Looking at Lichen in 2018

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, a beautiful sunny afternoon, I met a friend and her sister in a park along a creek for a lichen walk.

I had a small obsession with lichens a few years ago, and I wrote about it in a three-part series for this blog. (Part one, part two, part three.) Lichens are a symbiosis: A fungus provides shelter and structure, and cyanobacteria or algae live in its tissues, making energy from sunlight to keep the whole thing going. And, scientists have learned since I last wrote about lichen, many species contain a third partner, a strain of yeast. 

I brought my lighted hand lens and guide book, holdovers from my lichen moment of 2016; they brought observational skills and tree knowledge. We started with a tree close to a picnic table, handy for coats and bags.

I started with what I remembered – that a lot of lichens that look the same at first glance are actually different species. Several were sage green, but one had long black eyelash-like cilia sticking out from its edges. Others had tiny black spots, or skinnier lobes, or a different shade of green. On the sunny side of the tree, a crust-like yellowish species was growing.

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Redux: The Undead: A Holiday Rant

Is it almost the holidays again? Man, that was fast. I should probably come up with a new rant but hey, the old one still works. So, here’s my 2015 December complaint. I think it’s all still relevant…although The Walking Dead lost me when they killed off “Coral.”

It’s the holiday season so, of course, I’ve been binge-watching The Walking Dead. Something about this time of year makes the still-unbitten characters’ lives appealing. Minus the blood-oozing zombies, life is uncluttered. There are no commercials screaming that Santa’s sale on Christmas socks ends Friday, no light displays at the mall flashing to the beat of Grandma Got Run Over by a Raindeer, no fist fights in Walmart (next to the inflatable manger scene, for Pete’s sake!) over the last 60-inch TV. That in-your-face commercialism that loads up our senses with garbage simply doesn’t exist.

Think about it: During a zombie apocalypse, each surviving person has no choice but to set aside childish things and put his or her best skills to work. Someone plants a garden, someone else builds walls. She patches up the wounded, he goes in search of supplies. Everyone, because it’s necessary, learns to shoot, stab, or wield a machete. That same necessity forces creativity, which comes in handy when rebuilding society. No one cares about stuffing a cart with plastic amusements or getting the best parking spot at Sports Authority.

I apologize for getting a late start on my holiday rant—no doubt Santa is already tying back his beard in prep for his windy travels. But is it ever too late to rant, really? Because for some of us, the Christmas season, with all its sparkling energy, crashes in uninvited and wrestles us to the floor. And it bites.

I’m no Scrooge; I like pretty lights (little white ones especially) and the smell of pine needles. I’ll take a hot chocolate with brandy and a nice fire. I even like gifts—both giving and getting. But the holidays tend to overwhelm me nowadays, as they do many people. Whether it’s true  or not that suicides skyrocket during the Christmas season, plenty of people suffer very real holiday blues. My own energy fizzles as the calendar thins, but mostly I feel my brain being stuffed with throw-aways.

Shopping madness is to me the most egregious trend, and unless you intend to show up selfishly empty handed at family gatherings, it’s hard to avoid. Your TV shouts out must-buys. Oprah’s favorites sell out in a day. The Internet lures us in deep: We feel obliged to keep adding to cart. The less Web-savvy among us actually go shopping. In stores. The parking lot makes us weep. The what-the-hell-to-get-cousin-Gabe trance kicks in as we steer our weary bodies toward whatever sparkles brightest (and is 50% off), impressed by nothing. shutterstock_110640713

Zombie humor aside, this December madness is a real problem. The holidays as we tend to celebrate them, all wrapped up and tied with bows, can cause mental and emotional strain, plus sensory and cognitive overload (based on the term ‘cognitive load,’ a concept described by John Sweller in 1988 referring to the amount and complexity of info, and the interactions that must be processed simultaneously, in our brains). Cognitive load affects learning and memory, so cognitive overload can really make a mess of things. Having too much to think about causes worry, and too much worrying can lead to angst, depression, or complete shutdown. Picture your brain as a juggler who is being tossed thing after unrelated thing—a coconut, a fork, a guitar, a vase, a puppy, a chainsaw (please keep those last two apart)—eventually, everything hits the floor. The holidays, including the obligatory errand race, can be like that.

Allow me to preach a little in a totally unoriginal way. Wouldn’t it be nice to back away from the stores, dim the holiday lights just a tad, turn down the sounds of ads, phones, traffic, and holiday mall music, and replace our desire for shiny new phones with an offering of love and kindness? Charity and good works? Might our brains soften and ease, our worries about things fizzle out, if we celebrated with fewer nonessentials?

Ask around. Most people will join this choir, agreeing that we’ve gone astray turning December into an overlong commercial carnival. Yes, let’s find meaning again! Yes, let’s open our hearts, not our wallets! Yes, let’s show the children what the holidays really mean!

But we’re all talk, aren’t we? Bargains and pageant are so alluring that we continue to trade true spirit for to-do lists. And that means high blood pressure and less brain space for truly important cognitive exercises.

Like trying to remember how to load the crossbow.

Because in a world of bloodthirsty zombies (you knew I’d come back to them eventually), the non-zombies actually live in the moment, every moment. When survival isn’t a given, the most basic things rise to the surface. Love. Companionship. Safety. Health. Canned pudding. Things that, wonderfully, have nothing to do with things at all.

