tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66394287876190925672024-03-05T23:30:48.124-08:00kate keeleyAwarded a grant by the National Science Foundation, Kate traveled to Antarctica in November 2007 as a part of her research for the fourth book in her fantasy series about a mergirl named Molly Finn.
Kate collaborates with local schools to explore ways to integrate science and creative writing.
Kate lives in Colorado and enjoys hiking and biking in the Colorado Rockies.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-2003421232643019302009-06-28T22:30:00.000-07:002009-06-29T15:29:01.921-07:00In Between the Silence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzWlIwCqFPqxle-R1gws7bOgmRHYnERsrcZlSeVE0D_hLk3ATjMV9KFnegXNOGNUBySi2RmcZUa-_fOPAFzCMczMzFWANlpSfCyfv7yokmclwZre3vs6SWjYu84yN48dE-8Q_-nEQlRw/s1600-h/Img_3269-sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352618409186422802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzWlIwCqFPqxle-R1gws7bOgmRHYnERsrcZlSeVE0D_hLk3ATjMV9KFnegXNOGNUBySi2RmcZUa-_fOPAFzCMczMzFWANlpSfCyfv7yokmclwZre3vs6SWjYu84yN48dE-8Q_-nEQlRw/s200/Img_3269-sm.jpg" border="0" /></a>I have been traveling quite a bit these last few months—Canada, Sweden, Ireland, Romania, Norway, Greece, and Spain. I began to suspect that I had brought the perpetual rains of Ireland home with me as late spring and early summer in Colorado has been wetter and greyer than usual. The upside to that has been a proliferation of wildflowers and blossoming cacti. It’s amazing what a semi-arid mountain desert can do with just a little water.<br /><br /><br /><br />The number of blooms surprised me, so rather than upload individual photos, I put together a video, with a special guest appearance by a sweet, Irish lamb.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxQ1-UBxdh4FS6yFHbfX-xLoljBRoS001QTOmegzpY-epMTIe7T0wyrLNsCDgpRrhSBlEDHtg6X5AQZAdLKTw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><br /><p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eol3QO04hIU">You can also see the show on You Tube if you prefer a larger view.</a></p>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-74144566765765509202009-05-16T08:00:00.000-07:002009-05-19T16:44:39.902-07:00The Art of Tea<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgHNtFavBkidU8R0dUy6Stob-ykPY-gWHP539XGQi-44O1uFZb9CxD1E2RGQ9y9bjEVNpPrOvGlmGe4bPx_1AUn-BthtHVDi9RnzagKyoE6i9-AH-Js1QSOw6tsx15zyFq4xREQUUCds/s1600-h/tea+art--vancouverx25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336441299797197970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgHNtFavBkidU8R0dUy6Stob-ykPY-gWHP539XGQi-44O1uFZb9CxD1E2RGQ9y9bjEVNpPrOvGlmGe4bPx_1AUn-BthtHVDi9RnzagKyoE6i9-AH-Js1QSOw6tsx15zyFq4xREQUUCds/s200/tea+art--vancouverx25.jpg" border="0" /></a>Sometimes all you have to do is walk outside in a new place and you’ll find an adventure. I’m in Vancouver, and I learned to drink green tea. The clay tea pots catch my eye, and I walk inside Modern Tea Art where three Chinese gentlemen are sitting at the tea bar taking tea. I inquire about the tea, and Mr. Lee invites me to sit down. He is dousing a pot that looks like it belongs in a playhouse with steaming water. Each of us has two cups—one tall and one short. Mr. Lee pours the tea into the tall cup, shows me how to cover it with the shorter, wide-brimmed cup and then how to hold the cups and flip them so that the tea flows into the drinking cup.<br /><br />I learn that I should inhale the aroma of the tea from the tall cup before drinking. This mutes the stronger flavors of the tea, much like sniffing brandy before sipping. Not to mention it is good for the sinuses and can help with allergies. Inhaling the steam still rising from the cup, the scent of white flowers greets me. Mr. Lee tells me that is possible. He smiles. There are over 700 varieties of green tea. Each with a unique flavor and aroma. Maybe flowers, maybe not. If I want flowers, then flowers.<br /><br />We drink half the tea, turn the cup and let it warm our fingers. Now we sip the tea, savor the fragrance of flowers and green, enjoy the company of old friends and new acquaintances. I didn’t think I’d have time to discover Vancouver, but just outside the hotel entrance, adventure was waiting. The marvels and the miracles of life.<br /><br />While we drink tea, we talk about the benefits of green tea—good for digestion, calming, cleansing. Many vitamins. But the benefits are lost and the tea turns bitter if it’s over heated or steeped too long. If it’s stored too long, it will ferment again as well, which causes the tea to turn.<br /><br />Mr. Lee’s friend pats his forehead with a hanky. “No more for me,” he says. “I’m good.” The tea has begun to take effect. “You drink this tea for 60 years, and it makes a habit.”<br /><br />“I’ve had worse habits,” I say.He smiles. We sip our tea.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-80338632420347994912009-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:002009-04-08T09:23:50.948-07:00San Francisco: Funtabulous Family Vacation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1skpDuIj0PPrY7N12jLbJhdWo3tnew2qSBfPjt-R9biY4tpjcM3vAjisMo3c9RpkDLPsgou1dcpe_fzhWRKPszJuE7EQwT_o-C-RF7GmXCqHJkCyKjW4q6h77AYTEGOlIi70gfrb3jWY/s1600-h/Img_0798x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322116919396947234" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1skpDuIj0PPrY7N12jLbJhdWo3tnew2qSBfPjt-R9biY4tpjcM3vAjisMo3c9RpkDLPsgou1dcpe_fzhWRKPszJuE7EQwT_o-C-RF7GmXCqHJkCyKjW4q6h77AYTEGOlIi70gfrb3jWY/s200/Img_0798x25.jpg" border="0" /></a>I just read in the Financial Times that San Francisco is a good choice as a travel destination for business groups looking for a low-profile opportunity to hold face-to-face meetings. With the economy in the tank, traditionally popular destinations like Orlando and Las Vegas are under scrutiny. Having just come back from a writers’ event sponsored by PenNobHill in San Francisco, I can attest to what a funtabulous city is perched above the Bay.<br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNC9EtPqZeTiLtPRqTFu1YpRWt7gCDhgamO3tOGsIM8En5bBUk53OOERrho3bhwvmJTyL2oP2y4YdsGIZlnT-c5rZpkkkg82h7y1uZYYrMcYTK3TgPDnkjJ_u2h9SLfdZQJtmLujEy34/s1600-h/Img_1340x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322117121024536354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNC9EtPqZeTiLtPRqTFu1YpRWt7gCDhgamO3tOGsIM8En5bBUk53OOERrho3bhwvmJTyL2oP2y4YdsGIZlnT-c5rZpkkkg82h7y1uZYYrMcYTK3TgPDnkjJ_u2h9SLfdZQJtmLujEy34/s200/Img_1340x25.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div>The vistas are stunning; strolling the pier is delightful and relaxing; the ambiance is international; the cuisine superb. </div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4DNGDlP9VL3W46R4aEIspM9c4RHduuEgGLZPPaN8nZf82A6peVueTzzTTyfjdyDqyhcYTejAw1zqKmy15Ib5hdeIg6scjT1djjbkMQxzJlxUxdlx1AiHsz0OS7SrdwCzD2lFNeRIJds/s1600-h/Img_0725x25.jpg"></a><br /><div>If you’re considering taking the family along, there are plenty of activities for kids. We had nine young adventurers with us on a Saturday in San Francisco and found plenty to keep them smiling.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFsBjEbXb1ceh9CxZ1z7OVTNNMCI_8COtjcEbHcjXsIaUx8jilvAoPvrD_HLZXV3oi0YAhn_n8fi0HyP2QgcBXWoGSblUyDH_tbtYrozxID2UFDErLCULtLPjiGOm1R3O4hS8umtMCd3Y/s1600-h/Img_0608x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322115894548838194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFsBjEbXb1ceh9CxZ1z7OVTNNMCI_8COtjcEbHcjXsIaUx8jilvAoPvrD_HLZXV3oi0YAhn_n8fi0HyP2QgcBXWoGSblUyDH_tbtYrozxID2UFDErLCULtLPjiGOm1R3O4hS8umtMCd3Y/s200/Img_0608x25.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gmGxaY7PZBCQ9m_3aoFwP9KqOkhUIrwiy14XY2ghAbe3c-8GEhq30j1w-v4Amx1I2rDChr7tyeBcEmiEk3VpfzVCJMkj_SiU_IcQuVYt3he8aWpsnKpnEkr2YDTxs9X-z-mY8aPz0PY/s1600-h/Img_0610x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322356370908958514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gmGxaY7PZBCQ9m_3aoFwP9KqOkhUIrwiy14XY2ghAbe3c-8GEhq30j1w-v4Amx1I2rDChr7tyeBcEmiEk3VpfzVCJMkj_SiU_IcQuVYt3he8aWpsnKpnEkr2YDTxs9X-z-mY8aPz0PY/s200/Img_0610x25.jpg" border="0" /></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322116066952736706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhivyGFu6AHPBUURKiPTl4bd8ashEd4Rc4KnDyzcBw8Z3XFs_XvtAfGwnrAeXNDdvQ2Sv6g1cGCyjuWz5YxnBl8Bc8nQdBQJTL8xq3WSUWFuzWLp1zwjrunWW2yAScFmTApDzRRH7Ahfcc/s200/Img_0719x25.jpg" border="0" /><br />We visited Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, and I believed it all, except for how the kids were able to touch their noses with their tongues and even twist their tongues upside down. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqBa91rqvjnEjkrAWc9Zr_Jz3V2JWlJ3ojoyxQMjVULRf8ptSE73tVEKeMysF10r64zMAHS1KcwdYwAsc1y-poD1VSsIwYgJbb3L9rDOr0FSYMrnKu08QQdbWvlPa7_RU_DFw2IAkrqM/s1600-h/Img_1412x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322115626706709618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqBa91rqvjnEjkrAWc9Zr_Jz3V2JWlJ3ojoyxQMjVULRf8ptSE73tVEKeMysF10r64zMAHS1KcwdYwAsc1y-poD1VSsIwYgJbb3L9rDOr0FSYMrnKu08QQdbWvlPa7_RU_DFw2IAkrqM/s200/Img_1412x25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The young ones with too much energy we set bouncing on the bungee cords.</div><br /><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9l9HtyF-6MwLkqOZHSd0ryeAafthBeDKeFRrxauRR5G6cFx2T_PjXNhAbJS_hshIaKR0rDwSA43sVYipIxd2LBBaT1uq7ssWn8HuWdz8i3VgUXHbydQWrIQChLnWiZXYj2Q3sMMfduA/s1600-h/Img_0728x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322115434922810082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9l9HtyF-6MwLkqOZHSd0ryeAafthBeDKeFRrxauRR5G6cFx2T_PjXNhAbJS_hshIaKR0rDwSA43sVYipIxd2LBBaT1uq7ssWn8HuWdz8i3VgUXHbydQWrIQChLnWiZXYj2Q3sMMfduA/s200/Img_0728x25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>When we all needed to sit down, we climbed aboard a cable car to China Town. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvIZlqsaSLEta93YLHw8Ga6c8BQrAun0taJJqtLkOzPhrxicuY0NU2XPz35EAT_0z2rwuSHl1V_kdY5sVzrIRXUVcZ3Eka_Sk9CfLIuRy9C696ZgwYQEdP1lu7aBq6vBPG19GBP-4LRE/s1600-h/Img_0777x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322115266815808850" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvIZlqsaSLEta93YLHw8Ga6c8BQrAun0taJJqtLkOzPhrxicuY0NU2XPz35EAT_0z2rwuSHl1V_kdY5sVzrIRXUVcZ3Eka_Sk9CfLIuRy9C696ZgwYQEdP1lu7aBq6vBPG19GBP-4LRE/s200/Img_0777x25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>We stopped by the Fortune Cookie Factory, where we were treated to free samples of fortune cookies. Mine said I was going to win an award, and I was! Wow!</div></div></div></div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-66448718277851412132009-03-31T14:45:00.000-07:002009-03-31T15:25:28.477-07:00San Francisco: The San Remo and the Sea Lions<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjOk76dXfGBxGOjlYpgNcTAWEdPInobvctMlDmK1yuBSQxmqN5Ya0yrCvTZuLEpJeMOMDsk5xz_0sCZ5yiOmlSNAzsubAuxkYeP4SJ2xaXkE6b54aiTuc1jRkz-kHzWtS4u6nS44Gxyg/s1600-h/Img_0773x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319477334006395602" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJjOk76dXfGBxGOjlYpgNcTAWEdPInobvctMlDmK1yuBSQxmqN5Ya0yrCvTZuLEpJeMOMDsk5xz_0sCZ5yiOmlSNAzsubAuxkYeP4SJ2xaXkE6b54aiTuc1jRkz-kHzWtS4u6nS44Gxyg/s200/Img_0773x25.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNXuYy8BzfEKRYh9J-HPnrIL1zWer66kqPjMslJVQ3_0CerDzuG5XqPRtY7jAVBeplldJZHMocsXqXtyac8Q2kqT-r3NiZyKEz6V44Jgp1ksjEkDgUd4SlC4KBU0qydOV5IQ7g7Cwy7Q/s1600-h/Img_0847x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319476990240920354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNXuYy8BzfEKRYh9J-HPnrIL1zWer66kqPjMslJVQ3_0CerDzuG5XqPRtY7jAVBeplldJZHMocsXqXtyac8Q2kqT-r3NiZyKEz6V44Jgp1ksjEkDgUd4SlC4KBU0qydOV5IQ7g7Cwy7Q/s200/Img_0847x25.jpg" border="0" /></a>We choose our hotel, The San Remo, because it is haunted. Although no ghosts float at the top of the stairs or glide along the hallways, lights flicker on and off at will. We are treated to strange sounds—cats meowing—and odd smells. We are told later than an elderly woman (with a cat) died in the room that Laura and Shelby occupy.<br /><div><br /></div><div>In the heart of Little Italy, we are surrounded by Italian restaurants and cafés. We don’t know it that first day, but regardless of the compass direction we choose, our path will lead to beauti<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5F7AIbF5peqbWK7vNe9rTSjrMQuQIFkc80xUKJuCVIsk8ukeEFchdkIKpQC-H79IMzMSkoWkNAlpvJS62OTxWcE_EBWbFzOqWgRHZJKMo93tNi-0cEFCimUhkQyUoFqRbl-cvepPzi3M/s1600-h/Img_1512x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319479059776910930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5F7AIbF5peqbWK7vNe9rTSjrMQuQIFkc80xUKJuCVIsk8ukeEFchdkIKpQC-H79IMzMSkoWkNAlpvJS62OTxWcE_EBWbFzOqWgRHZJKMo93tNi-0cEFCimUhkQyUoFqRbl-cvepPzi3M/s200/Img_1512x25.jpg" border="0" /></a>ful vistas, bright sights, sounds of life. San Francisco—city of color.