HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – Tip #41

 TIP #41

Listen Underwater

Slip into an alien world, one of slimy, legless phantoms, where 

sound carries forever through an atmosphere devoid of air.

Next time you swim, listen for the unearthly sounds: muffled splash, shrill whirr, odd, cryptic click. Can you imagine their origins?

YAWN – As If For the First Time

LEAVE IT TO A TEN-YEAR-OLD
Ten-year-old boys, it seems, are especially good at discovering and exploiting
the quirks of the body.

When I was in grade school, my best friend, Peter, showed me this truly odd little experiment in fluid dynamics. First, you have to yawn. (We learned it’s pretty easy to make oneself yawn on demand.) Yawning does several things: it opens your mouth (obviously); it draws your tongue back and up; and it produces a rush of saliva (tears too).

While your mouth is still open and your tongue back, you force your tongue quickly down and forward. The little pool of saliva that’s collected in the soft pocket under your tongue gets squeezed, and, if you’re lucky, a few drops will squirt out, maybe a foot or two. As you can imagine, we had contests to see how far each of us could squirt. (But Mom, we were just studying our physics—AP physics, at that.)

(It turns out Peter was not alone in discovering this odd phenomenon. It even
has a name: gleeking.)

HO-HUM HUMDRUM
Yawning’s an amazing and mysterious thing. It crosses all geographic and cultural boundaries. Humans of all ages do it—even those in utero. Nearly all vertebrates do it, including fish and birds, but with the exception, it’s said, of giraffes and whales.

It’s one of those bodily functions that’s so ubiquitous that, like blinking or breathing, it usually comes and goes without our slightest notice. But have you
ever felt a yawn coming on, stopped what you were doing and allowed yourself
to be fully present with the experience?

Here’s what it feels like for me: it starts, subtly, deep inside my head. It’s like my whole cranium, or at least some compartment or sac within it, is about to expand. Then in my ears I feel some kind of passages opening up; it sounds like the two sides, coated with earwax, start out pressed together and then pull stickily apart.

My mouth starts to open, not the way it does when I talk or eat, but from the back, as if the jaw hinges themselves were separating—like the way a python unhinges its jaws to consume large prey.

           The experience, much like farting, 
           is much more satisfying when you 
           really open up and let it rip.

Then the rumbling starts. Again, it seems to come from somewhere deep inside my ears. It's loud, but somehow doesn’t drown out the music and other ambient sound here in my studio.

By this time my eyes close reflexively. I notice I can keep them open if I try (something I’ve never been able to do while sneezing). I start salivating and my eyes water.

Sometimes I keep my lips closed while yawning—usually when I think someone might be looking—but the experience, much like farting, is much more satisfying when you really open up and let it rip. Same with that universal little non-verbal vocalization that always wants to accompany a good yawn.

For me, there’s a distinct tipping point in a yawn. Somewhat like a sneeze or an orgasm, it starts with an impulse, builds in tension, crests and then, inexorably, releases. Occasionally, it doesn’t quite reach that crest and fizzles disappointingly.
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AWARENESS CHECK: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but chances are you’ve yawned at least once just since you started reading this. See if you can be aware of the next one coming on. I decided to log my yawns when I started writing this, and in the hour or so it’s taken me to this point, I’ve done it no fewer than nineteen times!
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MONKEY SEE…
There are many theories as to why we vertebrates yawn. The most popular seem
to be: that it’s the body’s need for a rush of oxygen; that it’s a muscle-stretching process (which might explain why it’s so often accompanied by the urge to stretch the arms, legs and back); that it triggers a surge of alertness when the brain senses we’re asleep on the job (this one seems counter-intuitive to me); and that it somehow helps regulate the temperature of the brain.

None of these theories enjoys common agreement; in fact, most have been debunked in one study or another. All I know is my own experience with yawning. Yes, like just about everyone, I yawn when I’m tired and bored. But, more curiously, I also catch myself yawning when I’m nervous or anxious. How about you? When do you yawn?

        Simply writing about yawning makes 
        me yawn (doing it now, as we speak).

