France--and the cheerful, floaty state I was in when I went there--are now a few weeks in my past. We had a wonderful time there. I already knew that it's a remarkably hospitable country, but what I hadn't known was how much France loves young visitors. O got special treats and attention everywhere we went. All of this left him in a tricky position, in terms of self-presentation. He is currently trying very, very hard to be a hip, uncaring teenager (though he has a year to go)--but that's so hard to pull off when people are being very nice and attentive, and so quick to offer fun activities. It was fun to see the 11-year-old break through the carefully cultivated teen exterior, again and again: sliding full-tilt down the summer luge at Chamonix, feeding pet deer in Burgundy, playing with new friend B in Lyon, making like a gargoyle hunched on the rooftop of Notre Dame...

Today, in traumatized, post-election Seattle, I feel a world away, and struck by how softly sad everyone's eyes look. Perhaps it's a stage of grief that my liberal city must pass through. People look like the harbor seals I used to see when sailing in Prince William Sound years ago. There, each evening, we'd be followed into our chosen anchorage by a seal, quietly regarding us with eyes nearly brimming over with what seemed to be deeply felt sorrow. I'm seeing those eyes again today, on the bus, in the yoga studio, in the Grateful Bread cafe, where I stopped for tea and a muffin after class, then along my walking route to campus.

For myself, though, I've begun to feel better. For the past few days, I've been in and out of depression, having trouble concentrating and speaking, needing to sleep and lacking energy. Today, though, I've begun noticing the beauty in the world, in the same way one does when emerging from a bad illness. Just the smell of the coffee I made after waking up in early morning darkness! Then a yoga class filled with favorite poses! A warm carrot muffin! And, as if that weren't enough, a favorite walk across Ravenna park on its series of footbridges. All around me, sunlight shafting down through yellow and brown leaves, and my own feet making crisp swishing sounds through the fall leaves. Not all is right with the world just now, not by any means, but today I can see again how filled with beauty it is.

This week while the RNC convenes, I've established a personal news blockout. I check Google News or NPR for a few minutes once or twice a day to be sure I'm not missing something big, but otherwise, I leave the news alone.

Nevertheless, I'm getting a picture of a very doom-and-gloom convention, which led me to think of a new slogan for my own party:

"Don't be a scairdy-cat,
Vote Democrat,
The party that isn't terrified by the rest of the world!"

In contrast to the conventioneers, I'm in a cheerful, floaty state, filled with happy anticipation. The reason: I have airline tickets that will take me back to France, then on to England, first thing next Tuesday. The purpose for this trip is that I'll be presenting some research results at a conference in Brighton. Since nearly all of my travel to Europe will be paid for by the Grad School, I asked my sister-in-law J to join me for a few days in France, along with my youngest nephew, O. J agreed and O was delighted (it was his idea in the first place), so today, she's purchasing our railpass while I shop for a present for French friends of J's father, who have offered to host us for a weekend in Lyon. We'll also visit Chamonix and Paris, where O will have his 12th birthday!

I'm really glad to be getting back out into the world beyond the US. Going to Europe and Kyrgyzstan earlier this summer made me aware of how fearful life in the US has become. The constant terror alerts and warnings make a slow, steady drain on the spirit, and it sometimes seems to me that many people have become a bit depressed. Outside the US, I found, people continue to enjoy life--even though the last few days of news are a clear reminder that the US isn't the only nation targeted by terrorists. In fact, this US fearfulness predates 9/11. During a business trip to France in January 2000, I was struck by the contrast between the Y2K Bug fears that largely spoiled the turn of the Millenium in the US, and the way that France had taken the Millenium to be an excuse for a big party. For example, the breakfast room in our hotel was decked out with Millenium-themed party placemats and napkins, and best of all, each evening at sunset, the Eiffel Tower began to sparkle and shimmer with thousands of tiny white lights, specially for the occasion.

So laissez les bons temps rouler, and vive la France--we're off to join the global party!

