I have something to tell you, and it’s a little bit exciting.
One way to telegraph my news would be to show you the perfect cast-off exoskeleton of a Jerusalem cricket (family: Stenopelmatidae) Ross and I found last year on a scrubby canyon slope in northern California’s Henry W. Coe State Park. You’d see, without me saying so, how I’d matured beyond my old, inflexible container and emerged a bigger, better version of myself, with room again to grow. You’d think about your own past lives, and how they weighed on you like winter overcoats before you shrugged them off and looked at them piled up beside your feet—or maybe how, unsentimental as an arthropod, you were one who abdicated your used skins at once they cracked, without a second glance.
You would think pleasantly of starting over.
Another way would be to show you my bad feet. That is, I have an x-ray of my feet (aren’t x-rays marvelous?), taken when the pain they’d caused for years became too chronic to ignore, and on which I can attempt to trace my errant and defiant bone alignments. I could show you this x-ray, and tell you that to molt is also to migrate, both words arising from the same Proto-IndoEuropean root that describes passing from one place to another. You’d understand how far I’d come already, and how much longer I still had to travel on these same crooked conveyances. Reviewing your own course, you’d think of moments when you stumbled, but kept on.
You’d cheer the journey.
These kinds of tropes are pretty enough, when they fit, and as a writer I am used to trafficking in them and shaping thoughts around them (a task which sometimes feels dangerously backward, as if images are more important than the ideas they represent). But the truth is I’ve been trying to share this with you for a while, and metaphors are only getting in my way. So I’ll just say it plainly, because it is news that doesn’t need much of a flourish.
I’m starting a PhD in Biology at the University of Washington this fall!
(It does deserve an exclamation point.)
I’m delighted and honored to say that I’ll be joining a wonderful and very productive lab run by plant community ecologist Janneke Hille Ris Lambers. The Hille Ris Lambers lab conducts research that (broadly speaking) attempts to discover the mechanisms driving biodiversity, productivity, and community assembly, and to predict the effects of climate change on a variety of ecological patterns and processes at the species and community level. People in the lab study all kinds of things within this framework, many of them working on Mount Rainier because the mountainside provides a useful—as well as beautiful—system for studying change along an elevational/environmental gradient. I’m not sure yet of the exact shape of the project I’ll propose, but I know Janneke’s lab will be a fantastic place to pose some version of the basic question that most interests me: What role do interactions between species play in determining responses to climate change? I have lots of ideas, most of which will likely turn out to be bad ones; but fortunately the program builds in a little bit of time (about a year) to read, learn, and come up with a study design that stands a good chance of working.
For now, here I am. I know that very soon I’ll be engaged in a tremendously difficult long-term endeavor, much more difficult than getting into grad school in the first place. And I can’t wait to get started. But this week I’m mainly working on trying to memorize the nomenclature of ethers, epoxides, and thioethers. I’m studying for an exam about leaf energy budgets, plant water relations, and ecosystem modeling. And I’m collecting more things I know I don’t know with every paper I read.
It doesn’t feel like molting, or like migrating. It feels, besides terrifying, quite right. We’ll see.