The Questioning Librarian

Why do I write? Why do I take the time to write things down that a handful of people will read...and in the case of my writing outside of this blog, at best one or two other people will read? Some days when the writing is hard, when the words just won't come and even a sentence is a struggle to piece together, it seems better just to give up and go read. But I always come back. So why do I do it? A few years ago I read a book about our need to tell stories, The Storytelling Animal  by Jonathan Gottschall. It was a fascinating read, other than a completely unwarranted and baseless attack on the Sherlock Holmes stories. To tell stories, in Gottshall's rendering, is to be human. It's what we do. Everything in our lives is based around telling stories. A little thought on our history is enough to support his thesis; from cave paintings and oral storytelling to Shakespeare, Wilde, and YouTube web series and social gatherings, our lives revolve around telling and hearing sto...

Last week National Geographic  released video from what is being hailed as the first simulation of the evolution of the universe. In what must have taken thousands of hours of work, this depiction of the universe shows the evolution of early galaxies, beginning a mere twelve million years after the big bang occurred. Take a look: One can hardly help but be moved by the sight of it, of seeing the universe unfold before our very eyes. No simulation is perfect, of course, but as a representation of the best science available at present it still carries with it a great majesty. Seeing the passage of such an immense length of time is humbling; it reminds us of the brevity of our own lives and puts the hubris of humanity firmly in its place. This is one of the joys of science, the ability that science has to convey wonder to us, from the evolution of the universe and the images from the Hubble Telescope to the sense of deep time that comes from looking at the rocks and fossils ...

I think I only just noticed on Friday that it was spring. Yes, there have been a few warm and sunny days this past month, more than welcome after the endless night of winter, but they seemed illusory, like it was too good to be true just yet. When I left the apartment that morning, there could be no doubt that the season had arrived. The scent of the air, the small warmth of the breeze, and the morning sunshine meant spring, for certain. I noticed how green the grass was, how without noticing it the trees had all started budding and blooming. My drive north to State College for a meeting was an endless panorama of mountains turned green, with brilliant dots of purple, scarlet and white revealing the blossoms of spring among them. I finally planted flowers today, turning a desolate patch of weed into a more attractive plot of ordered flowers, and while my back aches from the work, I always feel at home when I'm working with plants, rare though that may be anymore.  For over ten...