I told a friend earlier this week that my life in the past few months--since I last wrote in this blog--has consisted of two states: (a) about 90% of the time, sitting in front of a computer, madly writing or analyzing data, with some deadline near at hand, and (b) about 10% of the time, wandering about overseas, often with a nice drink in my hand.

During the past 2 years, I've been working on three concurrent experiments, and all have been producing interesting results. So this has been the year to report those results: first at a conference in Baltimore in May, then in Sweden in June. Soon I travel again: to Brighton, England, and then to Minneapolis for the final conference of the season. I've also had the opportunity to travel to Kyrgyzstan to help with project fieldwork--what an amazing country it is, and how destroyed are my fearful stereotypes of Central Asia! And I participated in a wonderful workshop at the University of Twente in Enschede, the Netherlands.

As one travels in this electronically-linked world, these days, one leaves little cyberfootprints behind. Below is a link to a photo on the website of the Sweden conference (I'm the one in blue, expostulating to a Norwegian researcher)...

In my department, it's the season for preparing and submitting papers to conference organizers. If those papers are accepted, we'll present them at conferences later this year. I'm working collaboratively on two paper drafts this weekend, and last weekend, I worked with other authors on two paper proposals.

The drill is as follows: one member of a research group creates an initial draft, then emails it out for review and editing by other members. Someone else takes a crack at the draft, using Microsoft Word's Track Changes feature (which allows everyone to see just which changes were made and who made them). Meanwhile, someone else might go off on a literature review to find better support for some argument in the draft. The emails and drafts go back and forth, following us back and forth to home and office (since most of us work in both places at different times). After a few rounds of such editing, researching, and review, everyone's finally happy, and the paper or proposal is submitted to the conference organizers.

I love the process of writing collaboratively with others who are good at it, as my colleagues are. The document that finally emerges is better than any one of us could have produced alone. Not only is each weak point in each author's arguments and syntax identified; someone else offers up a better alternative. We all learn something in the process and the draft is strengthened.

Aristotle would be pleased. His view was that a group of people who put their heads together will arrive at thoughts that are wiser than even the wisest person could achieve alone. Here's how he put it in Book 3 of "Politics": “For it is possible that the many, though not individually good men, yet when they come together may be better, not individually but collectively, than those who are so, just as public dinners to which many contribute are better than those supplied at one man's cost; for where there are many, each individual, it may be argued, has some portion of virtue and wisdom… “

Globally, the most important issue right now may be the recent decision by the Iraqi Governing Council to base Iraqi family law on Islamic Shari'a law, rather than the previous secular family laws. Riverbend described the decision and its expected outcomes in her January 15 post. She noted that the issue has received strikingly little attention in the media, and I've noticed the same thing (what a contrast to the extensive coverage of the few women who dared to remove their burkas in Afghanistan!). I'll send an email out later today to alert friends to this issue--it needs more attention.

In my own individual mind, another issue demands attention: a pile of upcoming course assignments and conference paper drafts need to be completed. Most interesting is a paper I need to write for a class in "Public Opinion and Communication." In this paper, I need to initially define a topic for my final paper.

During the past few years, my particular interest area has been usability engineering--designing things, especially computer interfaces and websites, to be easy for people to figure out and to use. Over the past year or so, in response to coursework I've completed, that interest area has broadened to include cross-cultural issues in usability. E.g., if an interface is easy for me as a Westerner to use, will it also be easy for an African or an Asian, or do they face difficulties (e.g., unfamiliar design metaphors) that I don't? Are there ways to design interfaces to work well for global audiences, or is localization--tailoring versions of the same interface to different cultural settings--the only solution, if achieving usable design is important to its designers?

