The next city I visited was Fes, described by Mustapha as the spiritual and cultural heart of Morocco. I was hesitant to enter the medina, the largest of its kind in the world. I was afraid I’d get lost again. Then I watched an old woman walking towards me. Her step slowed as she approached a big drop from the sidewalk onto the street. She lifted her arm as if knowing someone would help her navigate the drop. Which did happen. A young woman came up from behind her, took the old women’s arm, helped her with the step down, crossed the street with her, and helped her step back up onto the sidewalk. The young woman then released her arm and was on her way. I remembered the woman with the cat who steered me in the right direction in Rabat. This willingness to help others happened again and again. Days ago, when it started to rain a man signaled to me where I could find shelter. When a bench was full, a man stood and offered his seat. When I was not sure what train ticket to buy, I was led to an English speaker at the station. These small acts gave me the confidence to enter the medina at Fes.

Inside craftsmen worked at throwing pottery, designing mosaic tiles, and tanning leather. The stench from the leather tannery dye pits was only dissipated when I was given a twig of mint to hold to my nose. The craftsmen paid no attention to me or any other wanderer, keeping their heads down intense on finishing their work.

Potters at Fes medina

They left sales to men who were just as intent on getting people to buy. “Lo,” I said meaning “no” in Arabic, but they followed me. Speaking in English they repeated: “It is very good quality. You will miss this.” The prices are not fixed so a buyer has to barter, which I was not good at doing. Most of the business people were men. Most of the people sitting in cafes were men. With no space for cars in the medina, goods are transported in by men with donkeys. It seemed a male-centric society. However, women are represented in Morocco’s parliament. Sixty of the 360 elected members are women.

I found that my sense of direction had greatly improved. In the medina, I watched for landmarks and steadily made my way through the bustling markets stopping to watch the butchers cut up meat. I ate a camel burger which tasted like dry beef. I admired the baskets full of nuts, figs, goat cheese and olives. Two knockers on some of the residential doors aroused my curiosity. A shop owner dressed in black and adorned with silver chains around his neck and wrists told me, “The knockers carry different sounds. One is used by family members and friends so the woman inside will open it. The other is used by strangers and she will not open the door.”

That night, I washed the smell from the tannery dye pits out of my hair.

Chefchaouen

Before heading to Marrakech, I took a side trip by bus through the Rif mountains to a beautiful village called Chefchaouen. The houses, all painted white and blue, looked as if the sky had fallen and left its color there. I hiked a path up the mountains to a small mosque where an Imam was teaching class to elementary school children. The village below looked like a fairyland.

Beautiful village of Chefchaouen

Tangier

Balcony view from the Hotel Continental in Tangier

Another side trip was by train to Tangier. It is a beautiful, romantic city on the Mediterranean Sea just an hour ferry ride from Spain. Approaching the city, I saw sleek modern high-speed trains parked on tracks. The trains travel from Tangier to Casablanca cutting the former travel time in half. The sky was overcast but it didn’t diminish the city’s allure. The Tangier American Legation Museum is the oldest U. S. diplomatic property in the world, but it was closed the day I arrived. I walked the waterfront promenade and sipped tea on the balcony of the Hotel Continental looking out at the Strait of Gibraltar. I imagined what it was like to travel across the sea in an explorer’s ship. Surely in summer the harbor would be filled with boats from around the world.

The first and only bar I entered while in Morocco was in Tangier. A solo guitar player sang Elvis Presley songs including White Christmas. A picture of Bob Dylan hung on the wall. People were smoking cigarettes. Mustapha said the religious side of government was against alcohol. But in this international city I guessed the rules were relaxed for infidels.

Around the corner from the bar was the train station where I caught the midnight train to Marrakech. I slept soundly in the bed that rocked in rhythm with the train’s rolling wheels. Around 10:00am the next morning I watched the stately snowcapped Atlas Mountains come into view. Tiny white dots near the base were sheep.

