Monthly Archives: April 2014

Another Promised Land

After Ross and I left Chicago I pined for certain things: the sanguine splash of cardinals in the trees; the husky downtown smell of raw chocolate on the verge of becoming sweet; the screech and flinty spark of a nighttime El train passing overhead on ancient, dangerously frayed tracks. I even missed the shock of skin meeting air on gelid winter days.

It took a long time for those aches to ease. I’ve told you before that I didn’t feel at home in Berkeley right away. I used to look out of our living room window at a towering pine in our neighbor’s yard and think: You don’t have to love this place all at once. Love a single branch of a single tree, and see where you get.

I started with a single branch of a single tree (a lovable pine, and today I am fond of all of it), and I got—you may tell from the throb of the heart on my sleeve—to a love that has been utterly, unexpectedly, enormous. I have lived for some time now with the knowledge that neither the borders of Berkeley, nor the outline of the Bay, defined my home.

I didn’t feel this way about Massachusetts or Illinois—but California? California is my kingdom. We’ve logged 54 hikes in the last year here, and many hundreds of miles. I’ve camped from the desert to the mountains to the sea, and driven along more twisting, narrow roads-with-a-view than I can count. The entirety of this skinny kicking leg of a state feels like it belongs to me.

I have been very happy to live here, is what I am saying to you.

And now that I have said it I will say one more thing, which is that I will also—and this is the God’s honest truth—be very happy to leave.

Here Be Announcement!

Ross and I are moving to Seattle in a few months. He’s finishing up his post-doc, and a new job is calling that has taken him a long time to choose. It is the perfect job for him right now, except for the fact that it will take us away from the place that has become our promised land. I know he has been afraid that this will break my heart—that we are moving from sunshine to rain.

But there can be more than one promised land in a lifetime, and we are still young, and there is plenty of space in this world for the two of us to disperse a little further. (And Seattle is a particularly beautiful place to stretch into, by anyone’s standards.)

I am starting a little bigger this time around. I already love the entire waterfall whose ragged spill you see below. I already love the mountain from which it flows. I already love every drop of rain in the sky, as long as it is raining over there. We’ll see where I get.

cascades

rainoverthere

P.S. In case you were wondering about my plans, there are a few excellent ecology programs in the Seattle area, and I will be ready to apply this December. It’s true that not being able to cast a net across the whole country will constrain the grad school application process somewhat, but I’m very grateful for the opportunities I’ll have where we are.

We Knew Him

Power is a strange and misunderstood thing. We tend to think we have very little; we tend to believe it is by rule or nature wielded by others over us. When we grasp it we do so with fervor, as if it could slip from our grasp. It is true that those who hold power are often masters, or monied, or men. But the word is smaller, too, and some of what it possesses is mere ability. To be powerful is to do what is possible for you.

Several years ago I passed some time as the editor of a smart, quirky, now defunct online science magazine. One of our problems was a near total lack of money and therefore a dearth of regular contributors, but I did occasionally receive queries of varying quality. One letter arrived from a Portland-based freelance writer on a Friday afternoon in October 2010. The poor woman who wrote it had been misled by a pamphlet to which she subscribed into thinking that we were a children’s magazine, and both the email and her cheerful, pun- and exclamation point-filled 660-word submission were entitled “A Slug is Not a Bug.”

There was something of a supplication in her tone that I have not forgotten. She entreated me not to dismiss her subject, despite its lowly stature in the world. She assured me she had done her research. She hoped I would read the entire article.

I wrote back politely, explaining that we did not publish material written specifically for children, and that was the end of that. But oddly enough I have thought about her email several times in the intervening years. She was professional, this woman—or anyway, as professional as she had learned so far to be. She was as hopeful as I was myself. I have no doubt she wanted more out of her life. To be a children’s writer; to be published. To be taken seriously. I have had so little power in my life, it has seemed to me. But there were things that were possible.

*******

Ross and I had a gorgeous day today up in Marin County, hiking 11 miles along a coastal trail in Point Reyes National Seashore. The ground was exploding with the purple of Pacific Coast irises and the air with wrentit and golden-crowned sparrow song. The sea below the bluffs crashed ecstatically onto the shore. It smelled like fenugreek; it smelled like ocean. It smelled like wild mustard, steaming and vegetal. We found the flat imprint of the shell of a marine mollusc on one half of a broken stone. We talked about the future and the beautiful possibilities Ross’s career success is about to provide us with.

We also met a slug. We met this particular banana slug (Ariolimax californicus), eating steadily away at what I think was a large leaf from a stinging nettle (Urtica doica)—more power to it.

We stopped to check it out. We marveled at the fact that we could hear the leaf disintegrating between its rasping, toothy mouth parts. I took a video. Slugs are so cool, we said to each other, nearly simultaneously, as we stood up.

About 15 minutes later, as we returned from the mid-point of our out-and-back hike, we saw the slug again. It was no longer eating. It had clearly been stepped on, no doubt by accident but extremely decisively, perhaps by one of the merry pair we had just seen wielding hiking-poles. The slug’s head, eyes, and part of its mantle were crushed and softly fissured. I did not take a picture.

*******

This is a strange post, and not the kind of strange I had intended. Not exactly a memorial for a single particular slug whose last minutes on this earth we happened to witness today. It has an odd humor, perhaps. But so many things are possible: To dash another’s hope or recognize it. To be the accidental cause of a small cessation of life. To be most excellent, despite one’s size, at excoriating the same Urtica leaves that stung Ross’s bare legs all afternoon.