Lately, that interest area has expanded again, mainly because of the communication patterns I observe online, especially in the blogosphere. I'm beginning to wonder how people's images of each other change when they are able to communicate face to face. For one thing, I'm of course thinking of the remarkable experience that millions of other Americans and I had last year, reading Salam Pax's blog posts from Baghdad as our government prepared and conducted an invasion of his country. The experience makes me wonder: If someone had started out with an image of Iraqis as the "enemy," how might reading Salam's blog have changed that perception? Would it have? For another thing, I've been astounded by the ferocity of comments I see in many blogs, especially in response to blog authors' comments about controversial issues such as America's war on Iraq. When interchange between people on opposite sides of an issue is vitriolic in the ways typically seen online, how are readers affected? In particular, how do their images of the commentor's cultural group change (or do they)? Do preexisting feelings of hostility worsen?

The topic I'm thinking of researching for my class remains squishy and nebulous in my mind right now, but at this point, I frame it like this: As an Internet user encounters online information--especially first-person material like blogs--about members of another cultural group, how do those encounters affect her image of that cultural group? In particular, if she previously held an "enemy image" of that cultural group, how is that image affected?

It's these questions that I'll likely address in my paper, but I'm also interested in possible design implications of what I might find. Can (does?) design influence communication in ways that affect communicators' images of each other? I have a meeting scheduled with my professor later this morning, to discuss my paper proposal and possibly clarify some of the issues that are currently all muddled together in my mind. Let's see where this project goes...

Two particular inspirations led me--a confirmed blogosphere lurker--to begin this blog late last month. First, I was inspired by Rebecca Blood's essay, Weblogs, A History and Perspective. In her essay, Blood describes how, by writing in her blog, she "discovered her own interests," learning that they were different from the interests she'd thought were most important to her. She asserts that bloggers can become more confident, adventurous writers and, over time, can increase their trust in their own perspectives. What appealing possibilities! Who could resist?

Second, my near-daily forays into the blogosphere have reminded me of nothing more than a description in Rudyard Kipling's "Kim" of India's Great Trunk Road. The Road is a long-distance route traveled, in Kipling's time, by as wide a diversity of humanity as you could find anywhere, from royalty to peasants--everyone interacting and traveling in each other's company in the same general direction. When I first read Kim, it was easy to imagine entering into the great human river--how much fun it would be to set out towards the horizon along that road. Joining the blogging community doesn't seem so completely different, in principle...

And why did I call this blog "Beginner's Mind"? First, because that Zen idea of the beginner, who maintains an openness to other perspectives and experiences, is one I'm trying to cultivate in myself. Second, because in midlife and mid-career, I have deliberately become a beginner. During the last year and a half, I have left a stable and secure career to return to graduate school, sold a house and nearly all my possessions, and ended my membership in a liberal Protestant congregation in order to explore other spiritual paths, especially the contemplative traditions of the East. Let's see how it all turns out.

During discussions of current U.S. military efforts in Iraq, there's a fair amount of "we"ing going on, enough so that a visitor from another planet would naturally conclude that the peace in that country, such as it is, is being kept mainly by middle-aged, male media commentators rather than the professional military.

One of the newest actual members of America's fighting forces, my nephew K, arrived home from the Navy's recruit training center on Wednesday. He was just a few days late to celebrate his 19th birthday (he's now only 2 years too young to drink legally in our state). He's enjoying two weeks of leave before he reports to the warship to which he's been assigned. He was met by his tired father at the airport very late at night, after a series of flight delays caused by a snowstorm. The next morning, K slept in, even though his body clock must still have been set to an earlier time zone. When he finally arose on his first post-boot camp morning at home, he reverted instantly to his normal routines, according to his mother, J. First, he shuffled out to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. A little later, he was observed in his pajamas, eating his cereal and watching the History Channel--a standard pre-boot camp morning routine.

The one break from pre-existing habits is that--because the contents of his sea bag are strewn across his own bed--he is currently bunking with his younger brother, O. During a field trip to Yellowstone last year, O learned about wolves and grizzlies and was introduced to the concept of the alpha male. He decided that he would like to be one, at least in his own bedroom. So he has made K take the top bunk. Part of his reasoning, he explained to J, is that he's helping K adapt in advance to shipboard life. K is an indulgent and kindly big brother, so he is allowing himself to be helped without fussing or grumbling, according to J.

