Clock Chain

My wristwatch is half a handcuff and constant reminder that I am actually, physically tied to the clock.

Constantly concerned about punctuality, I believe I might explode without it. When classmates are late for class, I disapprovingly glance at it. When I almost always arrive at an engagement before the arranged time, I smugly nod to it for its time-keeping abilities. Or on the off chance I'm running late, I shake it to will it to slow down.

Regardless of the faces I give to my watch, it reminds me I am always in time, if not on time. Not in the musical sense of in time, even though the second hand is kind of like a metronome for our lives. The minute and even hour hands could be metronomes. Would beats of minutes or hours composed of minutes be a more suitable backdrop for life's rhythms?

These created units reflect on the existing time Creation keeps without and independent of us. A moonrise's quiet and overlooked beauty reminds me of this.

Breezy Hair

Aging is cruel. I write this at the tender graying age of 24.

In my first year of university, when I was 18, I began finding my first gray hairs on my head, mixed in with all my other hairs. That collection of wiry hair has since had babies and lots of them. I used to extract them, but like Samantha on Sex and the City said, "There'll be six more coming to its funeral."

So I left them there to texturize and add colour to my naturally dark brown hair, a gift from my mother's Scottish roots and my father's Irish ancestory.

Like Samantha, I was shocked and rather appalled when another hair covered region south of my equator started sprouting grays. What to do? Manually brush them? Selectively thin? Apply hairicides? Dye it?

I laughed uncontrollably. I was trying to solve this question using what I knew about invasive species in commercial plantations. As a bush (read: forest) bunny, I am well versed in both the theory and practice of silviculture and sought to tackle my own invasive species in my bush accordingly.

In what would be in violation on any provincial forestry act, I decided to leave them. Not embrace them, but let them be.

Samantha taught me that chemical colouring should not be applied unless the desired outcome is a caution-road-works-sign orange box.

Responsible Weather

Do you ever feel singularly responsible for the weather? Eying your bathing suit creates a freak May snowstorm? Grabbing your sun glasses before dashing out the door causes non-existent clouds to appear over the orb? Or donning some sunscreen to pro-actively prevent premature wrinkles causes it to rain as I damply discovered today.

I am very sun conscious. Not just in the obvious season of summer when the sun's rays assault the northern hemisphere with greater intensity but also in winter when the snow acts like a zillion focusing mirrors on your face.

I spend a minimum of 30 minutes outside every weekday walking to and from school. It is recommended that sunscreen be worn if you intend on staying out-of-doors greater than 20 minutes. This morning, the sun was shining, the snow was reflecting, I was slapping on some sunscreen.

I am convinced my preventative actions made it rain. There is no other explanation for the rain other than that I put on sunscreen and the sky was giggling at me for doing so.

Field Communion

Four friends and I attempted to view the Leonoid meteor shower on Wednesday, Nov. 18. The sky was overcast as we were tetris-ing into our vehicle after midnight, but we were optimistic college students.

Armed with no defined destination other than outside the city, we headed east out of Edmonton, ending up in pock marked field south of Androssan.

The sky was still overcast with nary a star or meteor to be seen. No mater, we decided. We had three bottles of wine, an unidentified flask, chips and blankets.

Instead of pondering the wonders of the universe through meteors, we communed with one another. Actually talked and shared. For those four hours, five people conversed with one another, the field we lay in and the overcast sky that covered us. With so many disposable relationships surrounding us, it was refreshing to restore my eternal relationship with the Church of the Long Grass.

Walk-on Fins

The end of my formal - for now - academic career is in sight. This time next month, all my papers will be passed in and all my final exams will be written.

I bought my ticket to Florida last weekend. That means may trip is actually for real. I spend 10 days in Florida before flying to Bimini Island, my home for three months.

Thanks to previous international travels, I don't need to buy a whole lot of new swag. Thanks to the miracle of online shopping, I have some new bomb-proof Teva sandals and a new pair of Merrel "multis". Multis are shoes that do multiple things for you. Dance on tables, wade waist deep through a raging river, trek into British Columbia's alpine, go to interviews.

All I am lacking is a wetsuit, fins, mask and snorkel set and a waterproof flashlight. I'll buy those in Florida. Shockingly, Edmonton's selection in the winter is rather limited and unnecessarily expensive.

I'm very curious how I'm going to fit fins into my bag. I might be wearing them on the plane. Yes, wearing.

Until then, I am wearing a toque. In Canada. Brrrr.

Premiere

I am not a blogging virgin. When the urge strikes me, I write for The King's Green Pad too.

I set this blog up in preparation for an impending trip to the Bahamas in January of 2010 when I will be immersed in sun, sand and sharks at the Bimini Biological Field Station. Check them out.

Note the happy, bathing suit clad volunteers! That will be yours truly in less than two months.