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A Little Luna-See

Photo of the moon over San Jose

We all have a chance to do some moonlighting

Always with us, always changing, almost within reach, yet distantly elusive, the moon—our moon—just can’t be ignored. It is celebrated by lunatics and lovers, mystics and scientists, poets and painters. It is predictable yet fascinating as it hangs between a vast incomprehensible universe and tempestuous world.

Has it always been there? Did it form in the swirling mass of gas that magically collected in what we poetically call the Milky Way? Is it a piece of our own Earth that broke loose and almost escaped from us?

There are other planets with moons. Some have features far stranger than ours. Take the moons of Saturn, for example. There are eighteen of them ranging in diameter from twelve to over three thousand miles. Or Europa, the moon of Jupiter, that has recently bee found to have a molten core under its icy surface that constantly reverses the magnetic field it creates. Wonderful stuff for scientific study and speculation.

But who would trade these distant moons for our wondrously luminescent orb that can appear as a cold and distant crescent in the inky winter darkness or a gigantic glowing globe in the autumn twilight?

The objective of this review will be to look carefully in fast generic cialis this product connected to its own purpose, its crucial components, its functions, its uses and its general affordability. Why is used Yin Yang Huo by sportsmen? When testosterone cost of viagra 100mg level is reduced. The herb may also serve as a form of generic viagra sildenafil vitamin A. Through this amazing offer provided by us you can receive your free samples for trial and improve your performance during sexual activity. the buy levitra s?viagratitutes a chemical compound known as slidenafil citrate, which is approved by the FDA officials in the year of 2003 and from then this has created revolution all over the world in getting succeeded to sweep away all the myths existed in human mind regarding impotency. About a dozen of us have been to our moon, have walked on it, have touched it through the thin garment that carries Earth with us. The rest of us have watched in wonder, each having private thoughts about our place, our space, our dream. It is our very personal moon.

Yet is is also our shared moon. Not a tourist destination or vacation spot—not yet. But wherever we are on Earth, we can bathe in its soft light and marvel at is prisinte features. We all still own the moon. It connects us. My moon is your moon, whether you are by my side or far away.

Tomorrow, Friday, January 21, 2000, those in the right place—and we are in the right place—will be treated to the amazing spectacle of watching our own shadow travel across the full moon. Not since 1996 has this sight been visible to us.

The full moon will rise Friday just in time to start vanishing. Slowly more and more of it will disappear until, at 8:00 p.m., it will be totally gone, leaving only a haunting glow as a placeholder of where it once shone. For almost an hour and a half the shadow of all of us spinning around on Earth will blot out the moon. Then, once again,arc by arc, it will slowly return.

At the moment our shadow eats into the moon’s light, it becomes clear in the darkness that we’re all traveling this route across the skies together. This is not a shadow cast by a single country, a dominant species, or a lone rock. This is not a shadow any one of us can create. And as the moon reappears once again, its reflection reassures us that we are in the right place in space.

Numbers Game

How many are too many? How few are too few? Everyone has an opinion. While numbers may not lie, they don’t necessarily tell the whole story—especially in the biological world.

When it comes to extinct species, the numbers won’t change. Endangered and vanishing species have advocates who seek their increase. Some species, maybe our own, increase so rapidly that dire consequences are feared. When is enough enough?

Right now, for example, I tend to think there are just too many sub-microscopic flu viruses floating around. Many of us, against our will, are harboring and even breeding these invisible creatures.

All life is thought to have arisen from the primordial mixture of elements that came together and formed Earth. The first life as we have come to know it took the form of one-celled organisms that were comprised mostly of water, as all life still is today.

Life developed down the two paths we call plants and animals. Gradually larger and larger collections of cells gathered together and specialized to become larger and more complex organisms. Larger animals came to dominate smaller ones, but longer life-times were needed to grow creatures so complicated. Gains in size meant losses in rapid reproduction.
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As animals grew larger and larger, they evolved many adaptations to deal with their size. The fins on the backs of some dinosaurs, like the fins of a radiator, provided a large surface area designed to cool a large animal quickly. Closer to home, the human body with its array of plumbing, heating, and electrical systems offers a pretty amazing array of highly specialized adaptations. It serves us well—when everything is working right.

But then there are those little guys—the bacteria, the fungi, the viruses—so simple yet so complicated. They grow, and the grow fast. And in some ways, they are smarter than we are. They find ways to get around our best defenses., our flu shots, our vitamin C, our cleanliness, our healthy ways. They can produce millions of generations to our one. And with each generation the ones that flourish are the ones that fine ways to get round our latest vaccine, our best research. They multiply to give us the flu or a cold or HIV. They mess up our well-designed systems in ever more creative ways. Will the microbes prevail? Is the course of biological life on Earth circular—starting small, reaching a maximum size and then declining back to infinitesimal again? Or is there a way to find a balance, an equilibrium somewhere in the middle where the gigantic, the middle-sized and the tiny life can all exist?

While science works on this problem, stay well–or at least try to.