It seems absolutely astounding to me that K is now in the military. It was only the other day that I was giving him piggy-back rides, showing him how to cut out paper snowflakes, and, during his dinosaur phase, convincing him that he'd just missed seeing a stegasaurus in the woods behind his grandparents' barn. His eyes would grow wide, and he'd rush to the window, but suspicion would begin to set in: "Aunt Mary, you're telling a whopper!" he would eventually exclaim.

Now it's I who feels very much as though I'm being told some sort of whopper. How can it be that this boy is now in the military?

In at least some respects, we Americans need to get over ourselves. This morning, listening to NPR, I hear three related stories:

Bechtel has been awarded yet another contract to rebuild Iraq. What has been remarkably absent from the news, all along, is any indication that rebuilding contracts are being offered or given to Iraqi firms. Why are no reporters asking about this? Does it seem so unnatural to us that people other than Americans could be capable of rebuilding their own country? Iraq is an ancient center of learning, science, and technology (Herodotus colorfully describes the remarkable feats of the engineering queens, Semiramis and Nitocris, of ancient Babylon). And Iraqi bloggers are educating us that modern Iraq remains full of skilled professionals and technicians (see especially Riverbend's August 28, 2003 post). Surely they understand their country's needs and preferences much better than we do. What an insult to leave them out of the process, if that's what we're doing! We may be missing an important opportunity to make friends in Iraq.

International travelers report that they are offended, as I would be, by the new US program to fingerprint and photograph them on arrival in this country. Many express hopes that their governments will implement programs to fingerprint Americans who travel to their countries. A Mexican woman reports that she has chosen to pay extra to travel to Paris, rather than to stop over in the US: "Let them stay in their gold cage," she exclaims, "the rest of us will travel freely." I have been hospitably welcomed in many countries, and I'm saddened that people coming to my country will not be treated as well. I also suspect that this program is an overreaction to potential risks. We would be safer in the long run by cultivating our alliances with countries willing to support us, and by taking greater care to avoid measures that will be seen as demeaning to their citizens. We will make ourselves much less safe if we garner a reputation as a country that continually overreacts, cries wolf, and insists on going it alone.

Yet again in the news is yet another design decision about the 9/11 memorial in NYC. I've come to feel impatient whenever I hear or see yet another news item about this memorial. Everyone who has suffered a significant personal loss knows that eventually, it's necessary and healthy to let go. Our focus on this project, viewed against the many times we've ignored greater tragedies elsewhere, must be seen by others as yet more evidence that we Americans view American lives as more important than our own.

As a country, we sometimes look too much inward and not enough outward.

A winter storm arrived in Seattle early this morning, and it's expected to deposit more snow than we've seen for many years. When I awoke at 6 am, I saw only a light dusting, but by 7 am, about an inch had accumulated and the snow had begun to fall faster. I listened hopefully to the radio to find out whether the University would be closed today, but it has stalwartly insisted on remaining open. So I dressed in my warmest winter gear, wrapped my laptop carefully in a plastic bookbag, and tromped down to the bus stop.

By the time the bus dropped me at the bottom of the hill below campus, there were about three inches of snow on the ground, with more still falling fast, and the line of students working their way up the steep hill to campus reminded me of old photos of the Klondike gold rush.

Because I grew up in Alaska, today's snowy commute reminded me of my experiences making my way first to school in Anchorage and later to college in Fairbanks. My brothers and I used to walk to elementary school together, making our way through the neighborhood and along a trail up over a wooded ridge, then down the other side and through another neighborhood to our school. Mom and Dad had trained us in what to do if we encountered a moose--above all, avoid getting too close--so we kept a sharp eye out.