<br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On our list of must-dos:</p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMo67yUkMnMeHvnoZtzWdL7QMuQgS1C6dB-ZHX0LqaD1nmvBJ-j2G-0syIKG_DB8mKLx65cK-0LacrDyNntb25YzHcFdalipCSOazHszxgpwqBsoOkKtdqn4aDPynyIHW5upbswxbkKY/s1600-h/Img_0841x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319476993184064082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMo67yUkMnMeHvnoZtzWdL7QMuQgS1C6dB-ZHX0LqaD1nmvBJ-j2G-0syIKG_DB8mKLx65cK-0LacrDyNntb25YzHcFdalipCSOazHszxgpwqBsoOkKtdqn4aDPynyIHW5upbswxbkKY/s200/Img_0841x25.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Ride the cable cars<br />Stroll Pier 39<br />Climb Lombard Street<br />Visit Alcatraz </p><div><br /></div><div><br />San Francisco is a city I’ve <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTu3yQvfo-YicUYT9IqE2KH_yyAX6qq4UL4BtOck7fJvfa8j2zmKNHckJKAX2-ZcB1IFqBwJDg-GL9UQZlNxQNwWa7QPoNPoAIgzbehgrJ1hiI8iYET_3CM1o-HOU59M49iVCYmp49rg/s1600-h/Img_1335x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319477798016263058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaTu3yQvfo-YicUYT9IqE2KH_yyAX6qq4UL4BtOck7fJvfa8j2zmKNHckJKAX2-ZcB1IFqBwJDg-GL9UQZlNxQNwWa7QPoNPoAIgzbehgrJ1hiI8iYET_3CM1o-HOU59M49iVCYmp49rg/s200/Img_1335x25.jpg" border="0" /></a>visited many times. No matter how many times I go, there are things I want to do again—crest the rollercoaster hills and glimpse the Bay Bridge shimmering in the morning light. Stroll along Pier 39 and watch the sea lions basking in the tepid sun.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br />A mother has her flipper wrapped around her pup. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>The little one s<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxifAYP62pQ1KgICxn3SRDqaxNL28pQP-Xr-fNNZ2Nfv7O1jKE2wLROFzIc-qj8OscFj4WkUmuGwdko7vUSCOsxXf1Yz6Pj3z_OhHvoN3hId9aCuPwY9fule9BcWHEwn12vqRDtcA4Zw/s1600-h/Img_1384x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319478165057247698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxifAYP62pQ1KgICxn3SRDqaxNL28pQP-Xr-fNNZ2Nfv7O1jKE2wLROFzIc-qj8OscFj4WkUmuGwdko7vUSCOsxXf1Yz6Pj3z_OhHvoN3hId9aCuPwY9fule9BcWHEwn12vqRDtcA4Zw/s200/Img_1384x25.jpg" border="0" /></a>leeps smiling, content and secure. Another sea lion slips into the bay, squeals, and dives. It swirls and pokes a flipper out of the water.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGKOS6hzKriGO4PEQDwFd5f63XhMDWfxUQEOV9TdrcYocoM3vBOmolloakf-E5P8sFQWqXPyHu-FOgjdLkLUxonsXW67mIUNFlsV2dTKyjlUDHp3lMkRGPK8MXE_p1MAOuVz-8cqL9qE/s1600-h/Img_1373x25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319477796062086274" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGKOS6hzKriGO4PEQDwFd5f63XhMDWfxUQEOV9TdrcYocoM3vBOmolloakf-E5P8sFQWqXPyHu-FOgjdLkLUxonsXW67mIUNFlsV2dTKyjlUDHp3lMkRGPK8MXE_p1MAOuVz-8cqL9qE/s200/Img_1373x25.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxifAYP62pQ1KgICxn3SRDqaxNL28pQP-Xr-fNNZ2Nfv7O1jKE2wLROFzIc-qj8OscFj4WkUmuGwdko7vUSCOsxXf1Yz6Pj3z_OhHvoN3hId9aCuPwY9fule9BcWHEwn12vqRDtcA4Zw/s1600-h/Img_1384x25.jpg"></a></div><div>The man standing next to me says, “He’s flipping you off.”<br /><br />Only a sea lion could do that without seeming rude.</div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-83821359666056371052009-03-14T17:47:00.000-07:002009-03-14T19:06:56.314-07:00Rescue: Rockin' With the Best<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnywgJlsu-n7KP8_pcuyioNJb8o2GKN-zVCxdh1T_qrX_jOWSmtSnRMsgaGEYQEnmnuhgvSLVf1rN043nzgFZP74trrawOLlIvDlUrYZzDy3o8qzKH3XqzXIL_EVuiZt_J67dp-Gl9TcY/s1600-h/IMG_0324.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313228069008954322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnywgJlsu-n7KP8_pcuyioNJb8o2GKN-zVCxdh1T_qrX_jOWSmtSnRMsgaGEYQEnmnuhgvSLVf1rN043nzgFZP74trrawOLlIvDlUrYZzDy3o8qzKH3XqzXIL_EVuiZt_J67dp-Gl9TcY/s320/IMG_0324.JPG" border="0" /></a>I’ve been home for three weeks now, but that’s no reason not to adventure. Today was one of those not-so-rare to Colorado stunning, early spring days. Everybody was out. Some got higher on the spring air than others. While I was walking in our beautiful Garden of the Gods, I came upon a rescue. (You can watch the video compilation below.)<br /><br />First of all, let me say that I admire these guys for getting out in nature, for breathing the cool, Colorado air, and for letting the day take them away. Second, let me mention that it’s not only written in some ordinance somewhere, but also probably a good idea not to do what these guys did without climbing ropes, experience, and advising someone of your plan. Lucky for them, they had at least one cell phone and unobstructed access to a cell tower. Ha, ha. They should have had good reception. They were on top of the world.<br /><br />Whether you travel afar or you just explore your own back yard, the adventures are out there waiting for you.<br /><br />In case you wonder what possessed these young men to make such a dangerous climb without the proper equipment, I included a few pictures of the Garden of the Gods. The first picture is the rock they climbed, known as Cathedral Rock. At the end of the slide I included a few shots of the Garden—almost, but not quite, what they got to see and experience. Today they were rockin’ with the best.<br /><br />Cheers to Colorado Springs Fire Department, station 13, for bringing them safely back to the ground. The battalion chief was very gracious in directing me to the site of the rescue, and the whole team (from what I could hear) was extremely professional to those young men who got lifted up by life and deposited between a rock and a hard place.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Music that accompanies the video is DJ Pavo & The Prophet, Rocking With the Best.</span><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyHhvRwbBfngzP6JnXvW0puwMMrLTYokiIZzI6t7JTcZvNKvwohyiOino5D-xjpmbH1THOuFBp11GUs2W4czg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />I also posted this to YouTube if you want a larger view...<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5Nn8KFbVtw">Rockin' With the Best</a>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-88520564886585833812009-03-09T16:15:00.000-07:002009-03-09T18:28:38.304-07:00Animals Talk to Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfCVWiym5nnARV9LDFr_NKZ6TDdC4vehN981G78tIKmiLkI7kmQ1LZQldbM2HWzMQVwgRXMKgW7pPQ83uhrCjjyPLqR2S2mNPe-PtNaDio40Q7gC8SasV8Ix4Qu5eCvzz8XbOmEjxYsU/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+148.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311356814367572018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 280px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfCVWiym5nnARV9LDFr_NKZ6TDdC4vehN981G78tIKmiLkI7kmQ1LZQldbM2HWzMQVwgRXMKgW7pPQ83uhrCjjyPLqR2S2mNPe-PtNaDio40Q7gC8SasV8Ix4Qu5eCvzz8XbOmEjxYsU/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+148.JPG" border="0" /></a>I love Dr. Doolittle, and ever since I was a child and saw that movie, I wished that I could talk to the animals too. As time has passed, though, what I wish most of all is that I could listen to the animals. I wish the animals would talk to me. More precisely, I wish that I could understand the animals when they talk—to me or to each other.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6I7-NEcXJfI3xpXPSm1Dccrq8xl02mee7SoVWSurWtXrSnPadb05l9QxytI2XCJPPbDdCYRKAMqAQaqPfKmdMFSW6n0t2QayJl9m5zMIjZxNcJlcLHQAhu5qXdrmgpVKObBPGI6UKFM/s1600-h/Dsc00429.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311357226300512818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 289px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6I7-NEcXJfI3xpXPSm1Dccrq8xl02mee7SoVWSurWtXrSnPadb05l9QxytI2XCJPPbDdCYRKAMqAQaqPfKmdMFSW6n0t2QayJl9m5zMIjZxNcJlcLHQAhu5qXdrmgpVKObBPGI6UKFM/s320/Dsc00429.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My dogs, for instance understand a smattering of English—<em>come, sit, stay, back, down,</em> and...<em>do that again and you’re toast. </em>That’s more English than I speak or even understand of Dog.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oVpUb-FxiQeELYdlHXyuqARl9dhj-PquXpw3uFSE4aeYNJlGQA5hoAVlTs-OO4NJpAefbu0TOtTbvkSoh-QFoDhIZbkPWV94byBZUa9w1EoBtfteEJ33l_D1gWAD9a7IhY-KTyPkDgY/s1600-h/Dsc00499.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311357348556989618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oVpUb-FxiQeELYdlHXyuqARl9dhj-PquXpw3uFSE4aeYNJlGQA5hoAVlTs-OO4NJpAefbu0TOtTbvkSoh-QFoDhIZbkPWV94byBZUa9w1EoBtfteEJ33l_D1gWAD9a7IhY-KTyPkDgY/s320/Dsc00499.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsDyiTnTd2de60LT3tEn3zGDpUmKmaPURo569mmPoyx_w3KPnlFcs1nv49DhZCk2JA2Q5JR3RwmW8imny07ll8n5yPZ8khvYY9ILvEP8w-XqB6wwO_gm4N1f3JmTJBg6qp63oTrohrOg/s1600-h/Img_0105.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311357482216641778" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 288px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsDyiTnTd2de60LT3tEn3zGDpUmKmaPURo569mmPoyx_w3KPnlFcs1nv49DhZCk2JA2Q5JR3RwmW8imny07ll8n5yPZ8khvYY9ILvEP8w-XqB6wwO_gm4N1f3JmTJBg6qp63oTrohrOg/s320/Img_0105.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Several species of parrot can even speak English. But how many People can speak parrot?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU36sb3cYUvMtu-hD1vxBTpl4kmdO7poIjFlyJeoeb6B-CtA53TmPerNbP39BYMY6qQkOKWsTCf8m-d2mAdHu2IUd4ZjkVJB7Y3L0a91RvYx98vA2yeMXGZHMWqTrqD6Ww1znxxboBd8/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+145.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311357807557330562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 268px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 188px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU36sb3cYUvMtu-hD1vxBTpl4kmdO7poIjFlyJeoeb6B-CtA53TmPerNbP39BYMY6qQkOKWsTCf8m-d2mAdHu2IUd4ZjkVJB7Y3L0a91RvYx98vA2yeMXGZHMWqTrqD6Ww1znxxboBd8/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+145.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In all fairness, I did meet a guy in Antarctica who could speak three dialects of Penguin. But I’m pretty sure Toby had no idea what he was saying.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBEyH3p6kuRVmyPGWh1KFtxIWrbevtqrLn_Y_QWuyixTOUJj9brRl1TXhmLmFi5DMMMHCn4k6DQZ-2zlbqmIhgA1wOEEm9LnMHhQRNyoDM6oC_7aWkegmZQz5Lvj2MTRjMD7d8b-qGMA/s1600-h/Img_1852_two+penguins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311358107521153634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 270px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 192px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBEyH3p6kuRVmyPGWh1KFtxIWrbevtqrLn_Y_QWuyixTOUJj9brRl1TXhmLmFi5DMMMHCn4k6DQZ-2zlbqmIhgA1wOEEm9LnMHhQRNyoDM6oC_7aWkegmZQz5Lvj2MTRjMD7d8b-qGMA/s320/Img_1852_two+penguins.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />For the most part I suspect that the animals I’ve met—whether they’re visiting my backyard, floating on Antarctic sea ice, or hanging out in top tourist destinations like Xel-ha—are telling me not to take life so seriously, to enjoy the world and all the beauty that surrounds me.<br /><br /><br />As a tribute to the beautiful animals I've listened to, here are a few more of my favorite pictures. I was the author of some, but others were taken by brilliant and talented friends and acquaintances, including Clare, DJ, Gitte, and the photographer at Xel-ha. (Note: The beautiful dog hiding in the Colorado brush is my brother's dog, Smokey.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiwcJDMUb1r0NRHcuXNLU1NRwRKMc-VwABDAEIYsXXZnZsrSi4xzgAn2mY-HZ0N8Stqr7Gx_CEd3O5COjJeewyEXJo2wIhxhX-Tc2nIfANDvs5SNYtRoTI_YoaOfpedZP9Ah1ukbne4A/s1600-h/17.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359480038904818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiwcJDMUb1r0NRHcuXNLU1NRwRKMc-VwABDAEIYsXXZnZsrSi4xzgAn2mY-HZ0N8Stqr7Gx_CEd3O5COjJeewyEXJo2wIhxhX-Tc2nIfANDvs5SNYtRoTI_YoaOfpedZP9Ah1ukbne4A/s320/17.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzMMWG3bwPbZLzbetG8EHIUT7nvdpITSTFohULz5lxCejlkHvazvbFkh1NPFyu_Ps5Jcs6GCsf4kIJH6pRi72sizhys8SXtXUtGTsIo7ITTcZCbRPZS03BHCPv6idGRmjj9O5W1_ZPi8/s1600-h/12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359475766446658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdzMMWG3bwPbZLzbetG8EHIUT7nvdpITSTFohULz5lxCejlkHvazvbFkh1NPFyu_Ps5Jcs6GCsf4kIJH6pRi72sizhys8SXtXUtGTsIo7ITTcZCbRPZS03BHCPv6idGRmjj9O5W1_ZPi8/s320/12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3M-YEIxqtXLUZwkFoAlQ5CXIMx00u7ywY1TBHIr82FANv2yIt83NCCPGOsSdEqALPJm1in8KzIf-DaT3swfL9WUs3afCcAPtphd2GVPvcNb20JbFHfzE8bXg4S6lspgenUOlUR517Vw/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359470886853858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3M-YEIxqtXLUZwkFoAlQ5CXIMx00u7ywY1TBHIr82FANv2yIt83NCCPGOsSdEqALPJm1in8KzIf-DaT3swfL9WUs3afCcAPtphd2GVPvcNb20JbFHfzE8bXg4S6lspgenUOlUR517Vw/s320/1.