Oops, I Made a Mistake.

Last Saturday, I took a short 3 mile day hike in Kensington with a group of bird enthusiasts.  I have been in the park several times to view the Sandhill cranes this spring and was embarrassed to find out, from Saturdays' hiking guide, that the nests I believed were made by Sandhill Cranes are actually nests of the Great Blue Heron.  I have reworked that particular chapter in the book I am working on and thought I should also share with you since I posted that excerpt on the blog site.
Sandhill Cranes are private and build their nests on the ground in the marsh.  I have sat on the park bench and watched those birds several times but the trees are just far enough away that I could not make out the color details (physics has helped me understand that reflection, refraction, focal point of image all play into the tricks my eyes can play when I let my mind work overtime).  The Blue Heron has a large size but shape, beak, and color are very different from the cranes I love to watch in the marsh.  I apologize for this careless mistake.


Another quick update:  My physics final is Thursday … still holding on to my “A” and I am very proud of myself.  I find the Math fascinating and have discovered that I “get it”.  There is so much going on in the invisible world of electromagnetic fields, wavelengths, light, charges, chemical reactions, atoms, electrons … okay, I’ll stop.  I have been told that I can be a nerd.  I am proud of that too.

Newton's First Law

This excerpt is from the novel I am currently working on.  The main character, Madison, has parked her car and is walking toward an established rural cemetery located on a hilltop surrounded by a protected wetland.

In contrast to her mood, she could not help but notice that nature was surging with the potential energy of life ready to burst.  Michigan’s early crocus had already poked through the half frozen ground – yellows and purples -  colorful, small flowers in brilliant shades, each bloom emanating loudly that yes, they were the precursors to full blown spring.   Buds formed into plump, red nodes on the Maples lining the side of the path.   Geese clamored at each other from the adjacent wetland area.  Honk … honk … an unpleasant sound in comparison to the trumpet repetition of the Sandhill Cranes that also inhabited the marshy area.  Kar-r-r-roo, kar-r-r-roo … their purring karrrroo call reminded her of the rolling ‘r’ in the French language.  She had recently returned from France and her struggle to communicate using the correct intonations of the local language had been difficult … well, not difficult, unsuccessful would be a better descriptor.   Although home, state side … seeing the cranes brought back memories of France, each thought a wave, undulating through her mind, bringing forth a conscious reflection of the French countryside.

From the thicket of the marsh, a crane duet reached a crescendo, seemingly begging her to delay her climb to the grave site and instead, walk closer to the water’s edge.  What matter the delay?  He was not there – and,  within her belief system, there was more probability that he could be honored by watching the birds; yes, more hope in that act than paying homage to a mound of dirt.   And … it did not matter where she was, location was only geography … the hurt traveled with her. 

Several cranes flew overhead but it was the continued harmonizing sounds from the brush that caused her to change direction.   After a few moments of concentrated study, she spotted the couple; their earthy tint was a perfect camouflage allowing them to hide from her in the wild fountain grass and dried cattails.  No green on the marsh as yet ... most plant life was still dormant.   How could she have missed them?   She marveled at their magnificent prehistoric size.

 There were only two birds; a lot of melody for only two, she thought.  Unlike most birds in which the male was easy to spot because his color shouted – yes, I am the male; both of these Sandhills were similar in markings, other than size, she could not tell them apart – a blend of grays and brown.  After stepping closer to get a better look, she decided that the female must be the smaller crane.  Small was an understatement though, each bird was over four feet tall and both had a brilliant rusty, red forehead.  Really, you guys are quite flamboyant.  

Taking the apartment last year in France, had kept her from enjoying Michigan’s spring.  Living abroad had carried the hope to write herself into a place where she could emotionally live and forget.  That intent had been as unsuccessful as her endeavor to master the rolling ‘r’ sound of the French tongue.  

With each step into the marsh, she broke through the thin, brittle layer of ice still clinging to the edges of the swamp until; finally, she stopped unable to go any further without soaking her hiking boots. 

 In the center of the water, a group of tall trees protruded from an insignificant clump of land.  This region was a protected nesting area for the Sandhills under the jurisdiction of the metro-park authority.  With the branches still naked, only the buds made the promise of forthcoming leaves, the unusually large crane nests were exposed.   In the topmost branches, she counted ten ... there were ten nests.   

“Wow,” she whispered. 

At that moment, a crane flew toward the treetop breeding area.  The head of the bird and its long neck were tucked into the sizeable body as it flew while the legs dragged horizontally behind.   Large wings (over six feet expanse) carried all of the weight gracefully to a stop.  Whoosh … whoosh …  it momentarily hovered before straightening its long, black legs to a vertical position to land on a limb, which, from where she stood, appeared too fragile to hold the splendid bird. 

These large winged species brought to mind the enormous Storks of France, also a symbol of spring.  While wandering medieval cities, she had often spotted an oversized nest high in the ramparts. Those nests had not seemed out of place on a castle wall; different here in Michigan where history was not a constant reminder.   From the window in her apartment in Colmar, a city in the Alsace region, she had been privy to a direct view of a stork nest located on the top of a medieval church.  The narrow street between her apartment and the rooftop made it possible for a very close observation of the mother feeding her young. 