Later, I took a bus to high school from our new house up on the wooded foothill above Anchorage. I had to walk a half mile or so to the bus stop, still watching for moose. By then, I'd adopted the standard Anchorage teenager's dress code. On the coldest mornings, Mom would entreat me to dress more warmly: she hoped that I'd at least wear tights under my miniskirt ("You could take them off at school and leave them in your locker, dear..."). That idea was utterly horrifying to me, so, each day, I crunched along the snowy trail to the bus stop in my own choice of dress: usually street shoes, nylon stockings, and a miniskirt, topped by a down parka. At the bus stop, I waited alone in the early morning darkness, listening to the squeaky tread of moose grazing in the willow thicket behind me.

At the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, in Alaska's cold interior, far from the moderating influence of Cook Inlet, I encountered temperatures as low as -60 and -70 degrees F. Fortunately, the college student's dress code didn't include miniskirts: both women and men wore jeans, wool shirts or sweaters, and leather, rubber-bottomed boots. We could be told apart because men wore beards.

At UAF, I lived in a dorm on a hill above the main campus, and walked or skied to my classes and labs. As a biology student, I usually attended labs in a cluster of big institute buildings located about a mile from the main campus, because that's where the nearest sizable patch of permafrost-free ground exists. In midwinter, I arrived to classes and labs about 10 minutes early on winter days to leave myself enough time to lean my skiis on the back wall and to take off the three or four layers of winter clothing I'd needed to avoid frostbite. Eventually, spring would come, and the sun on the trunks of the alders along my route would strengthen enough to start the sap running again. The smell of that sap, after months of winter, was enough to make a person drunk...

While my Alaskan experiences may sound rugged (unless you're from Montana or Siberia), life is more rugged elsewhere. Inside the student union, I overheard a conversation between a new student from the Phillipines and one of her professors. She had called home the previous night to tell her family that a storm was on its way. She explained to the professor that to the people of the Phillipines, a storm is a fearsome event: elemental, powerful, and destructive. She had expected something along the same lines, and now was feeling greatly relieved to see nothing more frightening than a peaceful snowfall.

I've seen more movies this week than I do in most months, and am just now back from seeing "The Return of the King."

So many main elements of the LOTR story are reminiscent of Western cultural icons that I found myself picking them out as though playing a sort of matching game. Sauron and Mordor look a lot like Satan and Hell, for example. And the uneasy alliance between Gondor and Rohan, pluckily preparing to repel the onslaught of Sauron's vast forces, remind us of Herodotus' description of Athens and Sparta facing the Persian advance.

Another familiar element in the third movie of the series was the series of mountaintop beacon fires alerting Rohan of Gondor's peril. If you've read Aeschylus' Oresteia, then you know that those fires were Queen Clytemnestra's idea. She arranged to have them set to bring the news of the end of the Trojan War back to Mycenae. And she was delighted when those beacons functioned flawlessly:

"From Troy
to the bare rock of Lemnos, Hermes' Spur,
and the Escort winged the great light west
to the Saving Father's face, Mount Athos hurled it
third in the chain and leaping Ocean's back
the blaze went dancing on to ecstasy--pitch-pine
streaming gold like a new-born sun--and brought
the word in flame to Mount Makistos' brow.
No time to waste, straining, fighting sleep,
that lookout heaved a torch glowing over
the murderous straits of Euripos to reach
Messapion's watchmen craning for the signal.
Fire for word of fire! tense with the heather
withered gray, they stack it, set it ablaze--
the hot force of the beacon never flags,
it springs the Plain of Asopos, rears
like a harvest moon to hit Kithairon's crest
and drives new men to drive the fire on...
and the light inflames the marsh, the Gorgon's Eye,
it strikes the peak where the wild goats range--
my laws, my fire whips that camp!
They spare nothing, eager to build its heat,
and a huge beard of flame overcomes the headland
beetling down on the Saronic Gulf, and flaring south
it brings the dawn to the Black Widow's face..."
(Robert Fagles' translation)

In Aeschylus' play, those beacons symbolize the doom bearing down on the unhappy House of Atreus: Clytemnestra will soon slay her husband Agamemnon, in retribution for his sacrifice of their daughter, Ipigenia. She will then be slain by their son Orestes. In LOTR, in contrast, the beacon fires represent Gondor's only hope for survival.