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvqJTeRsAbRgQIqdOzivx86SBSXe7yw7r-03zBeqq8nOe8ykgN7zNp3QHmLZ8uwvWZOi9IL6HpZR3hkqEqgR4jPYab9WK8crIXoY0GQhjy6st_xDbKBoKm6B5PCAy2gCGgKqhI6qIWGU/s1600-h/cocked+head+pup+crop.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359992509490194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvqJTeRsAbRgQIqdOzivx86SBSXe7yw7r-03zBeqq8nOe8ykgN7zNp3QHmLZ8uwvWZOi9IL6HpZR3hkqEqgR4jPYab9WK8crIXoY0GQhjy6st_xDbKBoKm6B5PCAy2gCGgKqhI6qIWGU/s320/cocked+head+pup+crop.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRiOURmeGs1xIgoIySNoIICCc4qhtDDXRP8DYfAgqIgfBF-CPWBP2yQgPz-wmBvrHlRSTYY9hv9jDhDdyN0vqFNyow7ih4cKpVCTIvZ_hU1TuiqAM3Dkf3VCVYo4OekIrf8AuZbw1UZE/s1600-h/adeile+chicks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359987545858658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRiOURmeGs1xIgoIySNoIICCc4qhtDDXRP8DYfAgqIgfBF-CPWBP2yQgPz-wmBvrHlRSTYY9hv9jDhDdyN0vqFNyow7ih4cKpVCTIvZ_hU1TuiqAM3Dkf3VCVYo4OekIrf8AuZbw1UZE/s320/adeile+chicks.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX9EORSvkWFnnsZP8ETTambHkK_yJEzumPNbA1hm4nqt-0TVPYjyfFMC32oHim4zB58P7MO8mXoT6nSYQEoAGMUHqjhEPmYshv0Dw85F4JW8IEhv_w8m3KFBX71Jr-9chikL_0kgFWDf8/s1600-h/petermann,+penguin+04.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311361237305977010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 294px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX9EORSvkWFnnsZP8ETTambHkK_yJEzumPNbA1hm4nqt-0TVPYjyfFMC32oHim4zB58P7MO8mXoT6nSYQEoAGMUHqjhEPmYshv0Dw85F4JW8IEhv_w8m3KFBX71Jr-9chikL_0kgFWDf8/s320/petermann,+penguin+04.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuphpGK6U1-OgpIy0fr98H7yE2Nyq0w01fU-FU2On7Kvi50d12E7vy9oQUNVFGN844qrlHOUcIo1jsVYGMMVzJh_owDLtsyn5zBxf6YsvKn9Wm3Kv6YVIjZHrA9IW0SqqMWH4vbi9tWE0/s1600-h/Dsc_5772.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359999617839554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuphpGK6U1-OgpIy0fr98H7yE2Nyq0w01fU-FU2On7Kvi50d12E7vy9oQUNVFGN844qrlHOUcIo1jsVYGMMVzJh_owDLtsyn5zBxf6YsvKn9Wm3Kv6YVIjZHrA9IW0SqqMWH4vbi9tWE0/s320/Dsc_5772.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfosl02XoXI0_4K7WoSNwROvYd3zFdqzpMAfcSgFDsQLIvyzZ46uZazMqEffnU7sQ_ja696ALlU_smtmw8bH12aj3PUVwZ30yzU1Lq8ZZKfgOSaUHwSLH5fjzdVBjeqkAIM1gM8re5u5U/s1600-h/Dsc_5752.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359996529711778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfosl02XoXI0_4K7WoSNwROvYd3zFdqzpMAfcSgFDsQLIvyzZ46uZazMqEffnU7sQ_ja696ALlU_smtmw8bH12aj3PUVwZ30yzU1Lq8ZZKfgOSaUHwSLH5fjzdVBjeqkAIM1gM8re5u5U/s320/Dsc_5752.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFwH8sxOenN37Z5KJJte36TaRqcZGswlp-0rm4zAp2b22PLlaJgMrtg7RLxNcmhGAbE8-_EbOKc9DqsszsNkMXGtzdgI6iz7A3xKmWYSIPj1TEd0E9qDEjriBcllQ5mB1rBALmT8dp3I/s1600-h/Dsc_5086.jpg"></a><br /><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9IUbU_OIO-ezgIK5WcAQVCadnof0IUpXMI2pnFAKz4UhCx3KSY28uhE1foK9h9EmvPBiLtxzKecWyWUqwHqJqTiFC7CF6q_35V8Psj1bCvAf9dbkG8MMqkQLZ4Qmo_DLU5oT8IdbZlg/s1600-h/IMG_2329.jpg"></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFwH8sxOenN37Z5KJJte36TaRqcZGswlp-0rm4zAp2b22PLlaJgMrtg7RLxNcmhGAbE8-_EbOKc9DqsszsNkMXGtzdgI6iz7A3xKmWYSIPj1TEd0E9qDEjriBcllQ5mB1rBALmT8dp3I/s1600-h/Dsc_5086.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311359997912925906" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFwH8sxOenN37Z5KJJte36TaRqcZGswlp-0rm4zAp2b22PLlaJgMrtg7RLxNcmhGAbE8-_EbOKc9DqsszsNkMXGtzdgI6iz7A3xKmWYSIPj1TEd0E9qDEjriBcllQ5mB1rBALmT8dp3I/s320/Dsc_5086.jpg" border="0" /></a> <p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9IUbU_OIO-ezgIK5WcAQVCadnof0IUpXMI2pnFAKz4UhCx3KSY28uhE1foK9h9EmvPBiLtxzKecWyWUqwHqJqTiFC7CF6q_35V8Psj1bCvAf9dbkG8MMqkQLZ4Qmo_DLU5oT8IdbZlg/s1600-h/IMG_2329.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311361233707066082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie9IUbU_OIO-ezgIK5WcAQVCadnof0IUpXMI2pnFAKz4UhCx3KSY28uhE1foK9h9EmvPBiLtxzKecWyWUqwHqJqTiFC7CF6q_35V8Psj1bCvAf9dbkG8MMqkQLZ4Qmo_DLU5oT8IdbZlg/s320/IMG_2329.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-78976545683456016672009-03-04T07:48:00.000-08:002009-03-04T15:01:19.363-08:00The Sun Is Going to Be Shining<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309365728903801106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLe7gxisWt6oIiq7EfpysS7ZkeT33JOHnALFEJ_GzLxbnRfRR8vb1M11IykEoIiRXlvC8u96C3KDh5jTHmHmHhM6DQU1rPaOQ0oyyMKN7X7xB7FoFZNsdEGL7iNQc8lvUV_5jIrKmxub4/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+133-white+road.JPG" border="0" /> Three hours on the bus, and finally we arrive at the Maya ruins that Tom and I have come to see. Ventura, our guide, ushers us out of the bus. We follow him along dusty roads to the entrance of a long-deserted city. He gathers us in a half-circle and sweeps his hand across his body. “When the Maya get across the peninsula of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnNp5R-SO68dwjc3J2Kn5_1-y-PmvYpEdrw_0hDIRk3ZLUjOrLiFIc3dUtboOvnqT4y3JLZSxI5JMD7Dqpd403C1mfoDAV9USN5vgLLWgzU6pMWOX_6TucCVc_EECWNTrJwLa9tVl1LA/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+058.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309367568030424642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnNp5R-SO68dwjc3J2Kn5_1-y-PmvYpEdrw_0hDIRk3ZLUjOrLiFIc3dUtboOvnqT4y3JLZSxI5JMD7Dqpd403C1mfoDAV9USN5vgLLWgzU6pMWOX_6TucCVc_EECWNTrJwLa9tVl1LA/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+058.JPG" border="0" /></a>Yucatán,” he says. “They walk. That because no rivers out there. That’s why the construction of the streets. We can see that one over there.” He points. <em>“Sac-bay.</em> The name of this. <em>Sac,</em> Maya for white. <em>Bay,</em> Maya for road-e. White Road-e.” Ventura’s accent is like music playing. “And they walk-ed from one city to another. From Chichén Itzá to Tulum.”<br /><br />“Only the lee-ders live in-si-dee the ci-tee,” Ventura tells us because, in times of war, the invaders only killed the leaders. The common people, they worked<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsx63n506oaahs2QAJKZykZUP55dtu2th1n21tIG-z-gkfcDhVfogqqMIy1o-lM6hU_AZemH2H9GmGgryHffS50h4f2wpwX0cdQcf0uyDjjJo2bSAkUVoR0UUQnjUH7N70Fq3xLePjKyE/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+095.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309366635509535634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsx63n506oaahs2QAJKZykZUP55dtu2th1n21tIG-z-gkfcDhVfogqqMIy1o-lM6hU_AZemH2H9GmGgryHffS50h4f2wpwX0cdQcf0uyDjjJo2bSAkUVoR0UUQnjUH7N70Fq3xLePjKyE/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+095.JPG" border="0" /></a>. Ventura smiles. “So the leaders, they don’t kill the workers. The workers live out-si-dee the city walls.”<br /><br />The conquered people often adopted the gods of their invaders because a god that could lead an army to victory was powerful, deserving of some respect and attention. In fact, many of the temples of Tulum are dedicated to Kukulkan, but his origins are uncertain. Later invasions probably resulted in some blending of Kukulkan and the primary god of the Aztecs, Quetzalcoatl. A Mayan merger of sorts. Not so different from the lee-ders of today, I think.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhONkK-YJIbv0u5H_BbIikx0t7mo7riz0i3NjyrvUg-zRdKli-hMTcmVqXki77G_0pOeiC5JWDYdF8KfCqQByqL19K7IfM_q-qR7Sg1DQ-Jh1vPpjT8u3HNRAIqbHegKergwBVQeary_mE/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+060.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309368103825102162" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhONkK-YJIbv0u5H_BbIikx0t7mo7riz0i3NjyrvUg-zRdKli-hMTcmVqXki77G_0pOeiC5JWDYdF8KfCqQByqL19K7IfM_q-qR7Sg1DQ-Jh1vPpjT8u3HNRAIqbHegKergwBVQeary_mE/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+060.JPG" border="0" /></a> Ventura points to the eastern side of the city, where the temple of Kukulkan towers above the rest of the ruins. “This is where the lee-der sits and watches the people and thinks,” he tells us.<br /><br />But it is to the little temple to the left that Ventura directs our attention. “The amazing of this,” he says, his words more lyrical than notes wafting from a flute, “is that the astronomers capture the mo-ment of the sun in the two solstices. In the two solstices the sun is going to be seen inside of the temple.”<br /><br /><em>In the space between yesterday and today, Kukulkan rises, drawing the sun across the sky, bringing life. I stand beneath the Mayan god who brings light, and I wonder how a people who understood the movement of the planets and the stars, who charted the fragile journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdvrtZHTutaM0nYrabg8yO7hMqOnhMnXQtygVodmjNV8wMnFzbF_vCIoYsxtn9nRT2b3gXXjCe580_w-vtdz7moZi1X-dZ_l-F0F9tAifFbIkJW1OcbTb6rwKUnxFypvWY_mfLvftw_Q/s1600-h/the+sun+is+going+to+be+shining.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309368689666830418" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 218px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisdvrtZHTutaM0nYrabg8yO7hMqOnhMnXQtygVodmjNV8wMnFzbF_vCIoYsxtn9nRT2b3gXXjCe580_w-vtdz7moZi1X-dZ_l-F0F9tAifFbIkJW1OcbTb6rwKUnxFypvWY_mfLvftw_Q/s320/the+sun+is+going+to+be+shining.jpg" border="0" /></a> of our own little planet through space and time could believe that this god or any other demanded the life blood of his subjects in exchange for his light.</em><br /><br /><em></em><em>A little voice , perhaps Kukulkan himself, whispers in my ear: “It is so different from other religious wars,” he says, “wars fought and people killed to bring the Word of the One God to unbelievers?”</em><br /><br /><em>I don’t think he needs an answer, so I give none. </em><br /><em></em><br />Ventura explains the Maya perception of heaven—nine levels of hell and four of heaven. The noble class was guaranteed a place in heaven, but the average citizen could hope, at best, to land in one of the upper levels of hell. For the majority of the population, the only hope of ascension to a better place was through stardom (as a sacrifice to the gods) or sports.<br /><br /><div>Tulum has no ball court for playing <em>pitz,</em> the Mayan ballgame that could end in the death of one or more players. Ventura tells us a little of the game. Spectator sports have never been top of the list for me, and my mind wanders out to sea, up to the sky. Ventura yanks me back to present moment, though, when he says that it was the winner of the game who offered his life to the gods. The captain of the losing team cut his opponent’s head off.*</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XnQYtpCVUcducYnnkje9Fg86s-L8moN6YS1kto0vLOk-ppzOB4WECdY5TL3dVEuZplkCMYKvn3ZHm3s1Koj16744xaZ77gE0CBd5ZpDsqrajMoJV-rDC24Bu0pOCvHEM7vSsltMUvsI/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+088.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309369577903528194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XnQYtpCVUcducYnnkje9Fg86s-L8moN6YS1kto0vLOk-ppzOB4WECdY5TL3dVEuZplkCMYKvn3ZHm3s1Koj16744xaZ77gE0CBd5ZpDsqrajMoJV-rDC24Bu0pOCvHEM7vSsltMUvsI/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+088.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div>“Can you imagine that going on today?” I say to my brother. “A CEO orchestrates a merger or acquisition, and the CEO of the “winning” company gets to cut his head off?” </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>We chuckly at the impact this would have on modern-day, enterprising nobility.</div><div><br /></div><div>“That ought to be an episode of South Park,” I say.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tom points his finger, assuming the identity of Cartman, one of South Park’s stars. “But wait,” Tom-as-Cartman says, “I won.” He shakes his finger. “You must respect my a-thor-e-TIE.” Rules are rules, though, and Cartman loses his head. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbgesEj7_eDqwQskHC_Rl6pNsIm9_zcOqifZBy-urzsHJJD19x5epUfc1K5TNlvtKCuZaZL_8RLtUX4FiU2ursQamCi3-gpD1fvMHMgmpGZcWN4q2SJC7KuEl9m9zMj2cVIiTDMBMfTM/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+127.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309370086957586194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbgesEj7_eDqwQskHC_Rl6pNsIm9_zcOqifZBy-urzsHJJD19x5epUfc1K5TNlvtKCuZaZL_8RLtUX4FiU2ursQamCi3-gpD1fvMHMgmpGZcWN4q2SJC7KuEl9m9zMj2cVIiTDMBMfTM/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+127.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Ventura ushers us along, stopping in front of another temple. I am still lost in the <em>why, why, why</em> would the winner want to die?