in conversation with Martin Luther King Jr;
in conversation with Rev. Theodore Parker;
in conversation with Isaac;
in conversation with the Ancients

"the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice"
Heavy clouds eclipse the star
that we all set our days by
lifelibertypursuitofhappiness
the winter becomes sharper
it is the cruel kind of cold
that makes your nose run

we cannot definitely say that things will get better
Five thousand years ago
a volcano erupted, threw
ash to the atmosphere
and in a freezing winter,
hands scratched suns into rock
spiderwebbed prayers

but we cannot definitely say things will get worse
Ancient hands hurled 
sun rocks into the ritual ground
were those rocks stained with tears?
perhaps, their breaths hung like clouds
before them
like the clouds above them
blocking out the sun. 

Recently, I attended a talk by the lauded stress neuroscientist Dr. Huda Akil in which she reminded the audience that one of the most fundamental aspects of psychological stress is uncontrollability. We feel most stressed when we feel helpless and unable to control what is happening.

And so, we humans devise ways to feel like we have control.

Recently, over 600 Neolithic sun stones were uncovered on the Danish island of Bornholm. Archeologists and climatologists working together found that these stones were deposited in a short period of time 4,900 years ago. Coincidentally, this was very soon after haze from a large volcanic eruption blocked out the sun and caused extreme cooling.

In their paper, the researchers concluded that the sun stones “could have been made during a time of stress with the purpose of bringing back the sun and re-establishing agricultural production. They could also have been made when the climate crisis was over, as an act of celebration for the return of the sun.”

I wrote this poem in a freezing week in the US in February. Life as a scientist was (is) bewildering, fundamental liberties were (are) under attack. How do we behave when we have so little control? Do we believe in – or abandon belief in – destiny, justice, the moral arc of the universe (a term popularized by Martin Luther King, Jr in the quote of the first line of my poem, which was inspired by a sermon by abolitionist minister Theodore Parker)?

It has helped me to remember that the history of humanity is so, so long. People have faced (face) tyranny, violence, war, instability, climate crisis, natural disasters, the uncontrollable, again and again and again. Many did not (will not) survive and our chests aren’t big enough to mourn them. But so many did (will) survive.

The ancient island people who made the sun stones were grappling with more than just climate change. Around the same time, the material record shows an shift in culture. Plague was rampant and new peoples were moving into the area.

And yet, in the words of the researchers:“Yet at Vasagård and Rispebjerg we see evidence of a community gathering in a joint effort to enact change, engaging in the use of symbolism that was arguably directed toward the banishment of the darkened sun and the restoration of the harvest.”

Over these past few turbulent months, I find myself returning to archeology, staring at an ancient pot through thick museum glass and touching the hands that shaped it, the mouth that drank from it, the hip that held it. The toys, the jewelry, the brooms, all the pretty and utilitarian and religious objects of our collective ancestors. And the sun stones.

I leave the museums and pick up a chisel.

it felt silly to tell border patrol we were after butterflies but it was the truth. we howled our way down the highway, reveling in the empty road until suddenly solid ground came to an end. here we were, the edge of it all, a jutting piece of land significant not for what it was but for what passed over. in the october chill, we took off our shoes and ran down the beach, heels digging into a sand spit that would disappear in an hour then reappear somewhere else, vanishing and revealing, curling and unfurling, sleeping and waking. everyone was so quiet, but there were bodies everywhere. families ripe with kids, old people on golf carts, mennonites in plainclothes and head coverings. we were all gathered to wonder, to marvel at one of the great journeys of planet earth. i think we saw maybe three butterflies? my sister spotted the first. he hung on a tree, wings slowly opening and closing, foot tentatively tapping against the tree bark. one wing was ripped along a tiger stripe. he looked so tired. the second she motioned me over, a crowd formed. stacks and stacks of us people, eyes keened and breaths sucked in, whispering so beautiful as the dying monarch struggled to climb his tree. 

In December, US Fish and Wildlife Service proposed designating monarch butterflies as threatened species and called for public comments.

Listing monarchs as threatened would extend many protections to them, such as prohibiting large-scale killing or transport of the butterflies. The proposal would also designate seven counties in California where monarchs migrate as critical habitat.

Monarch butterflies are gorgeous. They are symbols we grow up with. Elementary classrooms nurture the caterpillars. Children wear their wings. We care so much about them that entire groups are dedicated to advocating for these little insects. We love them, and so we flock to see their migration.

Who knows why I didn’t see many butterflies that day. Perhaps there was strong wind the night before. Perhaps a big group had just left an hour earlier.

But the solemn truth is there are fewer butterflies than before. The Eastern migratory population has declined by ~80% and the western migratory population has declined by an astonishing 95% since 1980 and 96% from just last year. Volunteers counted 9,119 Western monarchs in winter 2024. There were millions in the skies over California and Mexico in the 1980s.

One interpretation of this poem pins the blame for the butterflies’ disappearance on all the people crowding that beach. We have over-loved them, so to speak, the tourists trampling vulnerable habitat. And while that is not entirely untrue, I think the more compelling part is just how many people care about these butterflies. Who are captured by their beauty. We love these creatures and yet, we can see before our eyes that something is wrong.