Marrakech

At Marrakech’s main square, Djemaa el Fna, a barrage of sights, sounds and smells encompassed me. Rhythmic drumming, clinking cymbals, wafting flutes and guitar-like string instruments called gimri created an orchestra of sounds that pulsed through the square. Plant and herb peddlers stood ready to perform smoke rituals to protect, bless, or alleviate one’s problems. Huddles of people surrounded storytellers who were sharing tales of mystery, adventure, and love. Wheeled carts filled with fresh vegetables and fruits tempted visitors. Henna-painters and street performers all vied for attention. It was a fabulous high energy place. In the nearby medina visitors can find all sorts of hand-made ceramics, clothing, furniture, baskets, you name it. The souks are filled with surprises.

Marrakech main square, Djemaa el Fna

 

In Marrakech I visited a Hammam to relax and feel pampered. I stood naked while two young women holding buckets splashed water across my body and over my head. In another room, they scrubbed nearly every inch of me and rubbed oils onto my skin. Refreshed, I strolled through the Yves Saint Laurent garden with its bold yellow and cobalt blue planters brimming with exotic plants. The fashion designer’s legacy museum was a block down the street. It is a beautiful, inspirational space. He said that it was while visiting Morocco that he discovered color.

It made me think of all I had discovered while in Morocco. The kindness of strangers, delicious food, various cooking techniques, differences in gender roles, unfamiliar religious traditions, overnight train compartments that fit six. Also, I needn’t be afraid of different. I was in a pensive mood when I returned to the main square. I sat on a balcony and watched the shadows on buildings change as the sun set. The people below started moving in a wave toward a mango-colored sky as the call to prayer began. I hoped their prayers would be answered.

The next day I would say goodbye to Mustapha and get on a train to Casablanca. He had become a friend. I hugged him as I would a brother. His unwavering attention and care continued as he had arranged for a driver to meet me in Casablanca. He insisted I see the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca before leaving Morocco. “The mosque is cradled by the sea with the world’s highest minaret piercing the sky,” he said.

Casablanca

Back at the train station in Casablanca smiling young men approached me with their nearby car engines running. I looked away to avert their eyes. I was relieved to see Amine, holding a sign with my name on it. Amine grew up in Casablanca. Dangling from his neck was the silver yaz, similar to the one Mustapha wore. I got into the front seat of Amine’s van and began enthusiastically telling him about my trip. I asked if he had been to Tangier, Meknes or Chefchaouen. No answer. He eyed the traffic ahead.

Amine tried hard to understand what I was saying. I began speaking in French. I told him that the must-see mosque Mustapha had mentioned would be my final stop in Morocco. We drove through Casablanca’s business district. It was early spring, but I saw no flowers. When I first spotted the mosque I exclaimed, “Magnifique”. I then stumbled with my French. He wanted to tell me something. He pulled the van over to the curb on a busy street and yelled, “Get out” in English.

“What?” I questioned.

“Get out,” he repeated. I had tossed my luggage in the van’s backseat and wondered if I should leave it or take it with me. I left it. At this sacred place, it would be unusual for him to betray my trust or act with malevolence. A woman’s luggage was not worth bad karma.

Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca

Amine signaled with his hands to meet him on the other side of the plaza. I jumped out of the van. Walking towards the towering structure I felt like Dorothy when she first sees the Emerald City in the Land of Oz. But the Hassam II mosque had the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop. For the past weeks while traveling in Morocco I had not entered any of the mosques either out of respect or it was forbidden. I hadn’t thought to buy a ticket or book a tour which I learned was available to anyone at the Hassam II mosque. I just gazed, circling its sides. I let my eyes trace the brows of arches, climb the lattice shaped tiles and with bended neck looked up, up to the emerald-green tiles. The minaret with three shiny copper circles ascended towards the heavens. It did indeed pierce the sky.

