Mon, 6 Apr 2026, 06:23 PM (-06:00)
There are lizards here.
There’s a brown Anole who by virtue of the brown must have been scurrying through the leafy underbrush. They are usually bright green like the one who was inspecting Trudy’s shoulder yesterday, having descended from the canopy to cast a dubious glance her way. But this one is brown almost orange. There’s also a juvenile Spiny Lizard walking among the sticks on the ground — we have many sticks. We have many Spiny Lizards.
And although I haven’t seen them today, I know the salamanders are here. Because I see them slithering like snakes in crevices and leafy places when you least expect them. Like right over there by that limstone wall, right over there where the leaves are gathered. They must be somewhere in there, don’t you think?
Tue, 31 Mar 2026, 04:23 PM (-06:00)
“How do we do this one?” she shouted in exasperation from the middle of the room.
“Which one?” he asked without looking up as he finished scribbling some notes.
They were studying for a test. “The hardest one of the year,” he had warned them. This group was working hard (in contrast to the table in the corner).
“Problem 3,” she said as he walked up.
“Ok, watch,” he said. He went to the board where he had discussed that problem minutes earlier with a different group.
“We have a hole at x=3, right?”
“Right…” she said tentatively.
He reached up and erased some of the previous work and began explaining the function that remained.
“If you…”
“Wait wait wait,” she shouted. “I got it!”
And she turned and started explaining it to the others at her table.
That qualifies as a good day.
Wed, 25 Mar 2026, 09:22 AM (-06:00)
We went to Boston last week. Finally.
Two and a half months after that riotous day (January 6). The day when Lila arrived. A day we frankly had thought would never come. For two and a half months we watched the grandparents chat as the pictures and stories of other visits notified us of our absence 24 hours a day.
For two and a half months we sat helplessly halfway across the country watching her grow up before we could even get there. But last week, we finally got there.
We took most of the day shifts, giving Ben and Sam some down time, some nap time, some time to hang out in a way they won’t be hanging out for the next … say … 18 years (although let’s not tell them that … oops).
Oh, we suffered while we were there.
Rocking, Feeding, Cuddling. Helping with baths. Holding Lila on our shoulders where her hot little head would nestle contentedly against our necks. Or nestle perfectly into our elbows where she would fall asleep (as long as we were standing or maybe sliding in the magical rocking chair in the back room). As she began making real eye contact. Began babbling. Began smiling with sparkling eyes.
Oh, we suffered so.
Tue, 10 Mar 2026, 09:22 AM (-06:00)
I could talk to Carl about theoretical things. He would patiently listen as I went on about monoids and their relationship to simple iteration problems, standing with a smile on his face, nodding supportively as I waved my hands and got all excited at the whiteboard that was (conventiently?) hidden from the rest of the software team.
And we would talk about physics, which he studied in school and evidently missed.
One day I mumbled something under my breath about dark matter — how I thought it was a bit hokey. How in my (amateur!) opinion the term was not so much a theory of the universe as it exists but rather elegant hand-waving to explain something that no one knows quite how to explain. Like, oh … say … epicycles. Carl smiled and nodded politely, betraying no opinion on the matter one way or the other.
…
So today I’m reading this article interpreting Kuhn’s revolutions and paradigm shifts as applied to dark matter. And feast your eyes on this:
This is not a recipe for a scientific revolution, but for a thousand years of dark epicycles.
Huzzah!
Sun, 8 Mar 2026, 11:02 AM (-06:00)
The Apple blossoms on the two trees against the back fence have come and gone. The magenta of the Redbuds in bloom will soon fade, as their foliage is beginning to emerge. The Texas Mountain Laurels are loaded with purple blossoms hanging like grape clusters from the bending branches. The Texas Persimmons have also decided that it is time. The Cedar Elms are not far behind.
Another spring is upon us. Of the brutal summer that is sure to follow, the trees pay no mind. They pay no mind.
Sei still! Sei still! Sieh mich an! Leben ist nicht leicht, Leben ist nicht schwer. Das sind Kindergedanken. … Heimat ist nicht da oder dort. Heimat ist in dir innen, oder nirgends.
— Herman Hesse, Bäume
Be still. Be still. Look at me. Life is not easy. Life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. … Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or it is nowhere at all.
— Herman Hesse, Trees
Mon, 16 Feb 2026, 02:25 PM (-06:00)
First period is almost over. First period, that wonderful class with but a dozen plus students in it. Oh that wonderful time of day.
One of the students is standing with her back against the wall. She had been preparing to stand by the door to wait for the bell. But as she stood, she set her backpack down and backed up to the whiteboard that runs along the side of our classroom.
“My back hurts,” she announces. “My back huuuurts,” she repeats, when she hears no sympathetic reaction from the others.
But I feel her pain — literally.
“I feel so old,” she says. “I’m only sixteen, but I feel so old.”
Scratch that. I feel her pain — figuratively.
Sat, 7 Feb 2026, 02:48 PM (-06:00)
It sounded like wind at first — wind blowing thru the trees. But overhead the leaves and pine needles were not rustling.
The sound grew louder. Across the lake, the shore disappeared in a shrouded mist. And a wall of white blew across the water. Rain drops began to fall thru the canopy, making splash marks in the dirt. Everyone retreated into the cabin.
It was a slow, gentle rain providing time for the dry forest floor to soak it up. But the rain continued for fourteen days. With the ground saturated, water began to stream down the hill, erasing the splash marks, pushing piles of pine needles into clumps here and there with puddles of water behind.
Fourteen days is a long time for a rain. It is a long time to be cooped inside a cabin with only books and a pencil and some paper — certainly enough time to finish the books and use up all the paper with silly doodles. Fourteen days is plenty of time for everyone to look up hopefully at each respite, hopeful that the storm might finally be passing.
And so, on the morning of the fifteenth day, when the rain stopped and the sun came out, everyone’s hearts lifted.
…
Ok. And then what?