 

Charting the Course

Joe Church, Point Arena lighthouse keeperSmooth sailing, that’s what we all seek. But there are sometimes rocks, sometimes fogs, sometimes heavy undertows. What a relief to spot a lighthouse, to hear a foghorn sounding its warning, to know we have help charting our course. How encouraging it is to know we are not adrift alone.

The Point Arena light station north of Bodega Bay stands tall on a spit of land along a desolate, sometimes treacherous coast. This land arising from the sea protrudes into the shipping lanes that follow the coast; it points like a finger to the offshore rocks and hidden reefs, seemingly unmovable, that have spelled disaster to seafaring men for at least two centuries. It, like lighthouses everywhere, unites those on land with those at sea.

Living on land, living at sea, both have their perils. Originally built in 1870 the 100-foot masonry tower provided a measure of safety for ships that brought goods and materials to build the California we know. But it was a hard life for those who lived on this lonely stretch. Keeping oil lamps lighted atop a tower in gale force winds, living with only occasional contact with the rest of humanity, working grueling shifts of endless monotony made this an outpost of frontier living with hardships as harsh as any.

The seeming solidity of this point of land proved to be false. In 1906 the San Andreas Fault, which lies just offshore, lurched, reducing the lighthouse and its surrounding buildings to rubble and irreparable ruins. But ships were needed more than ever to bring supplies to a crippled coast. Within less than a year the tower was rebuilt, this time of reinforced concrete by a smokestack builder. A magnificent lens, 666 pieces of hand-ground glass mounted precisely in a six-foot diameter each tilted just so, sent the light from an oil lamp placed in the center out twenty-five miles piercing the night, the fog, the mist.
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As I gaze out to sea from atop this tower still used to guide ships, I can only imagine what life was then, not that long ago. The sun gleams off the waves as whales swim by spraying seawater skyward. The tranquility of the moment belies former hardships. I marvel at the craftsmanship of the huge lens, operable although no longer in daily use, and the clockwork and crank that raised pendulums that made it turn, its great weight floating effortlessly in a pool of mercury, sending out brilliance through the darkness.

The light was automated in 1977. But there are still keepers of this light. Joe Church, a docent, lives in Point Arena. Although there is no longer a need to light the lamps, trim the wicks, polish the 666 glass prisms to crystal clarity, or hoist the pendulum every four hours to make the light revolve, he, and others like him, still do from time to time.

And the light still shines, a beacon of both the past and the present that still warns of dangers, still connects those on land with those at sea, still holds the promise that there will be patches of smooth sailing ahead.

Across the Great Divide

The time has come to clean house. For those so inclined every new year is a time to start fresh. And even though I am not so inclined, I can hardly ignore the end of a century and, what’s more, a millennium.

I would like to weigh in with those who are waiting for next year to celebrate–to be absolutely pure and scientific about it. If I did, I could postpone cleaning out the cobwebs for another year. After all, logic calls for a year zero, the first year of the first thousand. The months and years can be calculated on a rational basis using the moon and the stars; but for the centuries and millennia, hemmed in by zeros and nines, we have only ourselves to blame. These are arbitrary divisions based on our mutual agreement to use tens for our numbering system.

However, it hasn’t turned out so bad. The century mark comes only once in anyone’s lifetime. What if we had chosen four for our numbering system? We would face a new century every forty year, two per lifetime. One seems enough; two seems excessive.

But a millennium! Everyone waits for that digit to change, rolling, with its three zeros, into the future. Not again for a thousand years! Even I am caught up in the current excitement and flurry in spite of myself. So much for science.
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It’s a time to sort through the past and clear room for the future. I have spent a little time the last few weeks examining my worldly goods to see what should go and what should stay to see the next century. I last did a good job of this ten years ago. The, October 17, 1989, 5:04 p.m., to be precis, the forces of nature dumped all my possessions on the floor in less than a minute. I was forced into taking stock whether I wanted to or not. Now, I do it again on my on terms and perhaps a little more gently. A decade from now, maybe I’ll do it again. These “tens” are really not bad at all.

But ridding myself of physical baggage is only a small part of the battle. It is time to take stock of my mental luggage as well. What, from the past, must I take with me to make sense of the future? What must I dump? Open any newspaper or magazine to be dazzled by the changes that have occurred in the past month or year, not to mention decade or century. These changes open new territory as clearly as Marco Polo, Lewis and Clark, or John Glenn once did. What will I need to go there? What shall I leave behind? Can I travel farther if I travel light?

The future is thrilling and scary. I am sure I will bring to it things I don’t need and leave behind things that I do. Come to think of it, I’m glad next year is the true millennial mark. I am sure I will need that long. But even then my house may never be clean.

Holiday Cheer

Holidays can be the best of times or the worst of times. But there’s no doubt that ’tis the season for parties. And the office holiday party has often suffered bad press. YSI had its holiday party last Friday night and it was testimony that “office” parties can represent the “best of times”.