On the other side of the plaza red Moroccan flags flapped in the wind along with Amine’s waving arms. We drove along Casablanca’s shoreline into a desolate lot a few blocks away from the mosque. I wasn’t sure what he was up to. He turned the engine off and got out of the van. He was facing a six-foot-high tin construction fence. No one was around. He gestured for me to follow him. He opened a crack in the fence wide enough for us to fit through. Just beyond the fence was orange dirt and surveyor equipment. When I looked up, I saw the mosque with white cap ocean waves rushing towards its walls. “It is my favorite view,” Amine said.

I understood why it was his favorite and why he wanted to share it with me. I knew this view wouldn’t last. I froze it in my mind. The construction of high-rise buildings was being planned for the shoreline. Occupants of the newly built buildings might take this view for granted. Their eyes won’t trace the waves as ours did. Their bodies won’t feel the pull of the wind, the smell of the sea and the sky cradling us there. Perhaps Mustapha and Amine knew of psychologist Daniel Kahneman’s Peak-End Theory. It describes how we most remember experiences by their intensity and how they ended. I feel my trip to Morocco has never ended as I carry it with me still.

Hassan II Mosque, Casablanca shoreline view.

 

Barefoot in Sri Lanka

Jetavanaramaya StupaI would rather have taken off my shirt than my shoes when I first arrived in Sri Lanka. The July heat overwhelmed me. I thought I’d drop in the streets giving the flies a delightful morsel fresh from Chicago. At the time I visited, Sri Lanka was a country at peace and poised for tourism. Modern boutique hotels were my respite.

I quickly acclimated to the heat and began walking the paths, steps, hills, and shores of this island country barefoot. I followed local people in and beyond the country’s cultural triangle of Kandy, Polonnaurawa and Anuradhapura. In some instances bare feet indicated poverty and low social status. In other places it was a sign of respect and humility to spiritual traditions. Sri Lanka’s majority population is Buddhist but there are also Hindu, Muslim, Christian and indigenous Vedda communities. Continue reading

From Back of Truck to Front Line Science at Fermilab

Fermi National Accelerator Lab

Wilson Hall, Fermi National Accelerator Lab

In early summer two physics professors each drove a truck from their lab at Stony Brook University in New York to Fermi National Accelerator Lab (Fermilab) near Batavia, Illinois. This was the only place in the U.S. where they could perform their test. It was a fine place. On the road that led them into the lab campus they passed a grove of leafy mature trees. They saw miles of preserved prairie and a pond used for cooling accelerator magnets, but also a home to swans, ducks and geese. They parked the trucks in a sandy lot beside a building they called the hut, also known as the Test Beam Facility. Bunkered by a grassy knoll on one side, the hut could be mistaken for an airplane hangar except for its wavy roof, made with rows of half pipes. Continue reading

The Good Enough Garden

Every year in early spring I see a deep purple spiky plant growing in the yards of others and I want to have it. I don’t know what it’s called or how much care it needs, so this cyclical yearning is left unrewarded. I look out my bedroom window and see that the previous owner once had a garden there. I imagine colorful small clumps of flowers but never get around to planting any. A couple of  years ago I had some native grasses, Gooseneck plants and Sedum planted at the entry of my home. This year I think I need to separate them because they have gotten so dense, but it makes me anxious to think of such a maneuver. Then my daffodils come up and all is well again.

By the time summer arrives my beds are filled with knee-high weeds. My impulse plant shopping has created a chaos of color, height, and texture. I don’t want to spend any more time mulching. I need help. But I’m not looking for an expensive, long-term project or an award-winning display. I want a garden that doesn’t stress me out or demand too much of my time. There are all sorts of names for gardens and the plants who live there, but I just want the good enough garden.

This kind of garden is low-maintenance, colorful with lasting blooms and in harmony with the existing landscape. Such a pursuit may seem frivolous to some, but not to others. From a practical standpoint, any realtor will agree that flowers make a difference. A nicely landscaped house presents well to would-be buyers. Neighbors enjoy gardens and so do butterflies, bees, birds, and dragonflies.

