for my daughter
It’s perhaps like billiards,
in which the cue ball collides
with another ball, and the kinetic
energy passes on to a second ball—
that’s how it is when you,
in your joy, collide with me in a hug,
and your joy passes on to me,
my every molecule vibrating
as your bliss becomes my bliss,
your joy becomes my joy, until
I’m dizzy with it, spinning with it,
rolling around the room with it,
in fact it’s what I was made for,
to be moved by you, by your joy.
Posts Tagged ‘science’
Kinetic Joy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged billiards, daughter, joy, mother, physics, science on December 21, 2024| 5 Comments »
A Closer Look
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged biology, curiosity, daughter, father, lake, science on June 18, 2024| 6 Comments »
I recall how dad gave me glass vials
and encouraged me to go to the lake, take samples,
then bring them back to the house
where he’d taught me to use a glass dropper
to put a small bead between slide and slip,
then focus the microscope
to spy on all the life pulsing there—
thin oblong shapes and zooming dots,
spinning green circles and segmented strands—
it was like eavesdropping on adult conversation,
like being given the key to enter life itself,
and I, an eager traveler into invisible realms,
spent hours staring into that intricate world.
Memory is, sometimes, a chance to meet
a drop of the past, then wonder about the world
beyond what we first see. I thought this
was a memory about lake water, glass slides,
a microscope. I look closer. I see trust.
Pulsing love. A father teaching curiosity.
While Watching the Popovers
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged astonishment, baking, popovers, science on April 24, 2024| 4 Comments »
It’s elegant, really,
the way protein in eggs
and gluten in flour
create a structure
strong enough that when baked
will stretch without tearing
and set without leaking,
thus trapping the steam
that makes the thin batter rise.
And though it is science
and chemical reaction,
though we could write
an equation to explain it,
still the innocent glee
that rises in us
each time we peek through
the oven window and witness
the golden ballooning.
Perhaps astonishment
is the secret ingredient
when mixed with attention
that creates in us a structure
strong enough to contain
an expanding joy.
How delicious it is,
the chance to celebrate
the familiar, to find
what is marvelous
in the daily, then offer it
like bread to each other.
When Everywhere Is the Right Place to Start
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ars poetica, dowsing rod, science, trust, water on February 12, 2024| 7 Comments »
It’s like when dowsing rods swing back and forth,
twin tattletales of all we cannot see.
I’ve seen them twitch and cross—a sign that water
is nearby. A sign this spot’s the perfect
place to dig a well. A scientist
would say it’s luck—it’s in the dowser’s walk.
They’d say that everywhere’s the perfect place
to dig when everywhere you go has water.
I know the feel of dousing rods inside
my blood each time I meet a blank page and
then try to say what’s true—my inner rods
will quiver wild or simply sit there, still.
And what a thrill when they say, “Here, dig here.”
It’s more a matter of how deep, not where.
It’s Like This
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gratefulness, science, thank you, thanks, thanksgiving on November 23, 2023| 4 Comments »
“The odds of you being alive are basically zero.”
—Dina Spector reporting the work of Dr. Ali Binazir, Business Insider, June 11, 2012
It’s like this. The sun itself
is constantly moving through space,
and yet it never leaves us.
Add this to the list of marvels—
like how a glass of water
was once a cloud,
like how love can grow in us
despite sorrow, fear.
Given such gifts,
one must wonder how it is
our arms aren’t constantly raised
in spontaneous praise for life.
I know and you know
why sometimes our hands stay down.
But now, standing still together,
even as we’re spinning
and racing through space,
even if it’s only a whisper,
when faced with the truth
that great forces hold
our lives in place,
it feels right to say
thank you, thank you,
eyes lifting, heart trembling,
the improbable earth
so solid beneath our feet.
Principle
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged buoyancy, choice, density, mother, resilience, science on October 30, 2023| 8 Comments »
for my mother
She could have sunk,
the way a stone
falls to the bottom
of the pond.
