Science teacher

February 26, 2019January 8, 2022

On afferent nerves

Everything we know about this world outside of us, whatever that world is, we sense through impulses sent through our nerves.

While our interpretations are complex, the mechanisms are not. Nerve impulses travel as action potentials to the brain, each action potential identical to the next.

The piercing of a nail in one’s foot, the smell of a loved one, the sound of the waves lapping the bayshore all come down to simple signals sent along simple axons, then interpreted in complex ways.

The signals themselves differ only in their frequency, not their magnitude. The sensations differ only because the signals hit different parts of the brain.

The nerves are not conscious, of course, and most of their signals are ignored by the part of the brain that makes you consciously you.

But you can, at only moment, choose to focus your attention on a particular set of nerve signals.

Right now, as you breathe in, the nerves along the trachea are triggered to life, sending signals that the brain interprets as a gentle swirling in your chest.

If you focus on it, you can feel the miracle for what it is.

(And if you don’t, the miracle will happen anyway….)

February 25, 2019January 8, 2022

Winter dandelion

The edges of the petals have been cauterized by the recent frigid nights. There are no bees around. Even if the flower should go to seed, the ground is too hard to accept them.

And yet there it is, bright yellow, still living, still growing, still being.

Early in spring I will rip a leaf here and there, to nibble during the weeks when there is little to nibble, a week or two after the peas have been planted, months before we’ll see beans and tomatoes.

Its persistence seems to annoy most. Few folks forage, and no one makes dandelion wine anymore. Perhaps the dandelion’s reminder of who we once were, of what we once valued, is why its abundance angers us. I do not know.

A few weeks after flowering, the yellow gives way to a white soft globe, soft as baby hair, each tuft carrying a seed. Make a wish and blow the pods away.

The dandelion’s roots delve deep into the earth, snorting in water, sniffing out trace elements we have no idea we need (but we do), feasting on the feces left by an earthworm.

Some of the dandelions on our yard have been here over a decade, gathering sunlight, feeding the bees, feeding me.

I spent a wasted lifetime killing them.

February 24, 2019January 8, 2022

February light

Crocuses poking up through the frozen earth

February is still here, hanging on as it does, but the light has changed.

February comes from a word meaning “the purging”, and was long the last month for the Romans, occasionally followed by Mercedonius, a month (of sorts) tucked into the calendar to get the calendar back in sync with the seasons.

While we mark our time in chunks set by people who lived a long time ago, people who knew nothing of this side of the Atlantic Ocean, the ancient souls in our ancient brains know the light has changed.

So does the life around us.

The geese are back, the crocus spear through the frozen earth, and the squash from last summer are getting soft.

Last summer’s fruit, this spring’s seeds.

I keep planting, I keep brewing, I keep playing my guitar badly, and I keep getting older. Something has to give.

And it will, but that’s all right. My molecules are vibrating as I breathe, and they will keep vibrating when I die, in one form or another.

(That’s not a metaphor, it’s how the universe works.)

My uke, not my guitar–I’m even worse on the uke.

I just came back from visiting my almost 3 month old grand-daughter. She laughs because that’s what humans do. And eventually I need to get out of her way. And I will.

In the meantime I will continue to sow, to harvest, to cull, to peel, to cut, to cook, to eat.