</div><div><br /></div><div>While we examine the stone tablet that was a book, and I consider carrying one of those stone blocks to class, the thought seeps in that perhaps the Mayans valued something more than life. To win at <em>pitz</em> was to assure one’s place in paradise. After all, in the end, as Kukulkan sets on the last day of our life, what can we carry with us but the memory of how we lived?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6F-roviD0AFvw0hPUXFkMiXDCRujg8Z9KXiW-QOs8x31AHLp1itWO3uevEwqePbhdndn7vWCpt-4bbCAlS_VxThgciCgnCZFtUIZZFbu7UhWiDfHneIsOibwc3DjwhRX0yqX-dgw1DA/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+086.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309370576638219218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR6F-roviD0AFvw0hPUXFkMiXDCRujg8Z9KXiW-QOs8x31AHLp1itWO3uevEwqePbhdndn7vWCpt-4bbCAlS_VxThgciCgnCZFtUIZZFbu7UhWiDfHneIsOibwc3DjwhRX0yqX-dgw1DA/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+086.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">(*This is not what I found on many of the websites dedicated to the topic. Most say that the a noble was pitted against a starved and drugged slave so that he could show off his prowess in a risk-free environment, or that the losing team was killed as a sacrifice. It’s a testament to our times, I think, that we assume the loser lost his head rather than the other way around.)</span></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7xpdKFsr4_3PoCF3exjvd_g0oux2WseIv7HyGFwlYHQ_ivTR3jFK43bF7kfyfMBLISUv6huH4nmnLV1_tlPMIPWC-83owS3EyiwEalKwNslwCS39XvpuM443u7xn7buRTkirrRi7rbY/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+132.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309370984037615042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7xpdKFsr4_3PoCF3exjvd_g0oux2WseIv7HyGFwlYHQ_ivTR3jFK43bF7kfyfMBLISUv6huH4nmnLV1_tlPMIPWC-83owS3EyiwEalKwNslwCS39XvpuM443u7xn7buRTkirrRi7rbY/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+132.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4B2GZPXCuPxgf7Sau9wI5l4h5cyZ4PQSM48EH-dmzzRyg4s47jUigz8MMbjkP4IDVVR9qoPU-SXhAzsVC6HCvBQN3xFeg4GUcjUHKtkmWvt-PBUEjwvNPaSPBWX2eQAynF54NAsmSdk/s1600-h/2009+Feb+Cancun+128.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309370979851326114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4B2GZPXCuPxgf7Sau9wI5l4h5cyZ4PQSM48EH-dmzzRyg4s47jUigz8MMbjkP4IDVVR9qoPU-SXhAzsVC6HCvBQN3xFeg4GUcjUHKtkmWvt-PBUEjwvNPaSPBWX2eQAynF54NAsmSdk/s320/2009+Feb+Cancun+128.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div><div></div><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-27857146545875827912009-02-24T08:45:00.000-08:002009-02-24T09:15:38.069-08:00Swim with the Dolphins<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yHkDchil0N5xLJNUGW68FcWxQWhxe8Yhi8QAhZvFbN4IGbFLqDVn_gUgCrAuaOKJf9tUzrOO8I-cLejC2y62EjxyJnBhgddbHSe7zf0rvcq8WZVq5bUwAySMtcDmN-qQbhsNMNIeAoQ/s1600-h/25d25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306406547688350530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yHkDchil0N5xLJNUGW68FcWxQWhxe8Yhi8QAhZvFbN4IGbFLqDVn_gUgCrAuaOKJf9tUzrOO8I-cLejC2y62EjxyJnBhgddbHSe7zf0rvcq8WZVq5bUwAySMtcDmN-qQbhsNMNIeAoQ/s320/25d25.jpg" border="0" /></a>My brother and I climb down the ladder, shivering as we submerge ourselves in the water. The Caribbean water is warm as oceans go, and maybe the shivers are more excitement than chill. In the pool to the south of us, four dolphins leap into the air, twirl above the heads of half a dozen visitors, and dive. The visitors squeal and clap.<br /><br />The dolphin trainer blows his whistle and waves his hands. “Swim to the middle of the pool,” he says, “turn around, and face me.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMx0EIkwJhtABSa1E8RdaUq8iifcS5TAaOJmxAYGCONVjoaoNFatvYwIjFEYe9hxco3d8L-naTbzrnJw2jTFNLKqYR6fDp15GjQah4R4QXGbzZc4aoOjRUohyZhohd0pEHNtklME6GCkQ/s1600-h/35a25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306406704922025202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMx0EIkwJhtABSa1E8RdaUq8iifcS5TAaOJmxAYGCONVjoaoNFatvYwIjFEYe9hxco3d8L-naTbzrnJw2jTFNLKqYR6fDp15GjQah4R4QXGbzZc4aoOjRUohyZhohd0pEHNtklME6GCkQ/s320/35a25.jpg" border="0" /></a>The six of us—Leone and Lyle, Kathleen and Bill, Tom and I—obey his command. Sunlight shimmers on the water. To the left and right all I can see are bright eyes and smiles. The water laps against our life vests. I hold my breath. Behind me I hear a splash. Water sprays down, and I glance up. Arched pink bellies gleam like morning sky.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvHVWqucm2nvZ9zP3BG5k-IAVfhX3sLb-bhvnEMdRoTGOxDh5BFnW-L8I9INLT7CDNLXDtkE2xV2WzRJ1yMBuvdFLaL-m8X5wZW-bVUigoQoMxmBkWYa0AoqBZRveDSVzvGvp-1UIdOI/s1600-h/14k25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306407815494532402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvHVWqucm2nvZ9zP3BG5k-IAVfhX3sLb-bhvnEMdRoTGOxDh5BFnW-L8I9INLT7CDNLXDtkE2xV2WzRJ1yMBuvdFLaL-m8X5wZW-bVUigoQoMxmBkWYa0AoqBZRveDSVzvGvp-1UIdOI/s320/14k25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHioY0sM1dNxjgk9iYyqk09n3pSBpJvKkEZmDB0Cy5IMifLjEMgC7BTmy_b9K2p5kF8gYzbvLKFAI30leLy9JcK8u-EHJPwWfjc5NX2xPWoUHWZ97JOHnRdsXcySBipsbgC_GtdjmNIk/s1600-h/17k25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306407819466001298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHioY0sM1dNxjgk9iYyqk09n3pSBpJvKkEZmDB0Cy5IMifLjEMgC7BTmy_b9K2p5kF8gYzbvLKFAI30leLy9JcK8u-EHJPwWfjc5NX2xPWoUHWZ97JOHnRdsXcySBipsbgC_GtdjmNIk/s320/17k25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilMBep91gmIQVig5mm4MnPf0lPfnO_1U9wCtkzdLyrJs4zRvkdkZ7_j8kdUx6eU31cHNsHjJyEhPveIZVUhDKzz5sOOwH3KPodCT4dYksId6iK6gF7asVf19zSv5WQLb8pA2TqAhLVtD0/s1600-h/19t25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306407824949851026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilMBep91gmIQVig5mm4MnPf0lPfnO_1U9wCtkzdLyrJs4zRvkdkZ7_j8kdUx6eU31cHNsHjJyEhPveIZVUhDKzz5sOOwH3KPodCT4dYksId6iK6gF7asVf19zSv5WQLb8pA2TqAhLVtD0/s320/19t25.jpg" border="0" /></a>During the next hour we are kissed by Box (pronounced Bush) and Nuk. We hug them. We dance and sing with the dolphins. We play games. We splash them; Box and Nuk splash back. The dolphins push us across the pool, lifting us until we are airborne and we fly across the water. The dolphins click and squeal; the humans clap and cheer.</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwu7kam9I6uHP-QwaKofxNOItxA0sZ5T2rtBB-1mUG0fBsqWFJlJaxQOjN-nCbvQ1Lpu_G482qaoooFhywZTBvxKFkZQ8ejxXFDF9L_Fr6NidNM-ZcbELLFU7WFh2przZ4sBzCCuBs18A/s1600-h/21t25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306407320864329650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwu7kam9I6uHP-QwaKofxNOItxA0sZ5T2rtBB-1mUG0fBsqWFJlJaxQOjN-nCbvQ1Lpu_G482qaoooFhywZTBvxKFkZQ8ejxXFDF9L_Fr6NidNM-ZcbELLFU7WFh2przZ4sBzCCuBs18A/s320/21t25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYRz0ESFUksMV9LoLEvb5AD5ZQrGMITizDfF0oTY79shnFsSI1rQz29AMFTQ_ASssMxwdx2pJDTWglP2RVmV-JoJq3NlfKba05Pv_hZ6TYfJwiBuBkQbA6WysuSbBYbkWyNz46Isiuw8/s1600-h/33t25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306408835580348994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYRz0ESFUksMV9LoLEvb5AD5ZQrGMITizDfF0oTY79shnFsSI1rQz29AMFTQ_ASssMxwdx2pJDTWglP2RVmV-JoJq3NlfKba05Pv_hZ6TYfJwiBuBkQbA6WysuSbBYbkWyNz46Isiuw8/s320/33t25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00CrtUyrp6zTIS_DzVIjhch7nrbUvQepnYWANG9Dei74uhENDF32-SAtHt_gKudASbVZ_D34MRza0FXK0-MJtGRyfSjNI8q-OAZ7rcyhrz5LBreuoB-zYLu2q-GIDNqAxYqeb08dR0ec/s1600-h/30k25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306408829138046258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00CrtUyrp6zTIS_DzVIjhch7nrbUvQepnYWANG9Dei74uhENDF32-SAtHt_gKudASbVZ_D34MRza0FXK0-MJtGRyfSjNI8q-OAZ7rcyhrz5LBreuoB-zYLu2q-GIDNqAxYqeb08dR0ec/s320/30k25.jpg" border="0" /></a>These creatures are well cared for and loved by their trainers. The affection between them shows in gentle flicks of water that sprays the dock, in eyes wide open and curious. They swim figure eights through the line of visitors bobbing in the water and patiently allow us to touch their sleek, firm bodies.<br /><br />Somewhere I read that dolphin females choose when to become fertile. Many dolphins and whales don’t breed in captivity, but at Delfinus, five calves have been born. A record. One that indicates the dolphins are content and at peace with their lives.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhe2pz2-eCpKOzdEvyOstD9qogL6vQBgeAHMw5pgXhdAsBRt6I3gxO0SVXRTsshipfkf0c-Pp086qasptaEHJnNZ9uFQ4RfLn_vUSyNRwPeo-eTuHqqhsE0cFfDwt_mrfzPZe7QchpcA/s1600-h/35a25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306411334055378114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhe2pz2-eCpKOzdEvyOstD9qogL6vQBgeAHMw5pgXhdAsBRt6I3gxO0SVXRTsshipfkf0c-Pp086qasptaEHJnNZ9uFQ4RfLn_vUSyNRwPeo-eTuHqqhsE0cFfDwt_mrfzPZe7QchpcA/s320/35a25.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div><br />Allied with the word’s most successful hunters, they no longer fall prey to fishermen’s nets. They no longer wander through oil slicks or islands of garbage floating in the sea. In exchange for tricks and human touch they receive the 40 to 60 pounds of fish they need to consume each day. They seek out human company as well as that of their own kind. They are affectionate and playful.<br /></div><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLylUD2N-plkqtZynQ7OLmQssE7dtnOmev5hy9L4TvMUv3qGSjVdOHf-mvs8pUNqO-xDyTWA41RwJuFq66ZISb4mCEuJK8tVOsvDyWipp-J3htFI_ecq9o4D3XuQxTkEsq7f0qgYiLLA/s1600-h/46k25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306411645299546594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLylUD2N-plkqtZynQ7OLmQssE7dtnOmev5hy9L4TvMUv3qGSjVdOHf-mvs8pUNqO-xDyTWA41RwJuFq66ZISb4mCEuJK8tVOsvDyWipp-J3htFI_ecq9o4D3XuQxTkEsq7f0qgYiLLA/s320/46k25.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh8Z2VyTJoqeQBEhKFdpd_I5jI0Gg15-BolMwDTIYmYdFCOzld7yMVBsRq5PVzoFW4D7oy2b1uUD4HCrb4oR02gt1LQyoYUjQnUBiWwAJEAe08zSqa95zYCkH5TVf7e2afIDwGaHUuE0/s1600-h/48t25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306411646113055794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRh8Z2VyTJoqeQBEhKFdpd_I5jI0Gg15-BolMwDTIYmYdFCOzld7yMVBsRq5PVzoFW4D7oy2b1uUD4HCrb4oR02gt1LQyoYUjQnUBiWwAJEAe08zSqa95zYCkH5TVf7e2afIDwGaHUuE0/s320/48t25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />The scars that mark Nuk’s back and dorsal fin are a testament to their power. One-on-one, in the water that is their home, they have the advantage. They choose not to use it against us, even though—based on their brain to body size ratio, they may be intelligent to understand the harm we wreak in the oceans of the world. I wonder if they have sacrificed their freedom to teach us to love what we do not understand.</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbTGaZ6-sTHTHiWRFP1jaSXOmgw0Gw7g4w2hz-Vkw4dyeebPtLr9OhAL-U40K1ZMFgNMZM2gojc8aIvvnhyY8FsH-9RHr-t4s6MRngb87sk2vw389jFMrCsLr4iunx0gOZCxWSSYL5lU/s1600-h/53t25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306412172030984546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbTGaZ6-sTHTHiWRFP1jaSXOmgw0Gw7g4w2hz-Vkw4dyeebPtLr9OhAL-U40K1ZMFgNMZM2gojc8aIvvnhyY8FsH-9RHr-t4s6MRngb87sk2vw389jFMrCsLr4iunx0gOZCxWSSYL5lU/s320/53t25.jpg" border="0" /></a> <p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IyfIy6vWWPBfaRM01H3xXgXOqvcVSWcZgY7WE6QDI58jCRxwwOADj1ximShIZyHiflDZNpKPNfgxl1rVrNOENQzzNVKwYonX-G7Y47nfjDlSUyVbQjqEZgiko5d81qK1iXTi6pjMn54/s1600-h/45k25.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306412182270873810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-IyfIy6vWWPBfaRM01H3xXgXOqvcVSWcZgY7WE6QDI58jCRxwwOADj1ximShIZyHiflDZNpKPNfgxl1rVrNOENQzzNVKwYonX-G7Y47nfjDlSUyVbQjqEZgiko5d81qK1iXTi6pjMn54/s320/45k25.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-85038891080029639742009-02-13T15:38:00.000-08:002009-02-13T15:50:05.293-08:00Off the Beaten Track<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlnA8zeyfuwLwrAH2JvZtpaucS9nR7Xzonk6YkeYid26eQFkSPjNvFIhiK_f8yd3X6Wp0SHs0CR1ZmHacGR8yyGr2n2hyBftKU9Uq5xtMWcQTuZ4uYhKE-Wm2yOVba3n-wqFZ41scxGI/s1600-h/08Joinville_toucan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302431058783705730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlnA8zeyfuwLwrAH2JvZtpaucS9nR7Xzonk6YkeYid26eQFkSPjNvFIhiK_f8yd3X6Wp0SHs0CR1ZmHacGR8yyGr2n2hyBftKU9Uq5xtMWcQTuZ4uYhKE-Wm2yOVba3n-wqFZ41scxGI/s320/08Joinville_toucan.jpg" border="0" /></a>One of my trips to Brazil took me to a little town called Joinville in the Santa Catarina region of the country. When I asked the concierge what sights the city offered to enliven a Sunday afternoon, he wrinkled his nose. “Joinville isn’t really a tourist destination,” he said.<br /><br /><div><div><div>Sometimes those are the best tourist destinations of all.