Lacking the gene for survival...

Alright, I've been absent for nearly three months. AWOL. Traveling, working--doing everything but blogging. And thinking there was no real need...after all, it seemed (in the warm glow of the fading autumn) that climate change must have been a figment of the collective imagination...a mistake...a rouse...the straight line for "drill baby drill."

Never mind that scientists recently reported that 2 trillion tons of land ice (sweetly abbreviated 2T Ice, as if it were a simple kitchen ingredient) has melted from Greenland over the past 5 years, resulting in a measurable rise in the oceans. Never mind that Saudi Arabia recently opened two gigantic new oil fields that "promise" to deliver more oil than human kind has consumed thus far. Never mind that there is now a hole in the earth's magnetic field (okay, so that's probably unrelated, but it does sound a bit more dramatic than a hole in the ozone layer--that's just so last century).

So many words.

And like so many, I was distracted by other interesting things. My quickly emptying nest. An historic election. Opportunities to explore my notion that an island is simply the opportunity to see the ocean from many perspectives...

And then came the snow. And the ice. And the snow.

For days ice has followed snow has followed wind has followed snow. Nothing too unusual for Boston. Or Denver. Or Wasilla. But for the moderate Pacific Northwest, this is something!

And I have been reminded: we are doomed! Simply doomed!!

Look down now. If you have webbed feet, you're toast. There is no way for Pacific Northwesterners to survive the coming ice age!

Here's why: First, we are transfixed by weather-related news stories! In the event of a real catastrophe, we will drown while waiting for the next Doppler update to break into the emergency broadcasting network instructions for evacuation.

Secondly, we are unable to educate our young. It goes without saying that all school is cancelled upon sighting of the first snowflake. With ever-increasing rounds of inclement weather, this puts a whole generation at risk of ill-literacy.

But more importantly, we are unable to plan for the inevitable (and the simple).

We were all properly appalled by the bungled evacuation of New Orleans for Hurricane Katrina--the shock and surprise at gas lines and traffic jams. And yet, our self-righteousness is compuh-letely unwarranted. We are equally vulnerable to oblivion by the obvious.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we cannot even plow the roads. It is not for lack of preparation--we have had weather updates every half hour since the storm originally appeared on radar--nearly three days before it arrived. In fact, last night, there were three weather updates during Saturday Night Live alone, each explaining that the Doppler radar had been switched to "winter mode" so that the storm would appear in white on the map, making it "easier to detect." As if we couldn't see the amassing snow and ice out side the window!

And it is not for lack of equipment. There are plows circling everywhere--blades mysteriously up.

No, we are suffering from some deeper malady. Some clear but unnamed desire to languish as the waters rise, as witnessed by the intersections here in the Capital City.

Although roads around the city have been randomly plowed--cleared for stretches then randomly left to the vagaries of traffic-induced rutting for a stretch, then cleared, then abandoned--in no case has an intersection been cleared.

Not the entrance to the mall. Nor the Costco. Not the intersection leading to the State Capitol and all the government buildings. Not the intersection that joins a major commercial thoroughfare to the Interstate. I can say with perfect assurance that every major intersection is blocked by two feet of churned up snow requiring four-wheel drive and the clearance of a Hummer to pass.

I take this to mean that we simply lack the will to survive. It's the same lethargy that explains the performance of all Seattle sports teams.

It's just too much trouble to figure out what makes sense, what needs to be done, what would help get us past our most immediate thought to the days beyond.

If climate change comes in a scenic, nature-loving way, the kind where we can hop in our kayaks and go for a good paddle, we will be fine. Even if we find ourselves water-borne for weeks, we'll be fine, taking an occasional pause from paddling to eat smoked salmon and sip a fine merlot.

But if it's more violent--and icy, well, we simply lack the will to survive. And like the people of Pompeii, we'll leave a perfectly preserved example of Americans going about business as usual, unaware of danger in the offing.

And realizing this, I am back from my hiatus.

Penicillin: The Greatest Human Invention

One foggy Sunday morning in 1928, Sarah McElroy Fleming was cleaning out the refrigerator, opened an old jar of haggis, and through her revulsion, began to scream.

"Take it away! Take it away!” she cried as her husband came running.

