Archive Fever: Writing and thinking with oceans, memory, and attention.

Good Night, Irene: Among Storms and Spirits, the Sea Carries Me Home

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Sun, 06 Jul 2025 01:59:00 +0000

There’s something strangely familiar and magical about the eye of a hurricane—how it can be so quiet and full of repose while everything around it breaks.

Seemingly a paradox, but more of a metaphysical dialectic—the center of the storm being still and pausing time for a moment-- like so many of nature’s sublime offerings fr
om solar eclipse quietude to surreal sweeping devastation of a tsunami. Hurricanes feel unique in the ability to encompass an entire catalog of attributes that touch each aspect of human awe. The eye, especially, as it offers us awe quite like the stillness that feels briefly a lot like death. Or maybe like being born.

My grandmother died just after sunrise on August 26, 2011, in Wilmington, North Carolina, as Hurricane Irene reached her peak just offshore. A Category 3 system, Irene spun her spiral right past the coast I’d grown up on. It wasn’t the most powerful or devastating hurricane I, or anyone had seen, but for me it felt ancient. Elemental. As if she wasn’t just passing by but calling someone home.

My grandmother Ethel Booth—fierce, kind, and luminously wise—was 93. Her mind had been unraveling slowly from dementia, though there were moments in those last weeks when she’d snap back into a clarity so precise, it was like watching cumulonimbus and stratus clouds part in the middle of a tempestuous squall. On several occasions I would be in the middle of what I believed to be a conversation between me and her. Only to realize that she was talking to people who weren’t in the room in the sense that I was.

One afternoon, my grandmother looked beyond me and said, almost casually, “I don’t want to get wet.” There was no rain that day. The sky was still. But momentarily my hubris intimated to me that I knew what she meant. She didn’t want to drown in the storm of forgetting. She wanted to ride out on the wind.

Light. Dry. Unbound.

Hurricanes as Living Things

Meteorologists will tell you hurricanes form when warm, moist air over the ocean begins to rise. This conjuring creates a vacuum beneath it, and more air rushes rapidly in. The Coriolis effect— caused by the magical physics of Earth’s rotation—makes this whole system begin to spin. Over time, that churning becomes a storm, and the storm becomes a being.

NOAA describes hurricanes as the most powerful weather events on Earth. One storm can release more energy than all the world’s power plants combined. But science only tells part of the

story. If you’ve ever stood on the coast as the outer bands roll in—sky bruised, surf pulling harder, air electric—you know hurricanes carry something else. A presence. A spirit.

The Taíno people, Indigenous to the Caribbean, knew this long before satellites or spaghetti models. They believed hurricanes were the breath of Juracán, the god of wind and chaos. Juracán lived atop El Yunque, a mountain that remains shrouded in cloud and legend. When he stirred, the skies would boil, the seas would rise, and lives would shift. The Spanish took the word juracán, reshaped it into huracán, and passed it on to English. But the sacred heart of that word—the knowing that storms are messengers—remains.

The Ocean Is Where I Remember Who I Am

I was raised on this coast of southeastern North Carolina. And, the swimming, surfing, paddling that came to me as a young child (and that I’ve held so close my entire life) has been an embodied and enacted talisman that has saved my life in so many different ways and different times. The ocean raised me, and at once renewed me and sanded me down, taught me to pay attention. Each wave, each paddle stroke, is a small kind of prayer.

I paddle until I find myself again. Sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes it takes miles. But the water always answers.

Today, I’m an English professor at UNC Chapel Hill. I write in the health and environmental humanities, exploring the ways bodies, environment (especially blue aquatic ones), and language intersect. But it all traces back to the ocean. My first real questions about life—about divinity, about death, about the soul—they all rose up between waves.

I learned to listen to water from my mother and my grandmother. They gave me the sea not just as a playground, but as a teacher in much the same way as Neruda intimates needing the sea because “it teaches me.”. Relatedly, the ocean is often and always where I return to make sense of things in much of the same way that Eliot interpellates certain spaces of relations that can situate oneself “at the still point of the turning world”. The profound liminality of the interstice of ocean, land, and sky is where I returned when I knew my grandmother’s time was near. This is the same mindful sojourn I make (and have made multitudinous times) for the repose that the beaches and Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Southeastern North Carolina have always given me.

The Sacred Spiral

Hurricane Irene had been born far out in the Atlantic. She gathered herself off the coast of the Lesser Antilles, fed on warm currents, grew metaphysical teeth and bone. By the time Irene reached Southeastern North Carolina, she had become a vast hurricane—so wide her wingspan stretched hundreds of miles.

But it wasn’t just her size. It was her timing.