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Grab Your Lasso George, the Moon Awaits

In Frank Capra’s film It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) asks his soon to be wife, Mary (Donna Reed): “What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I will throw a lasso around it.” The first three months in 2019 would have been a good time for George to try. During these months a perigee full moon or “super moon” arose in the sky. Perigee describes when the moon’s orbit is closest to Earth at the same time when it is full. While the January 21 full moon staged a total lunar eclipse and turned blood red, it was on February 19 at 4:07 a.m. Central Daylight Time when George’s lasso would need to extend only 221,681 miles to reach the moon. Closer than any other day in 2019.

Curious about the super moons, my eyes wandered the night sky. To be honest, I couldn’t tell much of a difference between it and any other full moon. While venturing outside at night the unexpected can happen. January’s super moon change of color was fascinating to see. Watching February’s super moon I heard the hoo, hoo, hoo call of an owl. With a little research I determined it was a long-eared owl. This nocturnal bird uses its voice to establish territory and attract mates in the dark. Isn’t that what George Bailey was doing when he and Mary were young gazing at the moon over Bedford Falls?

For romantics everywhere, big bright super moons might be the perfect time to look to the sky for inspiration. The super moons brighten the evening landscape and pull ocean tides higher than on other nights. Without wind or water on its celestial body, light from the moon’s surfaces reaches Earth in a mere second and a half. Whether you understand what appears in the night sky or not, the moon will always be a familiar face. In many cultures the full moon is an occasion to celebrate.

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When Weather Halts Everyday Life

I should have a plan. The warnings keep coming. Transportation is not an issue. I work from home. But I still need to walk my dog. I have enough ingredients to make chicken soup and beef stew. Cereal, eggs, are shelved as usual. The temperature inside my house can be regulated with the push of a button. The upstairs always gets hot. Kitchen-level is comfortable and the basement, cool. It’s the opposite of how air outside works. And the air outside is changing.

The red berries on my holly bush have turned black. Ice encases all the tree branches. Squirrels hide in their dens. Plowed snow mounds tower above my head. January in Chicago is cold. The city averages seven days of below zero temperatures annually. Its coldest official temperature was -27 degrees on January 20th in 1985. I was young then and single. During the winter of 2013-14 there were 23 days recorded with subzero temperatures. I was married then, with a teenage son. Why was I fretting now?

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From Threat to Discovery

Train station Fes, Morocco

Train station in Fes, Morocco.

From threat to discovery is my blog concept for 2019. Often we view things as a threat, either psychologically or physically. Threats can stop us in our tracks. In my view every threat rather real or imagined or induced by outside forces, can lead to discovery. All we have to do is get on board, explore and keep an open mind.

When my son was 4 years-old I invited several of his friends over to our house with their mothers. Our big front yard gave them lots of room to run and play. We lived on a dead-end street where very few cars used the road. While the boys were playing, they started running as a herd in circles and then headed toward the street. A few of the moms started screaming for them to stop. Maybe the moms knew more about herd mentality than I did. I was not alarmed.

As the boys’ speed and direction toward the street continued, the moms stood up from their chairs and raised their voices louder, “Stop.”  The boys kept running. Just as they neared the street a car approached and it was then that I yelled “Harry, stop.” He did. He turned and looked my way, raising his arms for the others to stop. Seeing the boys, the driver of the car stopped too. The threat was gone. Some of the moms grabbed their boys by the arm and scolded them. I hugged my son. Because I rarely raise my voice my son knew immediately that something was wrong. At least that’s how I interpreted the event. I discovered the power of restraint.

Sri Lanka Poya parade

Poya parade in Sri Lanka.

I tell this story because as a writer I choose to use my scream voice only when the situation truly merits it. I don’t want to use it as a rhetorical device to create unwarranted tension or deliver titillating thrills or to put myself in a seat of authority or at the top of Google rankings. I want to commit myself to this because at times I have been guilty of it. It’s so easy to stray. On one side everything becomes terrifying, dangerous, sensational or guilt-ridden when the scream voice is employed. On the other side everything is magnificent, perfect and unbelievably awesome. Such a tone may get attention, but it is undeserved attention. If that voice appears, a good reason should follow. I choose the middle ground. Where things are murky, argued over in good faith, authentic. Curiosity unleashes discovery, not threats. I believe our world can be a better, more interesting and knowing place. This is how I find pleasure in my work, in its results, and whatever value it may have to the society in which I live.