Mrs. Fleming shuddered and gagged. She pushed the jar into Dr. Fleming’s able hands. He peered inside. “My lovely wife has been completely immobilized by a simple, though colorful mold," he observed. Fascinated, he began to poke at the specimen.

It was thick and spongy from feasting on Scotland’s national dare-you-to-eat-it food. Arranged in concentric circles, the mold was forest green, grassy green, black, and white. The doctor’s mind began to work. “Women are delicate and weak compared to man and beast. And yet, they are stronger than the common cold…” He looked more intently into his accidental Petri dish. The wheels were turning.

Suddenly, they locked into place. “Eureka!” the good doctor exclaimed, “You are a fine woman, Sarah, and if this simple mold can incapacitate you, then surely it can kill the lesser species that cause scarlet fever, pneumonia and mengitis!"

Clutching the jar, he kissed Sarah’s cheek and made a dash for his lab. The rest, as they say, is history.

Unfortunately, I’m allergic to penicillin, so I have to admire this incredible bit of human ingenuity from the other side of the pharmacy counter (though I do sometimes wonder if I could eat the green fuzz straight from the refrigerator and still avoid anaphylactic shock).

Penicillin is so well documented that I can, while driving, download its history, pharmacology and chemical structure from the mobile Web on my cell phone.

So I ask with all earnestness: if we happen to sever our digital umbilical cord and lose access to the documentation of the greatest scientific discovery of all time, will human kind ever again put two and two together and come up with mold as the for cure for raging, Gram-positive infections (and the unmentionable Gram-negative, gonorrhea)?

A Life Without Chocolate? Now There's a Climatic Catastrophe

Lately I've been focusing on things we take for granted because, I believe, those are the things we need the most in our life. We're just like the fish who, as they say, don't know they live in water until they find themselves flopping around on the dock.

When this ad arrived on my cell phone, thanks to my chocoholic daughter, I realized that chocolate is woven into the very fabric of my life. I love chocolate. I entertain with chocolate. I express my love with chocolate. I use chocolate for crowd control in my work as a conference planner (why do you think they give you chocolate cookies at 3:00 pm every day of a conference or convention?)

And yet, apparently I completely take it all for granted. Chocolate will always be here. And I will always yearn for it.

So now that Reese's has drawn my attention to the effects of global warming on the chocolate supply, I am completely willing to make whatever changes are necessary! Sign me up!

How about you?

Spiderman and Rainbows

On Saturday, I headed out to McCleary, Washington to Hartman Jewelry repair. The Hartmans are fabulous people. She is as nice as he is cynical. What could be better? Their little shop is packed with fun things and I always spend a ton of money I didn't mean to.

I went to get my watch fixed. Yes, the birthday watch. Hope springs eternal, I suppose. Plus, it was Hartman's 10th anniversary and watch batteries were 25% off.

I did not need a new battery. The friction pin on the minute hand has burned out. Fascinatingly though, after the check up (no repair) the watch worked fine for the 35 minutes my husband wore it. As soon as I put it on, the minute hand started cu-chunking its way backwards.

The friction pin can be affected by electro-magnetic force, and therefore, a girl who has been hit by lightning.

More and more I am coming to grips with the reality that our run-ins with Mother Nature, just like radioactive spider bites, become part of our biological fabric.

I can forget that I was hit by lightning--or at least go for years and years without thinking much about it. It's not something that has all that much relevance to my day-to-day life. Except when I burn out a watch or crash a computer system by standing too close to a critical component. Then I reminded that it's not a memory. It's a force in my being.

Our outer world gets under our skin. It changes us in ways we can't consciously explain. And then it all oozes back into our lives in ways we can't consciously explain. We're all a little bit like Spiderman that way.

And that's the good news, I think.

Even Sarah Palin now agrees that climate change is eeking its way into our lives. The question is whether the change will be slow and incremental or catastrophic.

Mark Lynas argues in Six Degrees (a great new book from National Geographic) that the earth will heat up one degree at a time causing incremental change. It will become part of us and we'll face the next degree with our new and improved selves. John Medina makes a compelling case for how we adapted when we "came down from the trees" in his fun new book Brain Rules.

It gives me hope.

But here's the thing: I was hit by lightning on top of the Mount of the Holy Cross in August, 1978. Although lightning is a regular occurrence in the Rocky Mountains towards the end of summer, it was still unexpected and remarkably sudden.