</div><br /><div>You find yourself acting like a funky-looking local. You wander the mall, eat at a churrascaria, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnEXVFqvJnKI1sT7S2B0gx_BTyNdkVaGz1vED-l9zDhyphenhyphenisxUZ-aqAHJ1ku72yzv9yfbqF2T3yuyxsyiLeUDSCHIT5czP7wu76Fxe1LftEhJ5P2iUgfbDizlcE_qsTxl4jOd2ZbGbY6eQ/s1600-h/08Joinvilleroad01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302431241869331026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnEXVFqvJnKI1sT7S2B0gx_BTyNdkVaGz1vED-l9zDhyphenhyphenisxUZ-aqAHJ1ku72yzv9yfbqF2T3yuyxsyiLeUDSCHIT5czP7wu76Fxe1LftEhJ5P2iUgfbDizlcE_qsTxl4jOd2ZbGbY6eQ/s320/08Joinvilleroad01.jpg" border="0" /></a>visit the local zoo-park. The concierge has warned you the place doesn’t have many animals, but you find animals that don’t reside in your local zoo. You watch mothers bounce their babies in their arms and you learn the Portuguese word, <em>arara,</em> for a bird that looks like a parrot but maybe is a distant cousin. The mother says this over and over: <em>A-ra-ra, a-ra-ra, a-ra-ra.</em> You learn with the baby. You don’t know the word for the bird in your own language, but now you know it in a foreign language. There’s no translating. Now you speak Portuguese. Disney World has never done that f<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiliH1ViMr00abtJQP0U3EF4zBQEazcFm-gi9SnNko0W-JFM2mq0KlhpDx3n7bneFYslX2H2oy1wi_EwIZe3O3xeEERHPMjupqmXmFpf2MKSr4tkDKi22eGCqBBdb8BA84a9njPBQAsQ/s1600-h/08Joinville_zoo01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302431510656317330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 287px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiliH1ViMr00abtJQP0U3EF4zBQEazcFm-gi9SnNko0W-JFM2mq0KlhpDx3n7bneFYslX2H2oy1wi_EwIZe3O3xeEERHPMjupqmXmFpf2MKSr4tkDKi22eGCqBBdb8BA84a9njPBQAsQ/s320/08Joinville_zoo01.jpg" border="0" /></a>or you. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br />You follow couples and families and gaggles of teenagers, winding into deep green rain forest, staring up at trees with leaves like fans. You look at the plants growing beside the road and recognize some you have blooming in pots set on your windowsill. Here your potted plants grown to the size of trees. You only know two or three words in Portuguese so you can’t ask where you are or where you’re going. You can’t check how long it will take to get there or what to expect when and if you arrive. You can only live in the moment, be in the moment, experience what is, without expectation.</div><br /><div>At the end of the road, cars line the shoulder, umbrella shaded stands sell lemonade, bottled water, and <em>Guarana, </em>the Portuguese version of Mountain Dew. You hand over one of your bills, five <em>reais,</em> and you hope the coins that the woman drops into your hand are the righ<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmR2b2HMHL9WE1J3aVqDf65bxeUsTfo7aFh3LvvQPYpmZc4jH-dy0FUyXve_XBc3UhI5SS6HIN_hfleHQLz2DI8sh7tOKp6TXqsmjPkzN3_3XF0xJESkk9QYUwzGnFSSw5lBiptmjhVU/s1600-h/08+Joinville_landscape01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302431972119303426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmR2b2HMHL9WE1J3aVqDf65bxeUsTfo7aFh3LvvQPYpmZc4jH-dy0FUyXve_XBc3UhI5SS6HIN_hfleHQLz2DI8sh7tOKp6TXqsmjPkzN3_3XF0xJESkk9QYUwzGnFSSw5lBiptmjhVU/s320/08+Joinville_landscape01.jpg" border="0" /></a>t change because it’s embarrassing to peer at each little coin. You tilt your head, your eyes rolling up toward the sky as you try and count each piece of copper and silver to see if you’ve got the right change back. You take your drink and climb the spiral stairs to the top of the world where you can see rolling carpets of green, rivers spilling into the sea, mountains swirled in mist, the sun slipping between blue sky above and blue water below. Looking straight down makes you dizzy, so you peer at the horizon and know that tomorrow will find you, right where you are, wherever you are.</div></div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-24982320545552555502009-02-02T07:58:00.000-08:002009-02-02T08:29:56.486-08:00Into Africa<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wIkV_90QZVLR0uvH4iQRSPhbjAZpJWvJA_LYVXhIdlsDD0Gjl93EI76dKyfFU2tA0YVPfvxnVBvWf72qxTV6PFJP3mz4OLToEViWPOFqQqvMZbw75BnoqccUNNh018mZYq3ZWWHyCpY/s1600-h/08+Jul+Morocco+mosque+tower.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298233203432028146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wIkV_90QZVLR0uvH4iQRSPhbjAZpJWvJA_LYVXhIdlsDD0Gjl93EI76dKyfFU2tA0YVPfvxnVBvWf72qxTV6PFJP3mz4OLToEViWPOFqQqvMZbw75BnoqccUNNh018mZYq3ZWWHyCpY/s320/08+Jul+Morocco+mosque+tower.jpg" border="0" /></a>My first time on the African continent and the sixth of seven continents to touch down upon. One to go (Australia), but in the spirit of staying in the moment… <div><div> </div><div>My favorite memory is of the Men in Black that stood stiff-backed and ominous inside and outside the hotel in Casablanca, the cords of their white earbuds trailing into the pockets of their dress shirts and covered by black suits. (Sorry, no pictures.) </div><div><br /></div><div>They lent a true sense of adventure to the trip, though Morocco is one of the safer countries for US citizens visiting Africa. They also saved me from being price gouged by the red-taxi drivers, though on return trips to the hotel I benefitted from no such protection.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_YcRKinnTWIxM7ThN4r0qDESIPKBD538S0GSNbthUkdqxXuggWrrAfDaJ_85FGoTpEwTuEi-k_YR9eg0JgJedNCEWvYYsqdmLoDVxLEDLRxFi8uHbhjoDe4R4MK-LHYdGcY8Noj4QRs/s1600-h/08Jul+Morocco+Ricks+Cafe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298232599079536338" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 310px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_YcRKinnTWIxM7ThN4r0qDESIPKBD538S0GSNbthUkdqxXuggWrrAfDaJ_85FGoTpEwTuEi-k_YR9eg0JgJedNCEWvYYsqdmLoDVxLEDLRxFi8uHbhjoDe4R4MK-LHYdGcY8Noj4QRs/s320/08Jul+Morocco+Ricks+Cafe.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Visitors to Morocco ought to choose a city other than Casa Blanca if they want a true sense of the country, but I never ventured farther than the mosque, Rick’s Café, and the medina (the old market) just across the street from the hotel. </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>If you ever visit, be sure to drop by the mosque, but if you want to go inside, check the hours because there are only a few hours on specific days when visitors are allowed inside the mosque. But even from the outside the architecture is stunning and the tower rises above all the other buildings in the city. </div><div><br /> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLMQB3veEZHLJXq-O4YojJ2KEcPEkSJIILA-8QzjyJaP9OQZujUHxHZXpwIPEe6klpsjfhkKIYqDzQoPAVJnK-sOHoe5im9O9EWqZozyuPcRWNr7sihZ7tNPSYXhBUt04YYUYc5eSUyw/s1600-h/08+Jul+Morocco+mosque01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298231280241847714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 227px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLMQB3veEZHLJXq-O4YojJ2KEcPEkSJIILA-8QzjyJaP9OQZujUHxHZXpwIPEe6klpsjfhkKIYqDzQoPAVJnK-sOHoe5im9O9EWqZozyuPcRWNr7sihZ7tNPSYXhBUt04YYUYc5eSUyw/s320/08+Jul+Morocco+mosque01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Women are expected to pay particular attention to their manner of dress when they reach puberty, but this can be interpreted in many different ways, from a simple head covering to leaving only the hands visible. </div><div></div><div><br />Casablanca is a cosmopolitan city situated on the Atlantic Ocean, with lots of sun, good restaurants, an old and a new medina, a modern (possibly the most modern) mosque, and the unforgettable Rick’s Café from the movie named after the city. But my favorite memories continue to be the red taxis and the Men in Black.</div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-24908920356441940172009-01-31T12:32:00.000-08:002009-02-02T08:25:13.010-08:00Time Travel: ColombiaI’m going to time travel for a few entries because I’ve been a lot of places in the past six months. Today, in fact, is my six-month anniversary of fast-tracking going places I’ve never been before. So I’m going to go back to my second trip, because I didn’t take any pictures or go anywhere particular the first time. The first trip, for the record was to Costa Rica. I hope I get back there someday.<br /><br />Trip number two was Colombia, where I have now been twice. But the first time I actually saw something besides the airport and the hotel.<br /><br />This probably isn’t a worthy travel goal, but one of the things that I liked about Colombia, once I got over the State Department Report to US citizens traveling internationally, was how people looked at me when I said I’d been to Colombia.<br /><br />“You went where?” they said.<br /><br />“To Colombia,” I said, “the country, not the city in Ohio.” I paused for effect. “It’s a beautiful place.”<br /><br />“Weren’t you scared?” they said.<br /><br />“Not really,” I lied. “It’s not like they say,” I added, truthfully this time. I like for people to think that I have more courage than the average person, but I don’t. The people of Colombia are gracious, kind, welcoming, and intelligent.<br /><br />The most asked question I got in Colombia was, “So…did they tell you we were dangerous?”<br />Hands clasped behind my back, I looked at my new shoes, and debated whether or not to cross my fingers and lie or to tell the truth. “Yes,” I said finally, deciding on the truth, “they did say it was dangerous. The State Department doesn’t recommend traveling here, but,” I added, “I don’t find it like that at all.”<br /><br />Maybe I shouldn’t start my description of this country with its biggest detractor, violence, but that is where all conversations on the subject of Colombia begin, so let’s get it out of the way.<br />It is true that the country ranks high in criminal violence, but the United States is also in the top 25. Nevada topped the list of most dangerous states for 2008, and that doesn’t seem to stop the influx of visitors to the gambling capital of the US. Oddly enough, Iran, Iraq, Israel, and Lebanon don’t even make the list of the top 50. That may be more a function of crime reporting than the actual prevalence of violence. Colombia is also home to one of the most notorious terrorist groups in the Americas, but they have been beaten back into the jungle since President Uribe implemented his program of democratic security. The key to safety in Colombia is common sense.<br /><br />Bogota is possibly one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. Perhaps I feel that way about it because it has so much in common with Colorado Springs—snuggled up against the mountains, 2000 meters above the sea. But unlike Colorado it’s not a semi-desert. The trees are lush and growing so close together that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Flower bloom from cracks in the sidewalks and spring from the foundations of the buildings. It is the sort of place where you could believe that Jack of Jack-and-the-Beanstalk threw a handful of seeds out his window and woke the next morning to find a vine that climbed into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.<br /><br />The city is home to a wonderful museum dedicated to the fantastical painter Botero, who painted everything fat—women with huge thighs, horses with broad chests and legs as wide as Greek columns. He paints the fear and hatred that swell inside us until it becomes larger than we are, too big for us to contain.<br /><br /><strong>Correction:</strong> I previously implied that Botero was from Bogota. He is from Medellin, another city I hope to visit one day. Thank you for the post clarifying that point. I don't know who it was so I cannot give credit where credit is due.)<br /><br />Then there is the Museo de Oro that intertwines the history of a lost people with the obsessive grip that gold has over the conquerors. The Incas wore gold and paid cash in salt. That in fact is the origin of the word “salary”—sal, salt, salary. The salt of the earth was, for the Incas, salt. For the conquerors it was gold, but the Inca caciques wore gold. They attached it to their heads and ears and noses and hung massive plates of gold from around their necks. They coated their buildings in gold so that as the sun rose over the mountain peaks, their cities shimmered like honey in rising light.