Out in the marsh, she again caught sight of the singing couple; they had moved quite a distance away from her.  A Sandhill Crane could be nature’s pallet for the blends and hues of khaki and gray.  Subtle shades, with the bright red forehead, white cheeks and a long dark beak.  The birds walked through the brush slowly; carefully lifting each foot, knee joint bending back like a human elbow and then extending the three pronged foot forward.  The female stayed a short distance behind the male, both easily maneuvering through the dry stalks surrounded by mini patches of snow.  They would stop often, no hurry to their stroll, often the kar…rr...oo communication would take place:  kar...rroo – the male once; the female answered – kar...rroo, kar...rroo.  She knew the birds mated for life and both parents attended the young colt (the newborn bird) for several months.  That had been her intent too … to mate for life.

She continued walking around the marsh edge while keeping the cranes in sight.  The ground was still frozen below the surface, a bit spongy for about an inch but then firm.  Within a couple of weeks the edge of the bog would turn into a muddy mess.   Spring would open to summer– that was a constant – after winter there was always spring.  The birds were another of nature’s invariables –– each year the birds returned.   That too was geography.

Forgiven. Not Forgotten (the Corrs)

Thank you to my faithful readers.  I am currently involved in a personal matter that is particularily draining, along with the Physics class (still have the A after test on Thursday - instructor posted online today), and I was inspired two weeks ago to begin a novel ... thus my lack of entries.

I will post an excerpt to the novel soon.  What I would like is for readers to forgive my inability to post at the present time, and to not  forget me (this blogger will post again).

"They Tell Me there is More to Life than just what I can See" ("Believe" Brooks and Dunn)

Thank you for your patience.  Physics has taken over my life : )  I will post a new blog soon.  By the way, I have an A in the class at the half way point.  Next exam is Thursday, March 21. 

For those of you who are acquainted with me;  I  have learned the importance of neatness.  (I used to like to write figures - computations -  all over a page with no visible pattern.)  I had no problem writing numbers in a circle or listing them on opposite corners of a page to the annoyance of my math friends.  There is hope; I have discovered the significance of neat columns.  Answers to complicated formula get screwed up with my old artistic method. And, my professor refuses to grade a paper that is not orderly and completed in proper form.  I like this.  In the past, I am sorry to admit, I argued my need for personal expression when defending my sloppy, numerical notes.  I concede.

“You Can Tune a Piano but you can’t Tuna Fish” (REO Speedwagon 1978)

Several years ago, I purchased a violin with the intent to learn how to play.  I liked the portability of the instrument.  My reasoning at the time was that there was no excuse not to practice; I could take it anywhere.   I am a fan of the Irish pop group The Corrs (Forgiven not Forgotten) and also love listening to classical violin performed by Hilary Hahn (Barber & Meyer Violin Concertos).  When the violin is in the hands of a master, there is an incredible range of tones that sympathetically vibrate to each other, producing resonances that always evoke an internal response from me.  My inner core loves music – I can burst in to song in reaction to what someone says or when experiencing an event; the song just pops out of my mouth and is not always appreciated by the unlucky person next to me.  (I have been told that maybe my voice would sound better in a choir.)  As for the violin, I love the feelings of happiness and sadness that can be produced from what I considering a very sexy looking instrument.

As for my violin playing, I found a teacher and was prepared to learn.  After one particularly discouraging lesson, I walked into the main studio area located off the hall where the small lesson rooms were.  There was a man and a young girl (perhaps 6 years old) seated on the couch waiting for her lesson to begin.  She was holding her violin case in her lap, her hands clasped the handle and she had that eager look of youth – all hope and bright prospect.  Knowing that they probably heard my excruciating performance and expected a four year old to walk out of the lesson room, I could not resist saying, “If you practice hard, you too will be able to play like me.”  The little girl’s eyes opened wide (perhaps in fear) but her father laughed.  His booming guffaw eased my disappointment at how lousy I was.  At least I could make someone laugh at the humor of the situation - a 50 year old woman trying to play “Lightly Row” and not doing very well at the task.   

What does this remembrance have to do with physics (the topic that I am using as my writing prompt)? 

This past week, I took exam number two in the introductory physics course I am taking; part of the content covered was a brief overview on simple harmonic motion relating to the swing of a pendulum and the oscillation of a spring.  (I put a lot of work into plotting mass against time and mathematical predictions of potential energy and kinetic (motion) energy).   In the lab and with my home experimenting, I could not help but understand that the curve on a graph of the vibration, created by the oscillations, repeats itself regularly and, if there are no frictional forces, the movement would go on indefinitely.   I find these formulae and patterns to be amazing and, hopeful, because in physics there is also restoration.   Gravity is the restoring force for the pendulum – pull it to one side and gravity pulls it back to the center.  Or in the case of a mass attached to a spring (for example, a block of wood),  it is the elastic motion of the spring that moves the wood and once the movement is slowed to a stop, I can pull back on the spring to restore the potential energy. 