The morning my grandmother died; the winds outside had that waiting quality—like breath held just a moment too long. Her chest rose and fell. And then... it didn’t. There was no drama. No gust. Just a stillness that felt complete.

Later, I looked at satellite images of Irene and saw the spiraling storm just off our coast, like a great eye watching the edge of the continent. Irene had skirted Southeastern North Carolina, not striking directly, but making her presence known. After Wilmington, Hurricane Irene continued up the East Coast, making landfall in New Jersey and marching through New York and New England. Across the U.S. and the Caribbean, Irene left behind at least 44 lives lost—most taken by water vis-à-vis flooding, by trees surrendering to wind, and by the chaos that follows when earth and sky collide.

But inside my grandmother’s home in the Pine Valley neighborhood of Wilmington—where she had lived since the late 1960s, founding and directing the guidance and counseling program for New Hanover County Schools, and then in retirement enjoying her yard, the beach, or the golf course—the storm sounded different. It was softer somehow, more like a breath being released. While others braced for rising waters, we watched my grandmother rise with the tide, carried not by panic or fear, but by something elemental—like gravity, like grace.

Dozens of lives were lost. Billions in damage. But that morning, she had only taken one from me. And even then, it didn’t feel like taking. It felt like lifting.

In Stormlight: Rising Through the Eye

I think often now about what my grandmother said— “I don’t want to get wet.”

At first, it struck me as simple. But over time, her words have come to feel like a mantra. A quiet declaration of strength.

Granny lived her life with clarity, calm, and intention. She led with vision—not for personal glory, but for the good of others. As the founding Director of Guidance and Counseling for New Hanover County Schools, she helped shepherd the system through desegregation. Long before justice became a catchphrase again, she embodied it. Her strength was rooted in empathy.

She moved through life like a boundary current—steady, but powerful enough to shape coasts.

As matriarch, educator, advocate, and friend, she helped others navigate stormy waters with grace and grit. Her presence remains in every life she touched—an enduring light. A true North.

“I don’t want to get wet,” she told me.
She didn’t mean she feared the storm.
She meant she didn’t want to be swallowed by it. She wanted to rise—not sink.

The Taíno believed hurricanes could carry the souls of the dead, spiraling them from this world to the next—a sacred journey, a stairwell of storm and wind.
I believe Irene was her vessel.

And now, when I paddle out after a storm—or even on stiller days—catching those long, glassy swells that follow in its wake, I still feel her nearby. I hear her voice:
In the hush between sets.
In the curl of light on the water.

In the salt wind at my back.

The ocean has never stopped speaking. And neither has she.

Resilience, Remembrance, and Lane 3

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Sun, 29 Jun 2025 15:32:00 +0000

Today is my son's 17th birthday. I’m watching him swim deliberately, doggedly. He, as always, is swimming his heart out. We are at a swim meet in Greensboro, North Carolina. Greensboro Aquatic Center. Lane 3. The same pool he’s raced in countless times. The same town my mom once called home—briefly and begrudgingly—when she attended what was then the Woman’s College of UNC.

She was a Wilmington girl. A coastal soul just like me who missed the ocean every day she spent inland. Greensboro never really clicked for her, and I have to admit, I’ve inherited that discomfort. I used to think I hated this place. I still don’t love it. But it's complicated—because every time I come here, I remember things. I learn things.

My mom used to talk about how proud she was to go to the Woman’s College—at the time ranked just behind Vassar. She loved what it stood for: women pushing forward, making space for each other. But she was also fuming when the college went coed (years after she graduated). She was actually mad that they let men in—said it ruined the rankings. Probably true. That comment still makes me smile. My mother was many things—kind, resilient, loyal and loving beyond measure of her sons—and always honest, empathetic and optimistic. Qualities I have inherited and I hope that my son does too.

Now, decades later, I find myself back in this town more often than I ever imagined, sitting in bleachers at the Greensboro Aquatic Center, watching my son glide through the water. He’s a swimmer. A good one. And I’m so proud of him.

But this place holds shadows for me, too. There are memories tied to bad faith and bad people, memories I’d rather not revisit. The kind that come creeping in when you're trying to celebrate something pure—like your son’s birthday.

Still, somehow, when the heaviness creeps in, my mom shows up. Not literally, of course. But in spirit. Resilient. Loving. Maybe even amused. I think she keeps bringing me back here—to this strange in-between place—to remind me of something. That I can do hard things. That I can hold love and pain at the same time. That showing up for your child, again and again, is its own kind of healing.

She’s still teaching me. Even now.

And I know—know—she would have loved watching him swim. Just like I do. I can almost hear her cheering, sharp and proud. I think my grandparents, both strong athletes and even stronger minds, would’ve been proud too. They’d probably tell us both to get back to the coast, to saltwater and sea air, to where we belong.