<br /><br />And then, perhaps two hours from the capital city, hidden deep beneath the earth is the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá. On a path that takes you three hundred feet below the surface are carved the Stations of the Cross. The journey culminates in a cathedral that is carved from the crystallized salt and can hold 8000 people. The cross behind the altar is a trick of light and imagination. From a distance it appears in 3D, a rounded column that stretches from floor to the immense, high ceiling of the cathedral. Traveling into the mine, I imagine Jesus during his three days of darkness, wandering in the heart of the earth. You can almost feel the weight of the world on your shoulders as you slip deeper and deeper into the mine. It is a place for leaving behind cares and worries, for letting the earth take hold of your fears, and for knowing that all will be well.<br /><br />Salt and gold mines are not the only wonders of the place. If ever there was a place that deserved the title Emerald City, surely it must be somewhere in Colombia. The country is the source of the most stunning emeralds found anywhere in the world. According to a geologist that I met on the plane coming home, emeralds shouldn’t even be pressed into existence here. They are a wonder among gemstones. Most emerald deposits occur near volcanoes, but there aren’t any volcanoes near the Colombian emerald deposits.<br /><br />“Why is that?” I said.<br /><br />“No one knows,” he replied. “It’s a mystery to be solved.”<br /><br />The whole of Colombia is a mystery. I don’t know if it’s a mystery I wanted solved, but it is a delight to step into the midst of it, to surround myself with the mists rising from the green mountains, to breathe, and to allow myself to be amazed.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-29654680549216359462008-02-27T20:53:00.001-08:002008-02-27T21:44:54.143-08:00Legacy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMQhsxRx9j9lO3HzWB8lLKHUHBTW13O4Kzhoys8xOeB6yTWmlAvp3ZGp4McYo1jO-tm2Y9Vv-fkUfYgnFhA7ZsPT8XYE3QNh70ae7EkVLwOIinwDLCikoL_NzNIurvaUyh0mZMjX560k/s1600-h/02+seymoure+journey+of+love02-sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171898724765210594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMQhsxRx9j9lO3HzWB8lLKHUHBTW13O4Kzhoys8xOeB6yTWmlAvp3ZGp4McYo1jO-tm2Y9Vv-fkUfYgnFhA7ZsPT8XYE3QNh70ae7EkVLwOIinwDLCikoL_NzNIurvaUyh0mZMjX560k/s320/02+seymoure+journey+of+love02-sm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div>During the two months that I spent in Antarctica I thought a lot about how our planet is changing. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLuT52IRMdAXhwUUGP0qZHNRutj4Hn_rYxCGfJ0WFnyIXQqhnFgII7zsinxIiugC1dcERJ6rzhdyARH0v3U2rev2S0E0nbljWGSHRaHBhwAPeq2RrWoxcJFxkCvoRjsDF2ONcTx06YvQ/s1600-h/02+seymoure+journey+of+love02-sm.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCskoKbOEC5Ih8EQoEWUJHfLo6M5t6TYW16jipNWlGMBQotYicvRcz53ZClcFTIzCgEM3ih9iqbDqLaZfRELEWRipL-bmGC_m_hpzndFLuteNmNs2VuxgnCGNrmpRJEZWwMHUXm1RnRM/s1600-h/04+add+to+the+beautysm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171898866499131378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCskoKbOEC5Ih8EQoEWUJHfLo6M5t6TYW16jipNWlGMBQotYicvRcz53ZClcFTIzCgEM3ih9iqbDqLaZfRELEWRipL-bmGC_m_hpzndFLuteNmNs2VuxgnCGNrmpRJEZWwMHUXm1RnRM/s320/04+add+to+the+beautysm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7E2uuHBwyVczQvsHzrxRDg4ZKa3cGo4SD50QQ9gtYSjouhKCFCl4Ax_qcOzyh64d6AKHbwks6oEx_SYwLCakap_IgDCFsenPZVlTHbczUqE8iLi_TCz4OyzJN1A72yF95lXE2B7nKxk/s1600-h/04+add+to+the+beautysm.jpg"></a><br /><br /><p align="left">How we are changing our planet.</p><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div></div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_zPIUIT7hw_2UlutVvtsMIbUIyHlpl2FDTX2NiBw0Jlc_HCR6rRpZ1OvnhMZ1JLKtKeAm_uTry6XXbc-C9wGnkDNPIlkYWp2SjjNq1Njbe8eDGEwJb88biN0LinFFHCjbpcx5W6LSiI/s1600-h/06+skies+of+firesm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171899240161286146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_zPIUIT7hw_2UlutVvtsMIbUIyHlpl2FDTX2NiBw0Jlc_HCR6rRpZ1OvnhMZ1JLKtKeAm_uTry6XXbc-C9wGnkDNPIlkYWp2SjjNq1Njbe8eDGEwJb88biN0LinFFHCjbpcx5W6LSiI/s320/06+skies+of+firesm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>How I hope future generations will remember mine... </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div align="right"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vFlPKJGWDWlil18P1Vx1xoJwNOqblE-qwkIygym4kVx-j6sp_kEf81tUiydIXzERnkR6AIO5o1DxVUlBMjGxvD1Pn7peLOCmMdtYJPN67gB4m1X7BaArdZxYXZquKjvJVeH2_XIKrWA/s1600-h/07+presence+of+beautysm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171899532219062290" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_vFlPKJGWDWlil18P1Vx1xoJwNOqblE-qwkIygym4kVx-j6sp_kEf81tUiydIXzERnkR6AIO5o1DxVUlBMjGxvD1Pn7peLOCmMdtYJPN67gB4m1X7BaArdZxYXZquKjvJVeH2_XIKrWA/s320/07+presence+of+beautysm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />...and what I want to leave as the memory of my life. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-80579592694748387962008-02-23T15:31:00.000-08:002008-02-23T15:42:05.307-08:00Searching for Bones<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN4EqQ719rcJQ-xOOTWaU3Wta0krIVRjZ3sQRclt5iEXA7rnh2oky1ilBHnG_S62FAvVVqTp7fuAhJbhBkNi0Kk-0sVG2Ps-FrWeVE-NIW9KtTkkO78jjEYfJY0Zxcql9WCUNskz1YfE/s1600-h/PICT0106.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170324829704623826" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAN4EqQ719rcJQ-xOOTWaU3Wta0krIVRjZ3sQRclt5iEXA7rnh2oky1ilBHnG_S62FAvVVqTp7fuAhJbhBkNi0Kk-0sVG2Ps-FrWeVE-NIW9KtTkkO78jjEYfJY0Zxcql9WCUNskz1YfE/s200/PICT0106.JPG" border="0" /></a>We wander across hills of dust searching for bones. The forests are gone, the wood turned to stone. Leaves, as faint as ghosts, glimmer in the rocks. Remnants of seashells crushed into the dirt crackle beneath our boots. Above us blue sky; below us brown earth, and mystery.<br /><br />What turned a forest into sand and rock?<br /><br />What stole the last sloth and sealed the last butterfly in amber?<br /><br />Who am I to a being so ancient that my life lasts no longer than a beat of her heart? When did the child begin to believe she owned the earth? Somewhere between the sun god and the logic of science, I have lost my place. This land that was rock, then forest, then ice, now dust, whispers away my worries.<br /><br />Her fingers slip past my layers of fleece and wool and wrap themselves around my neck, slide down my back. “My belly is fire,” she says, “and I can hold my breath forever.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsa-qY_eBrHAQvVth8f_z52IB5VGBGQOiwV-i70uJEemknQdMyYeH08jB6tsGGKXSQtWslCHr33V_wYtJs-3QThaFtUSCf0kDSZ3A6m_v5m6Y7sswEh7dJlelIncx-HPeSXui6FYnPJs/s1600-h/flemming-antarctica-2007-seymour+002+(94).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170324365848155842" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsa-qY_eBrHAQvVth8f_z52IB5VGBGQOiwV-i70uJEemknQdMyYeH08jB6tsGGKXSQtWslCHr33V_wYtJs-3QThaFtUSCf0kDSZ3A6m_v5m6Y7sswEh7dJlelIncx-HPeSXui6FYnPJs/s200/flemming-antarctica-2007-seymour+002+(94).JPG" border="0" /></a>I laugh, and my companions turn to see if I have discovered mammal bones amongst the seashells and shark teeth. I shake my head, and they turn back into the hills. I stick my fingers into her flesh. “Don’t let me change you.” I press my lips to her skin and let my tears fill the holes I made in her. ““I can’t hold my breath that long.”<br /><br />Who will step on the bones of my children 10 thousand million years from now? Who will wonder where they went, and why?<br /><br />Now the lady laughs and lifts her wings, disappearing like a butterfly in stone.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-47583377142797636042008-02-14T17:56:00.000-08:002008-02-14T19:28:44.301-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwkm2g1O0G1ppWndJxDZ1WJ_DQz6hVxUW-BofcdhywpCyPn8PK1sUfcuU_D0alDsXjuUMN4b5ioRvgyYS7tYzSgMv3KEzVGHgghzS3DHZ7zwFQIcmxm1Cit3Y06UO0l6kf03aN20NBNI/s1600-h/PICT0037.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167037766678943394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwkm2g1O0G1ppWndJxDZ1WJ_DQz6hVxUW-BofcdhywpCyPn8PK1sUfcuU_D0alDsXjuUMN4b5ioRvgyYS7tYzSgMv3KEzVGHgghzS3DHZ7zwFQIcmxm1Cit3Y06UO0l6kf03aN20NBNI/s200/PICT0037.JPG" border="0" /></a> I look back on the people I met while traveling the Antarctic regions, and today seems like a good day to reflect on what made them special. Life is so short, and one of the things that stands out about these people is that they aren’t afraid to live.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwobO_3ER0SEwOgHXJgDb75y2-ClIfUUQ_TWysNhBY1OIxdMSKWyrYx-G5ci68nhaDrbnskhu8wuHvXtHQkJa_IWXQCHfxrXUZ-i8krdV1qLhCeDxcyNrbS6wtQjrOjyqvqnFssBfay8/s1600-h/PICT0128.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167023069300856434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvwobO_3ER0SEwOgHXJgDb75y2-ClIfUUQ_TWysNhBY1OIxdMSKWyrYx-G5ci68nhaDrbnskhu8wuHvXtHQkJa_IWXQCHfxrXUZ-i8krdV1qLhCeDxcyNrbS6wtQjrOjyqvqnFssBfay8/s200/PICT0128.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div><div><div><div><div><br /><div>I mean to say that I admire people who follow their dreams, no matter how impossible they seem. They are people of Reasons Why, not people of Reasons Why Not. </div><br /><div></div><div>They are connected—to each other, to the earth, to exploring.<br /><br />They do what they do because they want to, not because they have to.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibc4Rcah4CiUho7_4fJHSE1_uq5ykLXq__oNkBfhjKWPzADSYY1CRQX3GCIgpzsrF78EJfdoksDNEgHzBFtUxRAmFEc6-Ii4cLwstu-cI5XQ5EDRN5eigyjdMQXM6DJWk9fPXiSXCBPWg/s1600-h/PICT0157.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167029919773693570" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibc4Rcah4CiUho7_4fJHSE1_uq5ykLXq__oNkBfhjKWPzADSYY1CRQX3GCIgpzsrF78EJfdoksDNEgHzBFtUxRAmFEc6-Ii4cLwstu-cI5XQ5EDRN5eigyjdMQXM6DJWk9fPXiSXCBPWg/s200/PICT0157.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Here’s to all the dreamers, the believers, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNrRC5XEPfpII5tQAnOhyphenhyphenT_0b7X6U4uBlcI5D-q8uZUtDIliM30so3FquuC5ZDwbNVSuBHaS_IgwA00G8mDCJlidSM8NlvkJQ5W-0TL_Y9c9pS4Erl-AuiTl5PRk2CR_MpvXS8h6fM9k/s1600-h/PICT0163.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167035142453925522" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNrRC5XEPfpII5tQAnOhyphenhyphenT_0b7X6U4uBlcI5D-q8uZUtDIliM30so3FquuC5ZDwbNVSuBHaS_IgwA00G8mDCJlidSM8NlvkJQ5W-0TL_Y9c9pS4Erl-AuiTl5PRk2CR_MpvXS8h6fM9k/s200/PICT0163.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div>the passionate, the lovers of life. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>Happy Valentine’s Day. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-60340309516672300522008-02-07T20:20:00.000-08:002008-02-07T22:07:23.813-08:00Melting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85vNo2tSW9_kXKJd2fsrz-a0KhevE6a-U-3OSBPmnykBQBombtdan4ZFMBzUuR8tpQCDE6ts1cx2FiwSvdSBBufrvDDn1twy0SBpQaC6VQhk-X714YR57-WOWGJXIg8nRISNXaRohOwk/s1600-h/IMG_1706.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5164470357551666162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85vNo2tSW9_kXKJd2fsrz-a0KhevE6a-U-3OSBPmnykBQBombtdan4ZFMBzUuR8tpQCDE6ts1cx2FiwSvdSBBufrvDDn1twy0SBpQaC6VQhk-X714YR57-WOWGJXIg8nRISNXaRohOwk/s200/IMG_1706.JPG" border="0" /></a>Like a fleet of ghost ships sailing north, the ice travels with the wind. I seek comfort in believing these broken bits of ice are children that the glacier has nudged out of her nest. Will I never learn to distinguish a mineral from humanity again? <div></div><br /><div>They rise two and three stories out of the water and dwarf our manmade vessel. How deep they stretch beneath the sea we cannot know, and our ship’s crew gives them wide berth. They are mighty, and ignorant of their power, oblivious to their fate. </div><div> </div><div>Enchanted by wind and current, they press northward. They lift their sails to the sun with the confidence of those who do not know that they are sailing into death. Each caress diminishes their days. How long before they have become so much a part of the seas they travel, that they are invisible to human eyes? </div><div></div><br /><div>I want to wrap them in my arms and tell them “Stop!”</div><br /><div></div><div>But they would only laugh at me, because I cannot grasp that I too am melting.</div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-30269093600157752122008-01-28T21:38:00.000-08:002008-01-28T21:49:39.994-08:00One<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ddk1tRISoFzGWauUIU4S4ACgsqJWK03G6Q8V9kvV-0Q9cwQVUiOR-2YZQCGKBdFWCbj4OMDGviEud_oj1RZZokeYmdDwu6MZU-Gy3ShCH_oAFMSHA1AGZu3FiwrPFkEvEdkeRoWClY/s1600-h/glacier+02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160770741442368466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4ddk1tRISoFzGWauUIU4S4ACgsqJWK03G6Q8V9kvV-0Q9cwQVUiOR-2YZQCGKBdFWCbj4OMDGviEud_oj1RZZokeYmdDwu6MZU-Gy3ShCH_oAFMSHA1AGZu3FiwrPFkEvEdkeRoWClY/s200/glacier+02.jpg" border="0" /></a>Someone asked me while I was traveling in Antarctica, “So...are you having the greatest time ever?”