This week I read that on a piano (specifically in western music) songs created are based on twelve tones – only twelve arranged in different patterns give rise to the repertoire of songs I like to belt out.  I can play the note ‘B’ (494 oscillations) and a ‘B flat’ (466) and nothing in-between.  I can’t produce a note that is say 475 oscillations; it is not possible on a piano.  (Roger S. Jones)   In contrast, I can play an infinite number of tones produced from the strings of a violin; although, in my case, the listener may want to cover their ears while I am undertaking the job.  

For me, I see a similarity in life, I need restoration and I like knowing that in the natural world, as I learned in physics this week, there is continuity, a pattern, and restoring forces … in one sense, an ability to be tuned.  Writing this blog is my attempt to rewind myself, to tweak my writing with the hope that I can offer something helpful to those I interact with.  I know that even if a piano is tuned perfectly the twelve tones can be combined to produce sounds painful to hear – that is not my goal.  As for the fish (in my title), to my way of thinking, I agree.  A fish does not have to be tuned; if life didn’t interrupt, it would keep on swimming.   But, then … there is always the possibility of that darn old worm dangling at the end of a lure camouflaging the nasty hook.   

*Jones, Roger S.  Physics for the Rest of Us.  New York: Fall River Press, 2011 edition.

“Butterflies Are Free to Fly” (Elton John)



This guy is not free to fly.

The chaos theory is a field of study in mathematics that has applications to physics (and several other disciplines).  I used the metaphor of the the butterfly effect, which is based on the chaos theory, in the prelude of Heart Root. A brief and inadequate synopsis of the theory is that small differences in initial conditions yield widely diverging outcomes for some dynamical systems (based on Newtonian mechanics).  An example would be a mathematical model describing the number of fish each spring in a lake.  Small changes in the conditions can cause deviations in the otherwise natural number of fish.  

What brought this to mind today is a butterfly seemingly peering out my kitchen window.  Keep in mind that I live in Michigan and the outside thermometer reads 28 degrees (F). The tiny insect perched on the window sash is perhaps instinctively longing for the warmth of light.  So am I - but there is no sunshine today.  As you can see in my terrible photograph, the deck railing is snow covered and the sky grey and bleak. 
I am not sure what natural system I disrupted by transporting this delicate Lepidoptera.  A possibility could be my recent purchase of  flowers, hoping the warmth of the orange color could help brighten my mood.  I also purchased a fragrant bouquet of fresh basil.  Perhaps the butterfly was nestled in the aromatic fumes of the fresh herbs, of course, with no knowledge that he was headed for demise. 

Measuring from the tip of the wing to the head (minus antennae), it is 2.5 centimeters.  The color is a green with yellow undertones and the entire wing and underbody are streaked with a thin mist (like overspray) of dark, ink color reminding of a minute piece of art detailed in pointillism. I encouraged the tiny visitor (or captive – not the same as guest) to open his wings.  Although fluttering wildly, I can see that the wings are white/yellow with distinct black circular markings, each wing identical and edged in black.  Using binoculars designed for insect study, I view that his body is covered in delicate, pale-yellow fuzz.   His head is more punk rock – a spiking of black and yellow covering from which two slender antenna extend.  His macro appearance reminds me of an Elton John costume from his flamboyant early concerts.  This butterfly is not free to fly –  fly away bye bye.  He is going to die.  But then, we are all dying – from our conception in the womb, there is that predetermined finality.

Recently, I have been reading work by Amit Goswami PhD (Quantum Physicist).  He states that our consciousness does matter in how we experience life.  Well, I am not sure if life is a projected hologram from my mind or not.  I can imagine that there is the possibility.  What I do know is this:  I believe in the chaos theory.  And, the butterfly in my kitchen will most certainly die soon...not because of me (I have no plans to speed up his last hours) but, because that is how life goes.  What has been disrupted by its capture...I’m not sure.



Excerpt from Prelude (Heart Root):  My mind’s eye works like a camera...through the lens I consider a tree falling in slow motion, the focus automatically sharpening on a nearby squirrel as it scurries away.  In the distance, a doe lifts her head twitching her ears forward as a fawn peers out from beneath her.  Audio wave lengths interact with my ear drum – a screeching crow takes flight at the tremor of cracking wood; the large bird powerfully moves its wings disturbing the air into a wind...whoosh...whoosh.  Canadian geese take off from an unfrozen pond creating ripples, tiny waves that slap the edge of the shoreline.  This energy gust creates a steam of air that picks up speed as it travels close to the ground, through a neighborhood, swirling under a poplar tree and continuing over frost covered blades of grass to the back door of a brick house causing the loose metal weather stripping to hum.

The Dog Ate My Homework

No dog ... so I can't use that excuse.  The lights went out?  No, that was the Super Bowl.  

In truth, life ... life "stuff” filled in all the empty space this past week.   Here is a fact I can share though:  Upon the completion of next week's blog entry, I will have taken my first physics exam.  Do I understand what I have learned; can I do the math?  I am looking forward to this assessment - I don't know what I don't know until I am put to the test.