The sky was gray. There was no rain, no thunder, no warning. Suddenly the world turned white and blue. I was flying through the air, balls of electricity flying from my finger tips. I landed face first in a small trickle of water--the headwaters for some mountain stream.

It happened at the speed of light. Nothing we knew or believed mattered. We were powerless to act.

A part of me still believes that when the weather changes it will be violent, sudden, unexpected and crippling. Of course it will change us forever, but what will we bring to the experience? Will our own inner Spiderman be suited up and ready to rock?

Everyone in my Girl Scout troop made it down from that mountain in one piece. My sister took care of me. "Stay down!" the leaders had shouted after the lightning sent us all flying. My sister crawled to me from somewhere and covered me up with an old Army poncho. It was thick and smelly and I could hear the hail thudding violently against it. She marveled at the blue balls of fire zipping from my pinkie. I marveled at her presence of mind.

And then someone called out, "There's a rainbow!" It was all over. And in an instant, I realized exactly why we humans put stock in mythical stories.

Towels and Other Glorious Human Inventions

Each May 25th, the world celebrates Towel Day. As well it should.

While the towel is incredibly useful--essential even--it is unheraleded and generally taken for granted. When is the last time you stopped to acknowledge:

• Your dependence on towels when your hair is dripping, the floor is slippery or the dog is tracking mud into the house?
• Your appreciation of towels when the upholstry in the back seat is too hot to sit on; you're lying on the beach; or covering up in the PE locker room?
• Your reliance on towels for self expression when cheering your favorite team; decorating the bathroom for the holiday; or coordinating colors and designs to complete your interior design?

There are so many unsung heroes and necessities in our lives. I'm beginning to think we might be able to measure the importance of certain objects in our world by the degree to which we take them for granted.

We love our cars, show them off, care for them. But what about motor oil, windshield wiper blades or air filters? Do we ever give attention to these essentials?

We love food and wine. But what about heating elements, pot holders or spatulas? Do we stop to think about how much these objects contribute to our nourishment?

My snoring husband recently got a C-PAP machine. It's like a leaf blower: while sleeping, it blows enough air through the nose and throat to keep the airway from collapsing thereby preventing not only snoring, but the much more dangerous (and potentially deadly) sleep apnea. But for us, the C-PAP offers something much more fundamental, something we typically take entirely for granted: REM sleep.

That's right, before this bit of technology came to our bedroom, my husband lived without REM sleep for as long as five years. REM deprivation makes you tired, sluggish, a little slow on the uptake. Eventually it makes you psychotic. But that's a different story.

We so take this function for granted that two doctors missed the diagnosis altogether and offered anti-depressants instead.

I understand. If we tried to track on every detail of our world and tried to elevate every gadget, electronic or essential bodily function to the level of recognition Towel Day offers, our brains would be overwhelmed and threaten to shatter into a million shards.

And yet, failure to recognize the glorious details that keep us ticking makes them all vulnerable. Like species that slip, almost unnoticed, into extinction.

Think about it. What little things do you take for granted? Click Here to answer.

Welcome Back

When I last left off, I was thinking about my life as a super hero and wondering if we aren't all a little bit like Spiderman. But I'll get back to that later.

I got distracted by summer, which was notoriously cold. And short.

Here in the Pacific Northwest, the rain normally starts to ease up in February and comes to a complete halt on the day after the 4th of July holiday. There are occasional dry days in April, May and June, although none of these occur on a holiday or a weekend or for a special event such as a wedding.

Once all the fireworks have gone off, however, it's suddenly (and exquisitely) dry and warm until Thanksgiving, when it floods (without exception) and all the locals act surprised (without exception). I am only allowed to make this observation because I am a transplant.

So, between the 5th of July and Thanksgiving, there are intermittent hot spells when temperatures may soar as high as 93. Three days of such a heat wave and true Northwesterners will begin to pine for the rain. Never fear: after 5 days, the temperatures will plummet to the mid-70s and all is right with the world for a week or two.

We will go through this cycle 4, 5 times in a summer.

Everyone's garden grows. Everyone's zucchinis are eaten by deer. I make fun of the web-footed natives who are truly tortured by temperatures above 82. All is right with the world.