But she didn’t.
She floated like wood,
like cork, like ice.
Floated like a ball
tossed in an angry sea.
Density alone
is simple math:
mass divided
by volume.
But density
of spirit is,
perhaps, a choice.
As if we exist
to be tossed
again and again
into the waters
of difficulty,
each toss
another chance
to practice
buoyancy.
Analog
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged friendship, humanness, science, wave on June 16, 2023| 9 Comments »
for Craig
It’s so human, the hand,
how it rises
to wave to a friend,
as if it is a direct extension
of the heart. Perhaps
that is why, in these days
of emojis and AI,
when you write to tell me
you wave each time
you drive past my house,
my hand rises to wave back,
though I don’t know where you are
or when’s the last time
you passed by my home,
but, here, friend,
wherever you are,
here’s my hand,
palm open, arm high,
not electromagnetic
but no less full
of song and light
this wave reaching
across the night.
Self-Portrait as Root Vegetable
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beets, science, self-portrait, sweetness on January 28, 2023| 9 Comments »
It’s science, of course,
how the sugars in beets
will caramelize when heated,
a process that includes conversion,
condensation, dehydration,
collisions, and the formation
of thousands of volatile compounds.
And though it’s not simple,
and though this process of sweetening
is not fully understood,
sweetening happens. Every time.
Is it wrong this gives me hope
for other hard and bitter things?
Just asking the question,
already I feel myself begin to soften.
Centripetal
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, love, mother, science, unseen forces on January 14, 2023| 8 Comments »
While we stand at the stove
making potstickers
my daughter leans into me
and drops her head on my shoulder
and those twelve seconds of stasis
become the center of rotation
on which the whole day spins
and F equals mv squared over r
is just another equation for love.
I have ridden enough roller coasters
through the loops so to speak
that I trust how this works,
trust that in this wildly spinning world
there’s a force that pulls us
to the center, that won’t let us
be pushed off the path.
I trust it so much in this moment
I don’t even try to hold on.
Randomized
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged experiment, science, self-perception, who am I on November 14, 2022| 9 Comments »
I feel like I’m this experiment called Joi.
—Joi Sharp
Now that we’re calling this life an experiment,
it’s suddenly more fun to notice
what makes a Rosemerry angry?
How does a Rosemerry learn?
Can we make her annoyed?
What if we frustrate her with insurance claims?
With slow traffic? With politics?
With fill in the blank?
What conditions help her forgive?
How quickly might a Rosemerry
be moved to tears?
What makes her want to cast blame?
What if she meets guilt in a crowded room?
What if she has nowhere to hide?
What makes her feel small?
What makes her feel vast?
How does a Rosemerry
heal from a wound?
What happens when she is infused with love?
What if it’s more than she can hold?
What inspires a Rosemerry to laugh?
What if she deviates from her thoughts?
If we minimize the variables,
can we predict what brings her peace?
If we control confounding factors,
can we repeat our findings?
Faced with the data,
can she still embrace the unknown?
Can she stay open to possibility?
Lose her attachment to outcomes?
Such a curious subject,
elusive as a song.
What if we change the stimulus again?
Who is she now?
Neuroendocrine Prophesy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged endocrine, science, waking up on February 14, 2022| 9 Comments »
The pineal gland walks down the street.
No one notices it, of course—
so few have any idea what it is.
Not to mention it’s the size of a pea.
Though a mouth sees it
and whispers to an ear,
“I heard she secretes melatonin.”
The ear titters, as if it’s a joke.
It’s no joke. The pineal gland
ignores their chatter. Because it’s true.
And it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“Hey, PG, don’t worry about them,”
says the open yawn walking by.
“You’re amazing. I should know.”
The pineal gland nods and sighs.
“I feel so misunderstood,”
The yawn grows wider.
“It’s no small thing what you do—
to let in light and darkness.”
The pineal gland gives a shrug.