Here in Seattle, we're on multiple alerts: waiting for both snow and terrorists tonight. Let's see which arrives first, or if either arrive, or neither.

My nephew K, a new Navy recruit, is an astute student of history. When he went on a road trip with friends last summer, he brought along a copy of Herodotus that I'd given him for his birthday. My guess is that he's already mused about the similarities and differences between ancient and modern warfare.

Some things stay the same. Like an Athenian youth off to confront the Persian forces, K leaves behind a young woman who would rather he stayed--in his case, his girlfriend, A. She is stoutly anti-war, and although they'd been together for a couple of years, I thought his enlistment might put a swift end to their relationship. But it hasn't done so, and she traveled halfway across the country to attend his boot camp graduation ceremony earlier this month. I'm crossing my fingers that she'll stick with her young man, because she's a true "catch": beautiful, talented, and socially graceful well beyond her 18 years.

And some things change. K returns for a few days of leave next week, just missing Christmas and his birthday, which falls on New Year's Day. This afternoon, his mother J and I contemplated what he might want for presents. We know that anything we give him must be small and portable. After some discussion, we arrived at two possibilities: either a gift card for the local outdoor gear store or DVDs for his newly-purchased portable DVD player. I had thought of a phone card, but he's already gotten himself a cell phone.

Of course, the Athenians had no Gore-tex, couldn't call home, and couldn't watch the latest LOTR while rowing their triremes...though they won their war, against all the odds.

During Christmastime 1980, my brother R, his wife J, some friends, and I traveled down Baja California and back. We traveled rough and cheap in a tiny car we rented in Tijuana. Each evening, having neither the money nor the inclination for hotels, we took our sleeping bags and dispersed out into the desert for the night. One evening, a pair of young and curious coyotes cautiously nuzzled my face; another night, pigs from a nearby farm surrounded me. Each morning, we woke, cooked up coffee and breakfast, and continued our rambles. We hiked through amazing Dr. Seuss forests and up in the high country, watched for birds, whales, and dolphins along the beaches, and stocked up on supplies in the little towns along our route. We spent Christmas Day body-surfing near Cabo San Lucas.

At some point--I think it may have been during a night spent camping and drinking rum on the sandy beach below a volcano--we developed a plan to pool our money and buy a live-aboard sailboat. We would sail around the world, choosing an itinerary that best pleased us, and staying however long we liked when we happened upon a congenial port or island. We would keep our expenses down by fishing, and perhaps we would work from time to time--say, while waiting out hurricane seasons. It seemed a solid plan--we even gave careful thought to the boat's dimensions and layout.

We'd long ago forgotten that plan. But tonight, I stopped by R and J's house to drop off a present for my nephew O, arriving in time to join them in watching a rented DVD of "Pirates of the Caribbean." We watched salt spray fly, swells roll, palm fronds rustle in the wind, and hulls slice through the water. By the end of the movie, I had remembered our old plan.

Hey, I said--remember when we were going to buy that sailboat? R and J did remember. Well, it wouldn't be too late to do that, I pointed out. O agreed to be cabin boy. It seemed a solid and agreeable plan to him. I remembered that our cousin C had sailed with her father to Cuba and back, not so long ago.

Of course, the difference between then and now is that then, we were more than half convinced that we would really buy that boat...

Bring on the cookies...

In the U.S. during the Cold War, we knew--without anyone having to tell us--not to say in public that there could possibly be any positive aspects to Communism. In the current political climate, we now know that we'd darn well better "support the troops," or risk shunning. As someone who spoke out against the invasion of Iraq, I can see that my support for the troops is under question in many quarters.

But the concept itself is troublingly squishy: just what does it mean to support the troops? The natural association between supporting someone and condoning their actions creates difficulties for me. On the philosophical level, I've gotten only this far, so far: I support US military personnel in the same way that I support all fellow beings who are in danger or suffering in some way. I empathize with them and wish for them to be safe and well. I also feel a particular debt of gratitude to U.S. military personnel, who--I'm willing to believe--have chosen to put their lives at risk because they have judged doing so to be a way to protect others or end injustice. While I can wholeheartedly support the troops in this way, I can't agree to condone whatever the US military might do or has done. My Lai comes too immediately to mind.