One of the most fascinating characteristics of yawning is its contagiousness. Among all the causal theories, none disputes this, although several possible reasons are suggested. Almost everyone agrees that it’s an empathetic response, one wired into the circuits of earliest man, perhaps to demonstrate our ferocity (as in don’t mess with me!) or even as a pre-verbal signal for a group to change activities.

Whatever the reason, this power of suggestion is undeniable. We don’t even have
to see someone yawning; we can simply hear them yawn over the telephone. And
I can tell you from my current experience that simply writing about yawning makes me yawn (doing it now, as we speak)—not just now and then, but repeatedly and often. (Since the awareness check, above, I've done it at least five more times.)

Are you aware of what triggers your yawns? Has reading this post, along with the inspirational photos, unleashed the ho-hum monster in you? Do you have a favorite memory or a trick involving yawning? We’d love to hear of your jaw-dropping experiences!

RUDE AWAKENING – Saved by Intuition

"The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift." ALBERT EINSTEIN

To a veteran observer of Nature, seeing the invisible is no oxymoron. It happens all the time. You know something’s there because you can see or hear or smell its effects on stuff that’s around it. A branch breaks, potential prey scatters, a leaf’s folded over in just a certain way.

In those instances, there’s really no trick to it; you’re still just calling on your five basic physical senses, albeit asking a bit more of them. But there are other ways to sense, ways not so easy to explain.

      

This is new ground for most of us, a place where the physical becomes irrelevant, and where the rational and irrational begin to collide. It’s the realm of intuition and its inseparable companion, faith.

You know that feeling you get when you just sense that someone’s looking at you? Or those “little voices” that occasionally tell you to do something you weren’t even aware needed doing?

Call it what you want; dismiss it if you must. But I believe intuition is one of many credible ways of knowing. I accept it for the mysterious gift it is, one I hope to understand better, and one which already has proven quite real for me.

       She was sitting on the floor, hands 
       to her neck, fighting for every breath.

BOLT UPRIGHT
Can you really know about something even though there’s no rational way you could have known it?

Many years ago, my kids—then about five and six years old—were staying with me for the summer. Since my apartment was pretty small, I’d arranged for us to house sit the beautiful, sprawling, modern home of a couple of University of Minnesota astronomy professors while they traveled.

I took the master bedroom, while the kids—well, you know kids—they slept in bedrooms as far away from me as possible, on the lower level of what you might call the guest wing of the house.

             

I’m not a light sleeper, but one night at about 3:00 AM I suddenly sat straight up in bed and knew something wasn’t right. I listened hard for a few seconds and heard nothing. I could easily have dismissed the event as a bad dream or a quirk of being in a strange house, but the feeling was too insistent.

Still just half awake, I hurried across the living room, downstairs, past Jeff's room and right to Amanda’s room. She was sitting on the floor, hands to her neck, her face beet red. Fighting for every breath, she looked terrified.

         It’s tough to separate the whims 
         from the wants from the warnings.

Long story short: I called 911; the ambulance came; the paramedics slapped an oxygen mask on Amanda; and away we sped—lights, siren and all—to Regions Hospital. By then, her breathing was back to normal. The ER doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with her and sent us home.

We’ll never know what would have happened that night if I hadn’t felt drawn to Amanda’s room. Did my instinct and a little oxygen save her life? Or might the only consequence have been that she and I ended up with a great story to share? Either way, I’m so grateful I was able to feel that little disturbance in the universe that night and decided not to ignore it.

      

SELECTIVE LISTENING
Our little voices come to us in many forms and in many tones, from the dire warning I experienced with Amanda, to the quiet inner counsel one might hear about a new relationship, to the much-needed encouragement we sense when a risk just feels like the right thing to do.

In fact, if you’re like me so many little threads of intuition lace through your mind that it’s tough to separate the whims from the wants from the warnings. How do you know which of your little voices to heed or not heed?

I suppose, in the end, the guidance we receive from our various muses is not so different from the advice offered us by people. We learn, by experience, that some can be trusted, some we file away for future reference, and others we politely acknowledge and then wholeheartedly ignore.

MISPLACED DISPLACEMENT – A Fluid Dynamics Mystery

Kids are natural scientists. It’s their job to notice, to explore, to experiment.