But this year, not one Pacific Northwesterner complained. No one had the opportunity. We topped 90 just a few times--maybe three--and those days were followed by a week of rain. Gardens began to grow in August. Gardeners were holding out hope for a late harvest. Deer are waiting patiently in the wings.

It's only September 1st and already the furnace is kicking on at night. Yesterday, I wore a sweat shirt. And I had to dig my closed-toed shoes out of the back of the closet. It was still August then. Rain fell from the sky in torrents and bounced back up from the roadway in waves.

I passed a car on the interstate that hydroplaned onto the median and did a dozen donuts before coming to a stop. It had Oregon plates. Perhaps they were from eastern Oregon. But more likely they were just taken by surprise.

School doesn't start until tomorrow. The day after tomorrow...well, at this rate, it's shaping up to be the day after tomorrow!

Quick, find your parka and your hat and your scarf. They're in the closet some place. Try checking behind your closed-toed shoes. I know you've found those aready.

Bundle up! Keep warm! And keep reading!

The Real Life Adventures of Girl vs. Nature

I recently turned 44, and to celebrate my fabulous husband gave me a watch.

Actually, he bought more than one, starting with the kind he thought I ought to wear and eventually ending with the one I actually would.

This was no ordinary watch. It was traditional, with a wide leather band reminiscent of a bomber jacket. It was substantial. It was totally butch. And it was Swiss.

Thankfully, it also came with a warranty, because less than two weeks into life on my wrist, it stopped keeping time (although the second hand is still dutifully making its rounds).

And while this turn of events saddens me deeply, it is in no way surprising: I have been frying watches since 1978, when I was hit by lightning while venturing up the Mount of the Holy Cross with a gaggle of Girl Scouts.

This was no ordinary accident; it was Girl vs. Nature.

I am still standing, but no watch has ever survived being strapped to me, and that's saying something because in the year leading up to the Mountain Top Incident, I survived another Girl vs. Nature smack down and my watch was the winner.

In 1977, I was attacked by a killer horse. Or maybe it was just Horse Gone Wild. It's hard to say. But either way, I started out riding the horse and ended up flat on my back, unconscious, with the horse thrashing wildly beside me in an effort to get right-side-up and back on her feet. Stunningly, my skull was not broken, but I had multiple concussions and a broken jaw. And, although my arm was both compound fractured and splintered into 11 pieces, my Timex was in tact.

My mother said this was to be expected; back then, Timex commercials featured real life disaster stories with people like me, who would hold up their surviving watches and declare: "It takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'." She thought I should be in an ad.

It was not meant to be, however. My trusty timepiece met a dramatic end just a few months later, sometime between the blue haze of the lightning bolt and the hail storm and the rainbow that followed.

My next Timex never worked. Nor did any of the watches that followed.

It would be ten years before I would learn that this is not an uncommon consequence of being hit by lightning. I've since heard that no one who's had a near-death experience can wear a watch.

After about 4 dozen watches and 20 years, I declared Nature the winner and threw in the towel. Until recently.

Then I decided I needed a watch. A very specific watch. It had to be a women's design, but substantial and bold. With a leather strap. And big enough to read with my aging eyes.

This was a rather surprising impulse. Irrational. Doomed to fail. And yet, inspired by something completely endearing--an email from the most brilliant of colleagues addressing me as "Wonder Woman."

I realize in retrospect that I do indeed want to be Wonder Woman, and I want a watch wide enough and tough enough to deflect all of life's bullets. But you can't, as they say, fool Mother Nature.

Soon, my wonderful birthday watch will be in its magnificent orange box headed home to Switzerland, where the master watchmakers will undoubtedly open it up and declare: "C'est increable! C'est impossible!" By then, my $29.99 on-clearance-at-the-discount-store replacement will be finished as well.

Maybe I am part Wonder Woman; I do seem to have my very own super power: Electro Magnetic Girl Fries Electronics and Brings Down Computer Systems in a Single Stroke! But apparently, I'll have to embrace traditional cuff braclets; I'll never be able to dress the part wearing a watch no matter how perfect it might look.

Maybe it's not the look. Maybe Girl vs. Nature is really about iterative transformation and the ways that we stay connected, like Spiderman, to the mysterious power of Nature that threaten to overwhelm us.

I am, after all, still standing. And late. Again.