“In fact,” says the yawn,
“thank you for letting it all in.
That’s the only way
this world will wake up.”
*
(um, yeah, I know i just totally geeked out, but hey …)
Bioluminescence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beach, bioluminescence, dark, light, science, shine, unity on January 18, 2022| 9 Comments »
Sometimes, when I fear
the small light I bring
isn’t big enough or bright
enough, I think of that night
on the beach years ago
when every step I took
in the cool wet sand turned
a glowing, iridescent blue—
and the waves themselves
were a flashing greenish hue—
imagine we could do
what 7.9 billion
one-celled plankton can do—
can shine when it’s dark,
can shine when agitated,
can shine with our own
inner light and trust when we all
bring the tiny light we have,
it’s enough to illumine the next step
in the long stretch of night.
And Mean It, Too
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, love, neutrino, science on February 15, 2021| 5 Comments »
In every second, one hundred trillion neutrinos
pass through the body: One hundred trillion
subatomic particles move through us
as if we were sieves, no, as if we were nets
with holes so big that whole islands
travel through without us noticing.
It thrills me to think of the self so porous,
so leaky. Imagine if thoughts, too,
could clear us with so little friction,
so little effect. How many hopes and hurts
just today have I let stick? Imagine
them breezing through the aorta, imagine
them gliding through the brain, slipping through
the core of us, finding no purchase, no anchor.
Imagine the miracle that in any given moment
we don’t fall through our chair, our bed, the floor.
Imagine, permeable as we are, we still coalesce
enough to look at another, to see each other as whole.
We still manage to pick up the mesh of a phone,
succeed in moving our holey lips,
and hundreds of trillions of neutrinos later,
with total certainty, manage to promise a solid I love you.
Imagine, with these pervious hands
we might carry each other, might cradle
each other, might welcome each other home.
Ephemeral Prayer
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged laughter, prayer, science, sun on April 20, 2020| Leave a Comment »
In five billion years, the hydrogen fuel
at the core of the sun will be spent.
Forces of gravity will take over,
compressing the core. The rest of the sun
will expand, vaporizing the earth.
I’ve studied the science, read the texts.
In the meantime, I live in a canyon
with rock walls one-hundred-fifty million years old—
and sometimes, like this morning,
despite rumors of doom,
the forces of gravity take over
and I fall on the floor laughing—
a riotous squealing and braying,
tears leaking, chest heaving,
grateful to big time for this very moment
when I am almost seamlessly joined with my shadow.
It rolls with me on the floor as I hoot and giggle,
praying in the language I know best.
Dear Somebody’s Version of Albert,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged einstein, epistle, letter, love, science on March 28, 2020| Leave a Comment »
*Dear readers: Sooooo. After really investing myself in the letter (linked below) and writing the poem below, I found out the letter is a fake. And I thought about just taking down the poem. And then I thought, well, even though Albert didn’t write the letter, I still believe in what it says. So I changed the title and made note here that the letter is fake. I guess my poem just turned into fan fiction??
***********
If we want our species to survive, if we are to find meaning in life, if we want to save the world and every sentient being that inhabits it, love is the one and only answer.
—a fake letter from Albert Einstein, in a letter to his daughter, Lieserl
Thank you for your letter.
I know you wrote it
for a daughter,
but I read it as if
you wrote it for me.
You spoke of making a love bomb,
a device powerful enough
to entirely destroy the hate,
selfishness and greed
that devastate the planet.
I want to believe it’s possible.
Now. Somehow, because it is
your assertion, it feels
more possible than something
the poets propose.
But count me in. Let me help
verify your equation in which
the energy to heal the world
is obtained through love
multiplied by the speed of light squared.
Let the experiment begin
in my heart. Let me always
let love write the proof.
Let me find the infinite energy
inside me waiting to be released.
Let me be driven by love.
Let me remember everything
is in relation to everything else:
Planets in their orbits. A virus. Black holes.
How I meet the world. The bending of light.