When I was twelve I went to Camp St. Croix, a YMCA camp on the St. Croix River, the serene, still-relatively-wild waterway forming part of the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin.

My cabin group’s adventure that summer was canoeing the St. Croix to its confluence with the mighty Mississippi at Hastings, Minnesota, and then 350 miles down the great river to East Dubuque, Illinois.

We learned a lot about water on that trip: respecting its power, managing large waves, using its properties to skillfully maneuver a canoe, and trying to keep it out of our packs and tents. Of all these lessons, one observation really struck me—though its explanation continues to elude me to this day.

I noticed an eerie glow on the trees on 
the other side of the channel.

One night we were camped on one of several narrow channels the Mississippi assumes along that stretch. After supper, our campfire gradually died out and it got so dark that there was nothing to do but go to bed. As we felt our way toward our tents I noticed an eerie glow on the trees on the other side of the channel, and stayed outside to investigate.

As I watched, the apparition would dash from side to side, then remain fixed in one place for a few seconds and, finally, vanish. This sequence repeated itself several times. By then, I’d put the light together with the faint rumbling I was beginning to hear, and realized I was seeing the navigation searchlight of a freight barge. (As an indication of the power of these beams, it took almost 15 minutes for the barge—running with the strong current—to reach us.)

How far...would the huge vessel’s displacement raise the level of one of the world’s great rivers?

I don’t know what made me think of it, but I was curious what a fully loaded eight- or ten-unit river barge and pusher would do to the water level. So, well before it reached our campsite, I pushed a foot-long stick into the sand at the water line. How far, I wondered, would the huge vessel’s displacement raise the level of one of the world’s great rivers?

PHOTO: Thomas R. Machnitzki

By the time the barge finally lumbered past our campsite, my buddies had heard it and come outside. They joined me in exuberant hoots and howls and, sure enough, the pilot noticed and turned the spotlight on us. I could’ve sworn I felt the heat from that blinding ray!

Despite the excitement, I remembered to keep an eye on my stick and noticed that, instead of climbing the shore as I’d assumed it would, the waterline had dropped—and not by an inch or two, but by more than two feet down the sandy slope. I figured this indicated a vertical drop of several inches! How could that be? I imagined taking any container of water and pushing any object into it. How could it possibly do anything but raise the water level?

The waterline had dropped—and not by an inch or two, but by more than two feet down the sandy slope.

Now, I could understand it if the water went down after first going up—the theory being that the barge pushes a hump of water in front of itself. But this isn’t what happened; the water line just moved down and then back up to its normal height.

I still get to watch the Mississippi, now within a block of my home. I’ve repeated my experiment countless times and, despite what common sense might suggest, the water level still drops every time a loaded barge goes by. When I Google the phenomenon, I don’t find a single reference to it.

If you ever find yourself on the banks of a major river with heavy commercial shipping, try the stick-in-the-sand experiment for yourself and let me know what you find. And you physicists and engineers out there: what’s the deal?

IN OVER YOUR HEAD – Aliens In the Water

Most of us will never get to outer space. But do you realize we can still experience an alien world, one of great mystery and wonder, where strange, legless life forms lurk; where one can float in weightless slow motion; where sound carries great distances through an atmosphere devoid of air?

Only by imagining that we're experiencing such things for the very first time can we reclaim the wonder they deserve.

Sounds pretty other-worldly, right? I guess, in a way, it's a trick question. In fact, it's just another of the many places right here on Earth that we've come to take so much for granted that we forget just how amazing they really are. Only by imagining that we're experiencing such things for the very first time can we reclaim the wonder they deserve.

The alien world I'm talking about is water. Not on top of it, where we've learned to be pretty much at home—boating, water-skiing, swimming and so on—but under the surface, immersed, beyond that lower limit of our familiar habitat.



EERIE VOICES
When I was a boy I spent my summers on the beautiful St. Croix River, which forms part of the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. The river was our neighbor, our friend, our playground and, at times, our adversary. Every day my brother, our friends and I would spend most of our waking hours either on or in those clear-brown, tannin-stained waters.