But for now, we’re here. Lane 3. My son gliding through water like it’s home. And me—sitting, watching, remembering. Trying to soak up every moment.

Because resilience isn’t just about surviving. Sometimes, it’s about staying. Watching. Cheering. And showing up, even in places that feel heavy.

Happy birthday, Denali. You keep me moving forward.

(Rough Edit )First Southern Thunderstorm in a Long Time (Rough Words)

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Fri, 19 Mar 2021 00:31:00 +0000

For over a year I think, in a variety of subconscious and conscious, ways I’ve been waiting for some fucking epiphany to appear (dictation said “help heal” proposed for epiphany) .Tonight, I finally think that happened. After leaving a toxic job, marital and familial devastation, plus a cross-country move I felt what seems so normal to me my whole life. A thunderstorm and a threat of a tornado that never comes... frogs and hopes of lightning bugs and everything North Carolina. Rooted in place. Everything in its right place.

We sat on the porch as a family and I’m not sure my wife or my son was content or less anxious or happy… I’m pretty sure they were not. But in my bones something finally reconnected. They both went back to their computers or games and I realized that that’s my strong connection between place and felt experience was what was happening. I have not had that in so long. I remember a Hal Crowther essay decades ago in The Independent ....I don’t remember the title and I’m sure I misinterpreted it but he was right about hurricanes. Crowther was writing about hurricanes before moblie devices and ubiquitous Internet. In sum, his premise was that when the power goes out, that techno reality is not there.

Tonight I felt that again. I remember growing up with hurricanes and I look forward to them every year wherever I am on the planet.

Coming out of the pandemic is likely to be synonymous with coming out of a hurricane. I wonder if some people will be still there. I wonder if some people made it through and/or if they are changed... if waves will ever break the same if places will reopen if people will ever be the same. That’s this pandemic. The hurricane… A cosmic moral compass of complete insignificance. But beyond significance for those of us who live through it.

Leaving the Northwest, Never Easy, I Saw the Light Fading Out

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 14 Sep 2020 22:46:00 +0000

I write this post in-flight back home to Portland, Oregon where forest fires have decimated nearly one million acres of Oregon forest in the past week. The air quality in Portland is beyond hazardous to breath and the city is under a declared state of emergency. On my flight, I am also wearing an N95 mask to help protect myself and others from the ongoing coronavirus outbreak. The United States continues to reel from its reckoning with racial injustices and societal division. Not being able to breath is both literal and metonym in these surreal times.

I am not really sure what I am flying back to. My wife and son have evacuated the city due to the toxic air quality and Portland has been shut down for months on end due to COVID-19 and nightly protests. It’s been hard to sort through the delirium of my existence in a place that was once a welcome refuge and beacon. I feel trapped by nostalgia and memory of this place as it once was, yet crestfallen by what realities it holds for me and my family. My sentimentality, emotional and energetic sensorium, has pushed me to the revelation that this is not a stage in my relationship to Portland but rather a transition away from it as it is now and move to a new space for myself and family. This transition is a return to something historical, familiar, and nourishing; we are moving to a known place, but with intentions of reconsecration and re-engagement with activities and practices that we once eagerly left behind when we moved to Portland.

It’s hard. It’s hard to sort out what is, and what role is played by, memory, reflection, nostalgia, and aspiration. All of these meanings are essential to the project of Derrida’s Archive Fever inquiry (hence my blog’s moniker). These meanings are also real in an embodied sense that I have not conscientiously grappled with in a long time, if ever; these meanings are all sticky, and they mute, distort, amplify one’s desire and (in)action. Everything in its right place, I suppose. Finding a balance in my transition seems to be the project at hand. I have no doubt it is time to leave, but do so holding gratitude and grief skyward as sails toward the horizon.

The Magic of Refraction

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Fri, 22 Mar 2019 02:20:00 +0000

One of the aspects of living on the West Coast that I still can't get enough of is the sun setting over the Pacific. I grew up in southeastern North Carolina, seeing sunrises over the Atlantic...possibly taking them for granted. The sun's daily greeting and parting salutation are different, but equally magical, experiences. Both can be preceded by (sunrise) or followed by (sunset) a green flash. I've never seen one at sunset, and long for that...enough to make me chase sunsets ad infinitum. Here's a photo from last week in Cannon Beach, Oregon. It intimates so many points of happiness and connection. We did not see a green flash, but it does feel like we go right in matters of the heart which is a supposed blessing of the green flash.