 

Photos from Shutterstock.

 

Holiday Screen Guide

Welcome to the 5th Annual Last Word On Nothing Holiday Screen Guide, where people of LWON share their TV and movie recommendations for those cozy winter hours warmed by the flicker of the computer screen.

Jenny: Have I raved before about The Great British Baking Show? Well, anyway, I’m chuffed that Netflix has put up lots of new episodes including a warm and gingery Xmas twofer. Who would have thought watching other people bake without throwing food at each other would be entertaining, especially when you can’t smell or taste the final products? But I love joining these ridiculously polite, often-goofy Brits in a warm tent as they whip up puds that in some cases don’t even appeal to me–go figure. The comedian hosts are perfectly silly, and even the “mean” judge is really a kind soul. (Why isn’t he fatter, though? Unless he’s spitting off screen, the man should be ginormous.) While they all fuss over stodgy sponges and soggy bottoms, I slide into my cuppa and dream of sweeties.

Meanwhile, I’ve only just begun another food-related show–Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat–but I already love it. The host is a real human being whose travels/tastings are like the best classes you took in college.

And finally, if TGBBS is just too damn cheerful for you, watch Wallander and see Kenneth Branagh do his serious-acting thing. The hour-long stories are heavy life-and-death stuff (he’s a loner cop in Sweden investigating the ugliest homicides), but each is beautifully done, really as much about his own slog through life as about the criminals. (I recommend alternating with episodes of TGBBS, or old Bugs Bunny episodes, to avoid entering a slow-drip depression.)

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Holiday Reading Guide

Welcome to the 5th Annual Last Word On Nothing Holiday Reading Guide, where people of LWON share their book recommendations for that stretch between Christmas and New Year when you finally have a solid hour to yourself.

Jessa: An Ocean of Minutes, by Thea Lim, is an alternate recent-history novel in which poor migrants are induced to undergo time travel to do the heavy lifting of rebuilding the world after a pandemic. But that makes it sound a certain way when really it’s a very literary book, in the way that Margaret Atwood’s speculative fiction is literary. It came out this year and was shortlisted for the Giller Prize, which is the big Canadian one.

For nonfiction, SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome, by Mary Beard, was a nice trip into the archaeology of the time. Rather than present a polished story, she refuses to overstate certainty about what happened, and you end up with an idea of how classicists really go about piecing things together.

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Redux: Marvin and the System

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Would you trust an AI assistant? This is a question you’re going to have to answer sooner than later. And here’s a weird little story I wrote a while back about it. In case you missed it, enjoy now!

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We live with machines. And our machines are getting smarter. They’re still very dumb, they do what we tell them to, and often not really all that well. But we’re teaching them. And I do mean “we.” When you tag your friends on Facebook, you’re teaching its facial recognition system what to look for in faces. When you click on ads or Google results you’re training its system to know what you like. Computer scientists are working on ways to make machines learn smarter, learn passively, make connections we never even thought of.

Alpha Go, an artificial intelligence trained to play Go, recently beat a Go grandmaster. This is a big deal, partially because Go is an extremely complicated game, but also because the system did things while playing that nobody expected. It made moves that seemed like mistakes, and twenty moves later were suddenly clearly not mistakes. Now imagine your computer could surprise you in that same way.

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A Repatriation

I attended a repatriation of artifacts and bones under Native American claim recently. The remains of 41 people and the artifacts buried with them, retrieved from an archaeological collection, went back in the ground.

There’s not a lot I can write in detail. Returning the dead of a millennia-old village is an involved procedure and I did not take notes. It was shovels and damp soil, trenches deep enough they should not be dug up again.

Repatriation materials had been transported to the site in cardboard office boxes prepared by the museum they came from. Where I expected to see a jumble of bubble wrap and masking tape, objects had been slid into neat cotton sacks, tied closed with cotton strips. They were not nested for transport, but given their own sacks of different sizes, each bowl and jar, each small purse of beads with a draw string tied closed. Soft cotton pads had been placed between more fragile items. It looked like a burial in boxes, given back in the gentlest custom the museum could devise.

When the objects were pulled out, it felt as if the dead were being freed from science. They were themselves again.

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Oh, To Follow the Road That Leads Away From Everything

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Driving in a foreign country is a good way to turn your head inside out. It shakes the cobwebs and forces you to rearrange the heavy furniture of your mind. You need to make room for thoughts such as 10 mil is how many pesos is how many dollars? And what is the phrase for a full tank of gas? And if I put my backpack and jacket in the passenger seat, and adjust my hat on them just so, will the miners in that truck behind me be fooled into thinking I’m not alone?

I have always liked driving, especially when I have good music and a long enough trip for my thoughts to really open up. It is like a form of meditation, in that it’s both exhausting and refreshing. Driving in a foreign country, where you barely speak the language, is like competitive-level meditation.

I did the most intense driving of my life earlier this year, on a road trip up and down the coast of northern Chile. I wrote a lot about it in this essay, which just published, so please go read that. But I’ve been thinking a lot about all the other absurd driving I did on that trip, all by myself in the oldest and most barren desert on this planet. Continue reading