<br /><br />Of course I said yes, and I was having a great time—beauty, adventure, and purpose all rolled into one delightful trip. But as time went on a part of me shattered into a million tiny pieces every time the glacier sprayed ice into the harbor or an elephant seal scream or a whale breeched earth and sky. In the groaning of the glacier, in the eye of the whale—I sensed something precious slipping away. Like a loved one you want to call home, but wait too long and when you speak, she is too far away to hear you.<br /><br />One scientist said, “The question is not whether the earth will survive.” He paused and looked into my eyes. “The question is,” he said, “have we humans overplayed our hand?” When I think of acceptance, compassion, and hope all bundled up into one, I will forever see his brilliant blue eyes.<br /><br />Antarctica is big—vast spaces covered in white. White is an expansive color, so the emptiness grows out of proportion even to itself. We haven’t colonized the place to any grand degree, and much of life in Antarctica goes on under the sea.<br /><br />From the top of Pikes Peak in Colorado, on a clear day you can see for miles. If you look at the surface of the ocean—which can plunge down for miles before water meets earth—you might see a few hundred feet on a clear day. The deepest I saw (I know because we were measuring turbidity) was 65 feet. I felt so small. Small and helpless.<br /><br />I am one person living in a world occupied by billions. Even if I went to bed at dusk and got up with sun, eliminated plastic from my life, stopped using gasoline, turned down the heat and shivered all winter, nothing would change. If I could do everything—and I know I can’t—what difference would it make? </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160771248248509410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnn-3IjXLyWaz4YXRJmeFIYzAwoHLDsuNPR5dHVw4PUcqq95cNQQNDZI_V8oySpxZWDT8YSwf3oLZgUWTYXrwQ-t9AI_RvKaPWoGKtKnqNYxbbESonDJxtNMM1zUv4BhKuUnt2AE_SpI/s200/onebillionoverone.jpg" border="0" />A friend helped me to see that everything hangs in the balance of one billion divided by one. It’s not one person doing one billion things—that’s impossible, almost comical to imagine. But one billion people making one small change gives me shivers.<br /><br />Why does that seem so much more possible? I think—I hope—it’s because I know I can do one thing, and my friends can do one thing, and their friends can do one thing. Try and think of one person you know who can’t do one small thing to help. Try and think of one person who wouldn’t help in some small way, if they could, if it was barely noticeable in the everyday motions of life. I can’t think of anyone like that. </div><div><br /><br />Earth Hour: March 29, 2008 at 8 pm—<a href="http://www.earthhour.org/">http://www.earthhour.org/</a></div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-90254421559633155392008-01-24T22:56:00.000-08:002008-01-24T23:08:39.695-08:00Loved to Death<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzj3BNCnAUJ8gYi3b3r5gLsw2vLW6syyEvvHpWFLY1plX1YK594CvdnLpT2Efsoqy4cQ1iJ8nG0tz00V5MGbtfQUriJSasHmwaz-Mu826DFVY_SPSxHVrWFAVgNMdkNfD9wlHR81Wu1Q/s1600-h/cape+shirreff--bird.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5159307394545013682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzj3BNCnAUJ8gYi3b3r5gLsw2vLW6syyEvvHpWFLY1plX1YK594CvdnLpT2Efsoqy4cQ1iJ8nG0tz00V5MGbtfQUriJSasHmwaz-Mu826DFVY_SPSxHVrWFAVgNMdkNfD9wlHR81Wu1Q/s200/cape+shirreff--bird.JPG" border="0" /></a>Halfway between San Francisco and Hawaii, a mother scours a mass of garbage twice the size of the state of Texas for treats to take home to her child. A bright yellow Lego block catches her attention. She scoops up the toy and heads back to its home.<br /><br />When the baby sees her coming, it begins to whistle and click. She leans over the side of her baby’s crib. It opens its mouth and cries to show her it is hungry. She feeds the plastic toy to her baby, followed by a treasure trove of tangled fishing line, a red bottle cap, and fingers torn from a broken doll.<br /><br /> ****<br /><br />Nearly half of all albatross chicks die each year from dehydration and starvation. Most of these chicks are well-fed. Their stomachs are filled with twice as much plastic as the stomachs of chicks that die from other causes.<br /><br />~The albatross is the largest of all the seabirds.<br />~Its wingspan can reach 11 feet.<br />~These birds spend about 85% of their time at sea, eating fish and sleeping on the water.<br />~They drink seawater.<br />~Between chicks dying from dehydration and starvation (caused by ingesting plastic?) and adults drowning at the end of fish hooks, the population of some species have decreased by as much as 90%, many have declined by 40-50%.<br /><br />We saw many of these beautiful birds as we crossed the Drake Passage and in the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula. What a tragic loss to our own children if we lose these birds. I cannot help but ask myself how long it will be before we see that we are endangering our own loved ones as well—we are simply farther back in the line.<br /><br />I am not fool enough to think that I or anyone else can bring the sum of our bad habits to a grinding halt. We’re like a train; it takes us a while to stop. My hope is that we can make a big difference through small changes. It is a place to start.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-4888990834976375172008-01-18T20:34:00.000-08:002008-01-18T21:22:59.798-08:00The Sky for a Bag of Gold<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0f4k_otgfvM76KH_60OO7KOXWBYchNIE7tzr9hdt8P0rofOwARrJKhyphenhyphen2gFqLENYS_D3qsnbK4XA8zy2mq7tgErkWYwofv7sopKz5rtFBPzA6VKEvTBSVUZxX5d3uDK-ekJQAXa7GV9U/s1600-h/071205+sunisgold_cX50.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157049676205510034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0f4k_otgfvM76KH_60OO7KOXWBYchNIE7tzr9hdt8P0rofOwARrJKhyphenhyphen2gFqLENYS_D3qsnbK4XA8zy2mq7tgErkWYwofv7sopKz5rtFBPzA6VKEvTBSVUZxX5d3uDK-ekJQAXa7GV9U/s200/071205+sunisgold_cX50.jpg" border="0" /></a> The ship rocks beneath my feet, as unnoticed as the beating of my heart. The ice stretches out between our ship and the cliffs rising in the distance, and I understand the power of the ice, the fragility of life. Land I can see, but not reach. Not even our powerful ship cannot breach that ice. We know this. We try, of course we try. Is that not the nature of humanity?<br /><br />Silently my heart breaks with the ice. Why can we leave nothing as we find it? I wonder if the penguins perched on the edge of the ice will have to swim farther now to find food and then to return to safety. By our actions, have we killed another adéile or given a chance at life to a leopard seal?<br /><br />The ice doesn’t care if penguins die, if seals live, if we reached our destination or not. It doesn’t care if we stay and wait, or leave. The earth doesn’t judge or forgive, she accepts.<br /><br />I am ashamed for my people.<br /><br />We charge the unbroken white, the only protests the creaking of our ship and the groan strangled in my throat. The ice halts our progress. The sun beats down, an ally to our cause, but even the sun cannot win our way. Not that day. But give her time. We turn and seek another path.<br /><br />As we burn ozone in exchange for extravagant lives and trade gold for atmosphere, the sun gains power, the earth shudders, the ice weakens. Will our ally become our enemy? Will nature ever protest at how we impinge on her good will?<br /><br />She lovingly gives in to our indulgences. She changes for us. She will change for us until we can no longer live and breathe her acceptance and her patience. Will she cry for us? Why should she? Having given us everything we asked, what has the earth to regret? What have we to regret but that we trade the sky for a bag of gold?kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-30038123100202295152008-01-12T22:53:00.000-08:002008-01-12T23:24:20.567-08:00Learning to See More<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gxega8fgoY5XXj5w7K8fC_2c2JCr-r2iGr_cAFJy1Ai6jxDWiu3jwHBSeKwK6nx5_mgtiaZDlAIea60heG-f5OA4cp8L6V6AmPzEKG2zj2Zu5DLB6Q4KwB9rvhAN2CmqnkM3mEWaODo/s1600-h/PICT0076.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154855334464310626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gxega8fgoY5XXj5w7K8fC_2c2JCr-r2iGr_cAFJy1Ai6jxDWiu3jwHBSeKwK6nx5_mgtiaZDlAIea60heG-f5OA4cp8L6V6AmPzEKG2zj2Zu5DLB6Q4KwB9rvhAN2CmqnkM3mEWaODo/s200/PICT0076.JPG" border="0" /></a> When I think of barren lands, barren wombs, barren lives, the image that comes into my mind is Seymour Island on the Weddell Sea side of the Antarctic Peninsula. Nothing grows here. I suppose a bit of lichen must cling to the sunny side of some w<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4saH8zyV5BTfD8qmDCQz3l6BBR6Ex9KzjmTZYAW5-ODs0xkCCkKceXHGDROX6YR1XxLKDUO1qobdlXgVJjEWAfizKSykcKRzJUW-Ghhb13AtpcAzr6rI2WbVil_IUDjz7472opxWvPE/s1600-h/PICT0078.JPG"></a>et rock, but I can’t find anything that isn’t brown or white. Even the mum<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMnatq9yyoG4pDa_Ozg7-LvgiJvKIhaYiK25JF2DalIqEW09B8NcZNc9K391wM2FRV4NxL-x8YB6ywgZV5wURRYaKsLyoCA4uPE9HKJ7COeHnVfYEEpRQbEZHjlTf6gm4lxnIL_JtwzY/s1600-h/PICT0070.JPG"></a>mified seal, however mystical, lacks color. The only things that move of their own volition are the wind, the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOgV01IZAGZIGPwwSihYZhwgsLLIcGKO9Vz7cTjo104SOIwzkbYK-MPk74luD53p01c5_Bn6pLhOhv8zaWp376LnRGau87gzoIxqJYu5S61W0ipek3X5bSDuello7FTVgKd0y8RI2Vco/s1600-h/PICT0099.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154855660881825138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOgV01IZAGZIGPwwSihYZhwgsLLIcGKO9Vz7cTjo104SOIwzkbYK-MPk74luD53p01c5_Bn6pLhOhv8zaWp376LnRGau87gzoIxqJYu5S61W0ipek3X5bSDuello7FTVgKd0y8RI2Vco/s200/PICT0099.JPG" border="0" /></a>birds in the sky, and the penguins.<br /><br />The mummified seal suggests that the occasional pinniped also hauls out onto the ice that borders this desolate place. How is it then, in the absence of life, that life becomes so much more vibrant and real? I venture to guess it is because there is nothing standing between me and the beating of my heart.<br /><br />No trees bar my view of the hilltops. None stand between me and the sea. Until the wind draws a curtain of cloud and snow across the horizon, I can see the bow-legged edge of water and sky. In the blue-green water, boulders shimmer, and I can be<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsI0GtJSKZxNr_LwDPUpKE28P59jAughbs8L3aRBtvJt3xQvgACgvCmlyWyL7rFV2dUKmBu2myoQjMinYP8xXGqA5TZg_pb-ZgyHo4B6AO-i0WwIqpti8hsX2SVvM30J0gdWmSkt4udw/s1600-h/PICT0070.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154856021659078018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsI0GtJSKZxNr_LwDPUpKE28P59jAughbs8L3aRBtvJt3xQvgACgvCmlyWyL7rFV2dUKmBu2myoQjMinYP8xXGqA5TZg_pb-ZgyHo4B6AO-i0WwIqpti8hsX2SVvM30J0gdWmSkt4udw/s200/PICT0070.JPG" border="0" /></a>lieve them to be the petrified eggs of dinosaurs. In my pack I carry a collection of sharks' teeth set aside for further examination by the paleontologists. Sixty-five million years ago sharks swam where I stand. Then the weather changed, the sharks retreated. Time passed. Twenty-five or thirty million years later giant penguins—6 feet tall—lumbered across this land. I hold their bones in my hand, close my eyes, and listen.<br /><br />Nothing lasts. The earth is patient. Why am I in such a hurry? What is missing in this sun, this blue-green water, these friends? What better thing will I find tomorrow or in ten thousand years?kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-82646133686759343352008-01-06T10:59:00.000-08:002008-01-06T11:21:08.580-08:00Memories of Water and Ice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVo8tx8R7AAQqm6KvadyWvrdhwKfIQv_Lik5XJ-w2Y2OAXCjDTjJd9g3L8QI6LBXvMBF5igcJD6spJvWgXnzdLttk4w3m0y8SxS5MkrBzACC2PhCsNGm_E0IyUDykZgiq-LndxJf4YkUE/s1600-h/Pict0268.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVo8tx8R7AAQqm6KvadyWvrdhwKfIQv_Lik5XJ-w2Y2OAXCjDTjJd9g3L8QI6LBXvMBF5igcJD6spJvWgXnzdLttk4w3m0y8SxS5MkrBzACC2PhCsNGm_E0IyUDykZgiq-LndxJf4YkUE/s200/Pict0268.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152445003112762642" border="0" /></a><br />I have been back from my Antarctica trip for almost a week now. First of all, I'm sorry it has taken me so long to acknowledge my return. Second, thank you for all your comments, notes, and well wishes. Knowing you were here to return to was a comfort.