*to read the full letter, click here
It Comes Down to This
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, loss of self, love, protons, science, space on February 8, 2020| 5 Comments »
Not that I want to be someone else,
just that I want to be less myself,
which is to say less the woman
who thinks she knows anything
about anything—gardening or writing
or skiing or parenting or loving—
I want to be less who I am and
more what a tree is, what a star is,
protons fused with other protons,
and the strong force that holds
particles together in the center of atoms,
and the weak force that breaks the atoms down,
and the electromagnetic force that binds
all molecules. Yes, this is how I want to meet you,
without a name, unencumbered by a me,
a collection of atoms and forces that rhyme
with you, linked as we are from the very beginning.
How easy it is then to say hello, to fall in love
with each other, the world.
After Jack Sends Me the Definition of Black Hole
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged astrology, black hole, god, poem, poetry, science on January 7, 2020| 2 Comments »
A black hole is a region of spacetime exhibiting gravitational acceleration so strong that nothing—no particles or even electromagnetic radiation such as light—can escape from it.
—Wikipedia
Perhaps black hole is just another word
for God—a force that pulls in everything,
regardless of how that everything looks or prays or votes.
A cup that runneth—not over, but ever in. A shepherd
so adept at shepherding that nothing—
no sheep, no man, no star, no dust—
could ever be lost in its spacetime pasture.
It creates communion, obliterates separateness.
In pictures, it’s a vision of still water.
In truth, it’s unable to be known.
A force that overwhelms all other forces.
It devours some, and in others spurs growth.
And what isn’t, I suppose, another word
for God: Ledger. Valley. Garden. Death.
Rhubarb. Rod. Human. Staff.
There is this gift to see the divine in everything.
There is this force that pulls the everything in.
Every particle. Every everything. Even (my god) the light.
Missing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cat, hope, loss, paradox, poem, poetry, science on December 28, 2019| 2 Comments »
Hope is, perhaps, a quantum thing,
a paradox, like Schrödinger’s cat,
simultaneously alive and dead.
Today, I wandered the snowy field
and the icy banks and the shadowed wood,
calling the name of my sweet gray cat.
If I could find her now, I’d see
she’s either alive or dead.
But in this moment of uncertainty,
she’s both alive and dead to me.
I’m tugged by both possibilities as I wade
through tall dry grass. Oh damn that hope,
and bless it, too, how just a candle-measure
opposes a whole tower of unfounded certainty,
sends me out into the blizzard
calling her name, listening.
Look at Your Hand, Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birth, complexity, evolution, hand, love, poem, poetry, science, simplicity on October 23, 2019| 4 Comments »
Before you were born,
your hand had more muscles,
for instance the dorsometacarpales,
a reptilian remnant, an atavistic relic
from when all blood was cold blooded.
By the time you were thirteen weeks
in utero, a third of the muscles
in your hands and feet had fused
with other muscles. Your body
simply deleted them, proof
that before we are born,
before we are ready
to inhabit our forms,
we are in some ways
made less complex.
I think of this now as I open my hand
for your hand, think
of how much things change.
How once we had fins, then claws.
And now, look at us,
with hands that might caress,
might soothe, might reach.
God, this impulse to be warm.
And I think of how sometimes,
growth means to become more simple.
This is my prayer. To do
what the nascent body can do:
to remember where I came from,
to streamline, to know what is needed,
to know what to let go.
https://earthsky.org/human-world/Evolutionary-remnants-muscles-human-embryos
Feeling that Surge of Osteocalcin While Standing in Front of a Crowd
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bones, fear, poem, poetry, science on October 11, 2019| 5 Comments »
It’s not adrenaline after all,
but the bones that tell the body
to fight, to freeze, to flee.
The bones send the hormone
that tells the heart to beat faster,
tells lungs to breathe quicker, tells glucose
to pump through the body as fuel.
The odd gift: the same bones
that tell us to run away
help us stand and see it through.
*