Our annual party is a little quaint and old-fashioned in glitzy, modern terms. It is traditionally held at Sanborn Park in the gloriously-rustic stone house that is home to YSI. This house has probably witnessed many a party over the years. On the broad, covered porch the wide rails and deep windowsills were festooned with evergreens, pine cones and red-berried toyon. A bowl of persimmons from the garden stood spotlighted on a glass case just inside the door of the two-story main room. The fire in the gigantic fireplace with its cozy glass-doored stove blazed merrily warming every nook and cranny. On the mantle pine cones and fresh redwood boughs from the surrounding woods glittered with miniature lights.

Platters of heavenly cheeses, quiche and stuffed mushrooms–pre-dinner snacks–began to appear on exhibit cases. New faces, familiar faces, from Alum Rock, Vasona, Sanborn arrived. Staff members, volunteers, children. The kids disappeared into the reptile room or the insect zoo, great built-in party entertainment! Friends, fiancés, spouses, were introduced and pleasant chatter soared to the rafters.

In the kitchen, party-goers unpacked their baskets of dinnerware and put finishing touches on heavenly potluck creations for the buffet. A homemade bay wreath decorated the door, echoing trees in the park. Cider and beer, wine and water arrived and landed in jumbled array on a kitchen counter.

In the geology wing off the main room frosted bell-shaped pendant lights cast a soft glow much as they did when the house was built seventy-five years ago. It was there on a table in the middle of the room that, one by one, platters, bowls, tureens, and casseroles began to appear. Little by little they were pushed closer together until every inch was filled.

Dinner was a repast with unparalleled variety. Spectacular casseroles, spicy dal, soothing mashed potatoes and gravy, succulent sushi, poached salmon, salads, breads, soups–foods representing dozens of regions and nations–left everyone with only just enough room for the sweets that glowed on a case along side.

Reasons to buy buy cialis viagra selling here There are certain reasons mentioned which says as to why people must opt for levitra online. Investigations into the mechanisms of levitra viagra how bi-polar diseases are influenced by tamoxifen citrate are on-going. Now I women viagra australia have realized why people opt for is pellets. She encouraged teachers to be intentional, mindful and conscious in viagra online india regencygrandenursing.com all respects including the language they use. The evening flowed like water in a gentle stream. A few ventured out for a hike following trails made familiar in daylight. Not even the crescent of a moon diminished the brilliance of the stars in the crisp winter night. The park, sheltered from city lights by a shadowy ridge, lay quiet except for the rustle of deer and hoot of an owl.

Finally all was packed away. We headed home knowing we will return, either singly or together. And we invite you to join us.

YSI and the parks they are in are yours too. Visit them. They have a way of tempering the worst of times and providing the best.

YSI’s staff at all three sites welcomes you over the holidays. Call for hours.

YSI Alum Rock Park, (408) 258-4322
YSI Sanborn Park, (408) 867-6940
YSI Vasona Park, (408) 356-4945

Thanksgiving Day, Phoenix, Arizona

(I have not yet located the photo that accompanied this article.)

Someone else was tending the turkey, setting the table, and fixing the feast. So I set out on Thanksgiving morning with camera in hand.

Thunderbird Park stood out on the map at the northern boundary of Phoenix as a destination close enough to permit me time to get back for dinner at 2:30. I knew nothing about the park so wasn’t sure what to expect, but it looked large enough to ensure plenty of photographic possibilities.

I have never been one to take a lot of pictures preferring the images imprinted in my memory to the ones recorded on film. But recently I have been lured to try my hand at recording scenes that reach beyond the “trip to Phoenix” shots—ones that capture the rhythm, the beauty, the essence of a place and distill it into a few shapes, colors, or faces that reflect an inner pulse. I have found this is not easy.

The Park turned out to be a perfect example of the low desert peaks that punctuate Phoenix and radiate out from it in all directions. I parked the car and set out on foot across the desert toward the base of a rocky compound ridge dotted with cholla, sage, and stunted palo verde. The slope sported an occasional saguaro, the unwavering symbol of the low Arizona-Sonora desert. Jumbled outcroppings of blackened lava, a few splotched with vivid orange and chartreuse lichens, testified to volcanic disturbances in former times.

I stopped, considered photographic possibilities, clicked, chronicled, clicked some more and lost myself in time and space.
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A few people materialized hiking down a well-camouflaged trail on the rocky slope. Never having been able to resist a trail leading out of sight, I began climbing.

The going was rough. This cone materializing from the desert floor was a gigantic pile of mid-size rocks. Without watching every step even a mountain goat would trip and fall. Back and forth the rough path led up the slope with the ridge always beckoning, always just a little farther away than it looked. I climbed and climbed up the north side of this heap, one eye on my watch wondering if I would reach the top before I needed to turn back to meet the dinner deadline.

At last the path leveled. I had reached the ridge. There to the south beneath me Phoenix stretched for miles, the air as clear as it was when it lured the first immigrants to its stunning vastness.

The trail continued, promising even more if I followed it; but I turned back knowing I would try to return. What is there about a path that compels me to follow it? Whether it’s a path up a mountain or into a forest, or a path to learning a camera’s magic or how to make words say exactly what I mean, I am always seduced by the promise that there is more just beyond the bend, just behind the lense, in the blank page ahead.

The trick is to get back in time for Thanksgiving.