<br /><br />Friends and family ask me what I saw and did. I open my mouth, but am not able to respond. Memories flash like whirlwinds across my mind's eye. I have a hundred answers and so am not able to articulate even one. I can talk for hours or days, but not for just a few minutes. I fear that if I begin to talk about this experience, I might never stop.<br /><br />Perhaps this is a better place, a better way to unleash, and I have the 18 day cruise aboard the Laurence M Gould to account for. I stepped on the ship wary of spending so many days at sea. I said goodbye to my companions with tears in my eyes. This sentiment hints at the answer to what had the most impact on me during my travels--the people I met. But they deserve more than just an acknowledgment and, though I won't be able to get to them all, I will post profiles and excerpts from our conversations.<br /><br />I had a wonderful journey, filled with new insights and a great deal of fun. It is sad to be gone from such a wonderful place and the people I met there, but good to be home. I have memories to last a lifetime--and as many pictures.<br /><br />Again, thanks to you all for your support.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-77991899541775981232007-12-04T06:35:00.000-08:002007-12-04T06:46:42.773-08:00Setting Sail Today<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCyRB41GhwBrSDsXT2AXAZA1LGLv142zjLCzcc6rstvLD5287zolbdXEwThdAa2G9RuwOye3iSFIdVuNVInr-H-NtJWVbnNGq1J9tkgPF6LVyE_-64tGoEMHEugOCz_pXyNlPRqfFCDI/s1600-h/DSC_5421.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140128504078567570" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCyRB41GhwBrSDsXT2AXAZA1LGLv142zjLCzcc6rstvLD5287zolbdXEwThdAa2G9RuwOye3iSFIdVuNVInr-H-NtJWVbnNGq1J9tkgPF6LVyE_-64tGoEMHEugOCz_pXyNlPRqfFCDI/s200/DSC_5421.JPG" border="0" /></a>As I prepare to leave Palmer, I find that I have more questions than before I arrived. I am overflowing with fresh perspectives and new ideas. The fluttering in my stomach suggests that I have been changed by these people and this place.<br /><br />Looking back, I am embarrassed by my ignorance. Even those parts of my not knowing that have been erased by this journey still cause me shame. I thought it would be colder on this most southern continent. I thought this would be a black and white world, not one infused with brilliant blue-green or patched with rich shades of orange and yellow. I thought we had plenty of time to fix the hurt we are inflicting on the earth. I did not think I would miss the stars. I did not know I would be pierced to the core of my being by the sharp cries of the glacier dying.<br /><br />Whether I am walking the coast, or sitting by a window and writing, or boating to one of the islands, I hear the glacier crying. She breathes the burning air, and her lungs collapse. She groans. She turns her face to the sun and loses clumps of hair to the fire. She presses into the earth, sloughing skin in giant handfuls. She screams. I fear her passing. Tears brighten my eyes.<br /><br />I have come too close, sounds of the glacier dying will echo forever inside my head. I touched her. I cannot pull away—the palms of my hands are frozen to her skin.<br /><br />My soul stepped onto the peninsula sleepy and complacent, it leaves wounded and afraid, but fear makes me stronger. And while I know the earth has plenty of time to heal, the knowledge that my own people teeter on the edge of extinction scares me.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Photograph courtesy of Dan Jennings)</span>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-21537991922604911552007-11-30T03:09:00.000-08:002007-11-30T03:15:03.276-08:00Out the Window<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAOQ9J19UD-sY4iEy4qtT_h1p1ppeNkfPuIib9k8-GkoVExEqSq5obUhu5hJyWXpy1us_GmeYdpGVI6Oo9XnuX6l-zyEiltB0gfzntd4qNSE-WvKQIBkV1NK_EA-qgQakQBudfghZT1j0/s1600-r/IMG_0679.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5138590055538086290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMdNFNHGMweRpiu2i9hvyMZPIcG53ToEeGDhgPkFPkg1UBi7OEwuzG-v_KtgVMTIChSS3QllAW2DSAyMmCsqZBFx4tBVafzqBywrsqgWowIjX3f1RqGvk27q187p8d9BxIJo0eWxUldO0/s200/IMG_0679.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Every day, first thing, I look out the window. Between opening my eyes, climbing out of bed, and lifting the window shade, I wonder, “What kind of beauty will I see?” </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This morning, it’s a ship set in water as clear and calm as black diamonds. The sun, poised in a cloudless sky, lights up the glacier in brilliant white and blue. Bergy bits knock against the stones lining the shore. An elephant seal’s call echoes off the ice. A tern screeches. But these noises of nature are a part of the stillness, not separate from it. The air is fresh and crisp, odorless. </div><br /><div><br />How long, once I leave here, before I shut the window in my mind that drinks in the beauty of the moment, the wonder of the world, the exquisiteness of being, the preciousness of family and friends?</div>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-29583948256919551112007-11-27T18:39:00.000-08:002007-11-27T18:55:00.427-08:00Close EncounterAnno<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZpcGZwOb8SajKu5bV6mC8MkVuy0Fii-R87YjZ0Xe_g_KxdqgtseOpJ15AknkqQLkrOgUWggiyLMSvFyAk5LIkKnUUSGq8ACYRy5N5Sr7HN129N2RieSBrpdh3GRUFltr43JPf1z3RhA/s1600-h/IMG_4251.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137716145657467234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZpcGZwOb8SajKu5bV6mC8MkVuy0Fii-R87YjZ0Xe_g_KxdqgtseOpJ15AknkqQLkrOgUWggiyLMSvFyAk5LIkKnUUSGq8ACYRy5N5Sr7HN129N2RieSBrpdh3GRUFltr43JPf1z3RhA/s200/IMG_4251.jpg" border="0" /></a>uncing himself with a burst of spray, the humpback rises out of the water beside of our zodiac. Terns chatter overhead, the surf crashes the shore, the sea herself slips off the humpback’s glistening skin like a whispered caress.<br /><br />Forty-five tons of muscle, body over 50-feet long, he arches and dives. The water around the zodiac swirls. He circles us, rises, sprays, lifts his back, and slides beneath the gently rocking waves.<br /><br />“How close do you think he came?” someone says, voice low, eyes scanning the water.<br /><br />Close enough to reach out and touch, I think. This idea is unsettling. I am suddenly aware of how small we are—four of us in a boat no wider than one whale fin.<br /><br />“Here he comes again,” one of my companions shouts and points. He skims beneath the boat, and I imagine that I am reflected in <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliaOQDso4zHiD7hQt86Xadj6Z_VqBWBXmGUdt81HMjYqgLbVnQGx7rzHaWN_bMjTCLkdsUreeP1QZP96A5WXToom8sgc64wTsofJabFDpARLi_P5LzIiHd3nTgQ2_qUsG9aHOaO_IN5E/s1600-h/humpback+and+mt+williams.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137718224421638514" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliaOQDso4zHiD7hQt86Xadj6Z_VqBWBXmGUdt81HMjYqgLbVnQGx7rzHaWN_bMjTCLkdsUreeP1QZP96A5WXToom8sgc64wTsofJabFDpARLi_P5LzIiHd3nTgQ2_qUsG9aHOaO_IN5E/s200/humpback+and+mt+williams.jpg" border="0" /></a>his eye.<br /><br />The humpback floats underneath our zodiac, white belly shimmering in the blue water. He stretches his fins as though he is measuring our little craft. I hang over the side of the boat. His slender fin extends well beyond the edge of the zodiac. His rippled chin is just beneath the bow of our boat. In my head I hear a song. A tear wells in my eye, but I cannot tell if it is because the song is joyful or sad. Perhaps this is just the feeling of being present in the moment, focused, in awe.<br /><br />Again he emerges, but farther this time. When he arches his back, his tail rises. I wave.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C2YqFfyQDxMs8HhVCGuOFU-FoamOxsgNAWlQfSFQhhkX0Q7OrFz0OnhkAjbEwRyYjWWF_ufDseg8yvhqGugLw2MqwYSOFXrKBIJz7LavmbQc2yG6i8HKSG6aIn12Qxa6je-i9bODxxs/s1600-h/humpback+whale04.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137718619558629762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C2YqFfyQDxMs8HhVCGuOFU-FoamOxsgNAWlQfSFQhhkX0Q7OrFz0OnhkAjbEwRyYjWWF_ufDseg8yvhqGugLw2MqwYSOFXrKBIJz7LavmbQc2yG6i8HKSG6aIn12Qxa6je-i9bODxxs/s200/humpback+whale04.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I search for words to express my gratitude, some sound that he will know, but I have none. If I stay here long enough, I will end up not able to talk at all.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Many thanks to Stacie Murray for allowing me to use her wonderful pictures.)</span>kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-66435868670204312192007-11-22T07:18:00.000-08:002007-11-23T05:00:30.518-08:00Blue Ice<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhoVPmhqMcWuhvOOybSmPxOaKdg9NWrwPM7zC9uvsR_RRy6b94oTYYly33PaAgH3CfOJinGCHPhHX7D04-C7XC-kz9luyJOod3DtKeG8dJEEfoTX1P3K4S35O8fOx8icLsmiWCQiZmHo/s1600-h/IMG_0821.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135686610401349970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFhoVPmhqMcWuhvOOybSmPxOaKdg9NWrwPM7zC9uvsR_RRy6b94oTYYly33PaAgH3CfOJinGCHPhHX7D04-C7XC-kz9luyJOod3DtKeG8dJEEfoTX1P3K4S35O8fOx8icLsmiWCQiZmHo/s200/IMG_0821.JPG" border="0" /></a>What endless ache lay down upon her breast?<br />Cutting, carving, etching ever deeper<br />Helping hide the secrets meant to keep her<br />Weeping and alone, not allowed to rest.<br /><br />Why once did she agree to play a game<br />As cold and white as winter wind and snow<br />That left her soul with nowhere else to go<br />Made happiness and hurt seem all the same?<br /><br />It matters not what promises were spoken<br />Or love betrayed or truth in silence lost<br />Now laugh and live and love and not know when<br />The pale, warming sun might rise within<br />And give of self no matter what the cost<br />That frees her crying, dying heart again.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6639428787619092567.post-21153364285448700512007-11-20T05:36:00.000-08:002007-11-20T06:21:01.873-08:00Whispered Secrets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZhRYgOv9GcajoJkfszN9Sta7dGl6VRP2TsGhXRcnj1gzEgG6BdypVfMFFT63XeG6ZwcSJJL8VirZ14vcveBlel5cW6QjFyfB29NI86gvrtRoGM9pRCQldEYQOipwDSSlnxmBUw1SeDE/s1600-h/Backyard,+Stacies+tent.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134924159217029426" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZhRYgOv9GcajoJkfszN9Sta7dGl6VRP2TsGhXRcnj1gzEgG6BdypVfMFFT63XeG6ZwcSJJL8VirZ14vcveBlel5cW6QjFyfB29NI86gvrtRoGM9pRCQldEYQOipwDSSlnxmBUw1SeDE/s200/Backyard,+Stacies+tent.JPG" border="0" /></a>I walk out to Stacie’s tent about midnight, hunker down, and watch the sea. The moon, the only light bright enough to penetrate the layer of clouds, glows in the mist. Bits of berg rise and fall with the roll of the sea, and my own breath matches her calming rhythm.<br /><br />The glacier rolls over in her sleep, and groans. The sound makes my eyes heavy, and I yawn. I climb inside the tent and wrap myself inside the down sleeping bag. I close my eyes and let my thoughts dig deep inside the earth. The elephant seals trumpet, and from inside the tent it sounds as though they are swimming in the water right below me. I take a deep breath to check for the telltale odor that gives them away, but all I smell is air cleansed by snow, wind, and salt.<br /><br />My eyes open, but I can’t tell whether it is the boom of the glacier calving or the waxing light that wakes me. Snow pelts the tent, enticing me back into sleep. My eyes flutter, but I force them open, unzip the entrance to the tent, and peek outside in the hopes of seeing the glacier calve. Later I find out that the spray of ice precedes the noise by long enough that to hear the calving means I have missed seeing the glacier disgorge herself. How the earth withstands this great pressure is beyond my comprehension.<br /><br />Her compassion, her endless tolerance of the burdens we place upon her will kill us one day. We will simply take from her until she has nothing left to give. She won't complain. We will wither at a breast we have sucked dry and wonder at her selfishness while we die.<br /><br />Afraid I have already overslept, I check my watch—4:11 a.m. The sun has been up for at least an hour now, but I can close my eyes for a while longer. I bury my head in down and dream that the sun chases me across the sky. When I awake again, I find this time I have overslept. Still, I want to stay here forever, wrapped in down, listening, laughing, loving the snow and the surf, the seals and the glacier whispering secrets in my ear while I race the sun across the sky.kate keeleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16952355547666804993noreply@blogger.com6