Some of my sharpest memories of those waters are of my experiences under the surface. There I learned to escape the dunking and splash attacks of the big kids, and the jolting bites of huge black horseflies. I learned to open my eyes underwater and see, at least fuzzily, the legs of both attacker and victim. Once, while looking for clam shells on the bottom, I came face to face with the ghostly image of a huge pike, which did a piscine version of the double take before darting away.

 I came face to face with the ghostly image of a huge pike, which did a piscine version of the double take before darting away.

And the sounds. Those were perhaps the most mysterious and exotic of all the sensations in that liquid world. The muffled splashing and shouting of other swimmers penetrated from above. The high-pitched whine of an outboard motor pierced my ears, even from a boat half a mile away. Gravel ground and rattled, stirred by human feet or bottom-feeding fish.

But one sound I never did figure out was a sharp, isolated tick, like two small stones being tapped together. It was random, without any noticeable pattern, but frequent enough so I heard it every time I was underwater for more than a few seconds. What, I wonder, could possibly make that sound? Last summer, in fact, more than half a century later, it was still ticking.

I CAN FLY!

I still have never gone scuba diving, maybe because I know I'd get hooked right away. It looks so graceful, so serene. I guess the closest I've come to that experience is snorkeling in the clear waters of St. Lucia in the eastern Caribbean Windward Islands. Though I was a bit insecure about my swimming skills, I remember realizing, once I got a few feet under the surface, that this was about as close as I'd ever get to my frequent dream of being able to fly. What an incredible sensation, soaring over the colorful creatures that swayed and swam 20 or 30 feet below!

What are some of your most memorable experiences underwater? Do you recall certain sounds? Why not share them here?

Snapshots from Zihuatanejo - Mystery Gizmo

An odd contraption has landed atop a building near the central market. With what looks like a motor and gearbox, what does it do?
And, once it's done it, where does it go?

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #19

Find Your Moon Shadow

Sun shadows fall heavy on the earth—stark, stretched, hard-edged forms 

so common we barely notice their attachment any more. 

Moon, though, lays down her work gently, subtle shades of black on black. 

She knows her time, working best when facing both earth and sun.

 

HOW YOU CUT IT – The Baffling Apple Stem Mystery

There remain very few things I haven't either figured out or decided I don't need to figure out. This doesn't mean I'm not still curious, though. In fact, it's precisely because I'm so curious that I manage to figure out how things work. But here's one that continues to baffle me, one I seem unable to let go of or put into the "Take it on faith" compartment of my brain.

At least once a week I bring an apple to my office as my mid-afternoon snack. This time of year, with the profusion of fresh Honeycrisps™ and Sweet Tangos™, it's more like three or four times a week. Often, when it's a really big apple, I'll cut it in half and make it last two days.

The only knife I have in my office drawer is a "disposable" plastic one I've had for years—you know, the kind people bring on picnics. It's black, a little sturdier than those gossamer white ones you get at fast food joints. Were it not for the serrations, it wouldn't even penetrate the skin of any respectable apple.

Can you help me get to the core of this mystery?

So when I cut my apples in half, I resort to a sort of stabbing motion more than sawing. It's all I can do to get the blade through the firm fruit without breaking it and having the jagged end plunge into the exposed veins and tendons on my wrist. For some reason I've always started by turning the apple over, cutting from the bottom, with the stem side down. As I push down, the clumsy knife bends, binds and wobbles; I try to keep the cut more or less in the middle. But, really, I don't try all that hard.

Now, since I started noticing what happens—some four or five years ago—I'll bet I've cut at least 100 apples this way. And—I kid you not—somewhere around ninety of them, after that last satisfying crunch of separation, have fallen apart with not just their flesh, but their stems precisely split in half.

Is this as amazing as I think it is? Isn't it kind of like doing needlepoint with a nail, or, I suppose more aptly, William Tell's having to split the apple on his son's head using a child's dime-store bow and arrow set?

Seriously, if anyone out there knows why this happens, I'd be grateful for an explanation. And—even better—if you've experienced something like this, I'd love to hear about it. If there are enough to make a follow-up post, I'll share them with the blogosphere.