Every time I get off of a train, plane or boat I discover something new. I might be happy, scared, curious or disappointed. I know to look further. That’s where the real understanding, knowledge and experience come from. When sober voices raise their octave, we can assess and take action when warranted. Like the boys running toward the street, if our voices are always screaming we won’t know the difference between the mundane and the exciting, the beautiful or the dangerous.

Join me at Who’s Taking the Train to read about discoveries around the world and within.

Reconnecting With Friends in Austin, Texas

Austin skylineDespite having family and friends, many people choose to travel alone. I am one of them, mostly.  Professor Constanza Bianchi, from Queensland University Business School in Australia studied the matter. She reported that when solo travelers leave home they are choosing “freedom, uncompromised fun and meeting new people” over the companionship of a friend or spouse.  I have just returned from a trip to Austin, Texas with a friend to see a friend. My travel companion Joan and I have been friends since childhood. We met Susanne while in college. She lived in the Chicago area, but now lives 30 miles south of Austin with her husband, Randy. They have been Texans for only a few months. Joan and I promised to visit when they got settled. Due to time constraints we didn’t take the train. Before leaving I ruminated about why I like solo travel. I questioned how the Austin trip would go and how it might be different if I traveled solo.

The difference started at the airport security line. I have TSA PreCheck, meaning I can go in the shorter line and don’t have to remove my shoes. Joan has no such clearance. We marched to the longer line and waited as people moved slowly towards the security scanners. Joan is not the most agile person. She clumsily removed her laced shoes while balancing her bags that began leaking a make-up compact, keys and a few coins. She failed to mention her metal knee replacement to the security officer. She got pulled out of the line and waited to stand spread eagle while a female attendant searched her body head to toe. She was giggling during the body search and mouthed to me, “Take a picture.” I didn’t take a picture.

“They don’t like people taking photos,” I told her. “They have authority to detain us for whatever reason.” I viewed her actions as folly to keep any frustration at bay.

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A Dog Sled Journey in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula

In a few weeks I will be riding in a motor coach heading towards the north woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Aboard will be 35 other women who want to dog sled and snowshoe through Tahquamenon Falls State Park. The trip will involve four travel firsts for me: transport in a motor coach, a large group, women-only, and dog sledding. Thoughts thrash through my head while anticipating my dog sled journey. I think of the advantages firsts.

Waterfall in Michigan Upper PeninsulaTraveling in a motor coach

I’m told that motor coaches have an onboard bathroom, reclining seats, tinted windows, movie monitors, door-to-door service, efficient fuel savings (carbon imprint relief) and a reasonable cost. I will add that being in a confined space for hours offers the chance to build camaraderie among fellow travelers. The last time I traveled by bus was Chicago to Salt Lake City upon graduation from college. I went to see my boyfriend Rudy, who was living in a state-subsidized forest ranger hut in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains. But this is not a public bus. It’s a reserved luxury motor coach.

Large group travel

Advantages of traveling in a large group can also include less cost. Group fares to attractions and accommodations are often less than those purchased individually. There’s also the safety in numbers factor. When adventure travel finds you on remote snow-covered paths unreachable by car, it’s comforting to know someone is behind or ahead of you. Being with women who don’t get lost, can read a map or are familiar with the area brings comfort. Sharing laughs with new friends is always welcomed. Strangers are sometimes better to travel with than friends. Expectations are fewer and surprises greater. Curiosity, not familiarity drives the show. Personality conflicts and privacy issues may be a concern. In a large group, I think it will be easy to avoid any antagonists. A single occupancy room will offer respite from the group and provide time alone.

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