And then there's the personal level, and the issue of supporting one particular troop, my nephew K. Now I'm coming to see that the "support the troops" concept is difficult not only on a philosophical level but on a logistical level as well.

K recently graduated from Navy boot camp and has just started an intermediate training session. He'll then come home for a brief period of leave, and then will be assigned to a Navy warship. That ship is at its home port now, but the rumor is that it may leave for a different port a few days before K is to join it.

K's mailing address changes with each move, and his mom, J, faithfully updates us with each new address. Yesterday, he reported a new mailing address, good for about the next 2 weeks. I'd already mailed off a Christmas card to his old boot camp address. Although I hope that card will be forwarded by Christmas, we're hearing that mail sent to the boot camp address has been taking a long time to get to K (because of security precautions, I suppose). So I'm only guardedly optimistic.

Meanwhile, K's birthday is January 1, so now it's time to send a birthday card to the current address, hoping that the card will reach K before he moves on again. I'll need to wait to hear what the next address will be before I can send anything else.

And J has alerted us to one more development: K is now authorized to receive care packages (he could receive only cards and letters while in boot camp). He's also reported that he's lost weight. K's grandmother's response: Bring on the chocolate chip cookies! Mom will bake a batch tomorrow to mail off on Monday morning, hoping they'll reach K by his birthday.

I hope the cookies, cards, and K will meet up at the appropriate times and places, but I'm starting to imagine that as K travels about the world, a cloud of letters, cards, and packages will be following along behind him, never quite catching up before he moves off again.

How owning a cell phone can improve your skiing opportunities:

Yesterday afternoon, I made a date to go cross-country skiing with my brother R. That evening, I went off to a meeting, leaving my cell phone--my only phone--in my office. Meanwhile, R was offered the chance to work an overtime shift at his fire station, and took it. He left two phone messages to tell me he couldn't go skiing after all, and his wife J tried again this morning. Knowing nothing of that, I came home from my meeting, set the alarm for early-morning wakeup, pulled out my topo map for our intended destination, Mt. Amabilis, and packed a trail lunch. This morning, I pulled into R and J's driveway just as J was pulling out, on her way to take my nephew O to school. R was already gone. She explained.

Had I gotten R's message, I doubtless would have switched off the alarm, slept in, and spent the day on chores and holiday shopping. Instead, I pointed my car towards the Cascades and headed off to the nordic trail system at Snoqualmie Pass. An hour later, I took a seat on the chairlift and headed up to the upper trail system. And what a lovely day I had! The snow was fluffy and freshly groomed. Over the course of the day, a new North Pacific front slowly chased out a high-pressure system, sending shafts of sunlight and dark, scudding clouds playing back and forth across the landscape. One moment, a ridgeline was outlined as a bright arc of sunlight; the next moment, it darkened just as a different peak ignited into light.

Avalanche hazard had blocked off the long trail around Mt. Catherine--my usual choice--so I contented myself for much of the day with a series of small loop trails, alternately circling up and then down a series of small hills.

Climbing up, then sliding down, over and over...the action reminded me of a long-ago day during a sailing trip in Prince William Sound. Dad and I sat on an rock outcrop above a channel that connects a small bay to the Sound proper. A tide rip was running strongly down the channel, and a sea otter was playing in it. Over and over, the otter slid down the channel, propelled by the current, then swam back up and slid down again.

So I spent much of the day like a sea otter in snow. Later, when I stopped in the bottom of a quiet canyon to eat my sandwich, alert grey jays soon congregated. I held up small crumbs to them. One by one, the jays fluttered bravely down onto my upheld palm to take them.

Driving back, I found myself heading into darker and darker weather, and raindrops began to spatter on my windshield when I reached the outskirts of Seattle. I didn't stop by the office to pick up my phone.