I wonder often how to get people and systems to change, especially in the face of existential and apocalyptic threats like climate change. It is hard to know what to say or do. But I think the love of something, like a butterfly, is a wonderful place to start.

If you, like me, love these creatures and want to see them protected, there are two actions I encourage you to take.

First and foremost: if you are in the US, please submit a public comment on the proposal! You can do so here.

There is one other action in particular I want to highlight: talk to people. Ask your friends about these butterflies. Your parents. What do they remember? What do they love? When your children learn about them in the classroom, plant the seed that they are all our of responsibilities.

Many people do not talk about climate change, in part because they overestimate the number of climate change deniers. LA burns and fewer butterflies fill the skies. And the majority of Americans support climate change policies, regardless of their political affiliation. They love the butterflies, they love snow, they love the mountains, they love the reefs, they love the seasons, they love the beach, they love sunsets, they love the fireflies.

What do you love? What will that love inspire you to do?

when the bones 
have reached the end 
of their story –
said all they have to say –
we sculpt them anew
thumbs pressing into cyborg clay
we breathe electric life into them
and set them off: 
move, baby, move!
ancestors toddling across lab nurseries
stretching in a way
the earth hasn’t seen
in millennia

How does a fossil move? And how would you ever find that out?

Robots, of course.

A team of biologists, paleontologists, and robotic engineers recently published a review paper introducing the method of paleoinspired robotics: designing robots based on fossils to study extinct species.

They highlighted the potential for these robots to answer questions about big transitions in evolution, such from sea to land or from walking to flying. How did in-between creatures move through the world? With these robots, we may be able to understand how fish went from swimming in the sea, to crawling through mud, to walking on clay.

And I think that’s pretty neat – to look at the great mysteries of the distant past and solve them with cutting-edge technology.

The imagination, creativity, and teamwork of this project represent my favorite parts of science.

the snow glowed purple
electric blue and magenta stripes
dancing above and below
the frozen prairie.

this night, this
three-in-the-morning, everything
stopped.

the soft breath of the cattle 
was the only sound –
even the wind laid down
to watch.

a mother dragged her tongue
over her newborn
what joy, to open
your eyes and see
all the glory of creation
celebrating around you.

the hard days –
the sore udders, the stress of survival,
trampling snakes, keeping night watch –
can wait. 

in the truck bed
my grandma reaches out 
to take my grandpa's hand.

This poem is dedicated to my Grandma, married for over 50 years to a Nebraska farmer.

A recent study on the mental health of female farmers married to men revealed the unique joys and stressors of farming on women. The researchers interviewed over two dozen farm women and found that they fill many roles. These women play a part in managing the farm, the household and family, and the emotions of themselves and others, all while often feeling quite lonely and isolated.

But they wouldn’t trade it for the world. These women are tremendously proud of the hard work their families do. They find solace in their faith and the joys of farm life, describing it as “A great life, if you can stand it.”

This research immediately brought back childhood memories of summer days on my Grandparents’ farm. Daily life revolved around the farmhouse, where a hot cup of coffee and good company waited for all. My Grandma raised chickens and had an overflowing garden where I first learned the joys of a sun-ripened tomato eaten off the vine. She supported my Grandpa and he supported her, always bringing her little boquets of wildflowers from the pastures (pictured above).

I asked my Grandma once if she had ever seen the northern lights and she said, “Oh yeah, all the time, when we were out checking for newborn calves in the middle of the night.” Such is life on the farm. They worked round the clock, through blizzards and heatwaves, through moments of great beauty and pain.

Today is Thanksgiving, a day that many Americans celebrate by bringing their families together with food. The hardworking families who grew and raised that food deserve our gratitude.

Apocalypse unfurls
across our faces.

In the winter darkness,
white blooms over our noses
and spreads, like sundown, 
to our muzzles, our wings
sucking up energy stores
until 
the only thing alive
is this fungus. 

Instead of clicks,
small thuds echo
the cave.

Across the mountains,
wings fill the sky
dancing with the fiery Aurora
swooping low to skim
the milky-blue lake,
the sea of golden grass, 
joyous chirps echo from
our cousins, shielded by 
cave medicine.

Oh brothers, sisters, 
cast protection over us:
that lacy spiderweb of bugs
too small to thank
too important not to. 

90% of little brown bats, northern long-eared bats, and tri-colored bats have died since 2018. Bat communities throughout North America have been destroyed by White-nose syndrome, a fungal disease that targets hibernating bats.

However, the disease hasn’t touched the western Canadian bats in Lilliouet, British Columbia. A new study has revealed one potential source of protection: their wing microbiomes.

The researchers found that there is incredible diversity in the microbes living on the wings of bats in Lilliouet. Among the many types of bacteria and fungus on the wings were some that produce compounds against White-nose Syndrome.

Creativity is one anecdote to apocalypse. The best solutions are often the unexpected ones and to find them we must learn from survivors.

What spoke to me about this study was not only the evocative setting and animals (one night they were unable to capture any bats due to the Northern Lights lighting up the sky!), but the potential that we might be able to help a vulnerable bat community by studying resilient ones. Based on these and similar findings, the researchers, Wildlife Conservation Society of Canada, and Thompson Rivers University are currently refining a probiotic cocktail to protects bats from White-nose Syndrome.

And that gives me hope.

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