Draft: A Christmas Story of a Boy's First Wetsuit

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Thu, 20 Dec 2018 03:58:00 +0000

FIRST DRAFT (30 minutes) My mom took this photo Winter 1984. This was the first winter that I surfed and I'm holding my first surfboard, a Dick Brewer (shaped by Gary Linden). The year before, had started surfing and was hooked. I surfed every day, whether there were waves or not...I was in the ocean thanks to my mom, grandmother, and the parents of my surfing mates. I had sat the previous winter out, due to not having a full suit. As the fall turned into early winter, the water got colder and my Piping Hot 2 mm vest no longer kept me warm; I wanted/needed a full suit. I couldn't sit another winter out.

During the summer and fall of 1983 my parents were fighting, probably due to my dad's gambling and unwillingness to get a job, as that would interfere with his bar and poker time. My dad hated that I was a surfer for a variety reasons, mostly due to his ego wobbling under the weight of his son not being devoted to a "real sport", though I did play football, baseball, and basketball. My dad was an asshole. My mom, brother, and myself went to live with my grandmother and ended up staying with Granny into the winter. I remember my dad arguing with my mom about me surfing during the winter, even though she wasn't living with him. He insisted, as he always did that I should not surf and would grow out of it. He would even tell me that after high school I would have to give it up.

My mom loved the ocean as much as I do and she fought him on this. All I wanted for Christmas was this wetsuit. That year the move "A Christmas Story" was released. Somehow I parlayed Ralphie Parker's desire for a BB gun into my own soul journey for year long surfing. The wetsuit, a 3/2 Rip Curl Insulator, was under the tree Christmas morning at Granny's. This was my first session. It was knee high. But, I remember my mom sitting on the beach watching me with her camera to take photos and, I guess, make sure I didn't drown. As I write this I remember her, and all the ways she and granny encouraged me to pursue my passion and fought to make it so I could, from trips to the beach during the winter to showing me courage to live my dreams.

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Tue, 11 Oct 2016 06:11:00 +0000

Green Paths and Golden Rules

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." -H. D. Thoreau

I spend a lot of my day on a school campus of some sort, be it grade school or university. I've been doing so for my whole life basically, either as a student, teacher, or administrator. For the past five years I have been spending time on school campuses as a parent, which is pretty cool when juxtaposed with my role as university professor/administrator. Increasingly, one of the characteristics that I thrive on when I'm on any campus is its relationship to nature. Here are just a few pics I snapped today. What I like about all of them is that they are the path I take to either teach or drop off a young scholar. The peace, tranquility, and inspiration I derive from moving through these spaces, along these paths, is sheer sublimity.

Bull's Blood, Suleiman the Magnificent, and NoPo Libations

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 14 Sep 2015 05:16:00 +0000

So, I'll tell you this: there is arguably no better city in North America to sample world-class coffee, beer, and wine than Portland, Oregon. I have spared hyperbole, here. Theses are true words. As the good ol boy says, "I kid you not".

Last night I had a hot date...sizzlin' if you will. I took a risk and visited unfamiliar ground for the start to our evening. The venue: a highly rated wine bar, TeSoAria, in North Portland (aka NoPo). Beyond simply dropping the four letter up down up down capitalization schema for gentrifying neighborhoods, I flag you (the imagined reader) to this for future reference. Largely, you should go there or imagine going there. They have great wine and fine curation. The envrions are cool, hence you'd be in situ cool to boot. But, I digress.

In the course of the evening, we ran across the winery's, relatively famed, Bull's Blood. Admit it, this is linguistically enticing. But, I'll cut to the chase, this was not the best wine...the Pinot Verdot was.

That said, the Bull's Blood held better story. In fact, I have been consumed by the narrative for the last 24 hours. I thought the wine steward was "bullsh*tt*ing" me if you will with the story. But, alas, he was not. To turn you on to the power of history and tannins I offer up this excerpt:

Bulls Blood is a Hungarian tradition dating back hundreds of years. Legend has it that when the Ottoman Empire attempted to invade Hungary, they chose to invade the isolated region of Eger, where they outnumbered the Hungarian military ten-to-one. The Hungarians of Eger locked themselves in the castle and tried to develop of strategy to defeat the Ottoman Empire, but they couldn’t think of anything! Defeated, they decided to break into the wine cellar and drink as much wine as they possibly could. For days they drank, becoming more and more delirious and soaking themselves and each other in wine. They became so incoherent that instead of fighting the Ottomans, they started fighting each other. However, what the Ottomans saw was an army apparently covered in blood, fighting each other—they had sacrificed their bulls, drunk the blood, and now they Hungarians were demigods! The Ottomans were so frightened by the prospect, after a few skirmishes, they just left. Eger avoided conquest! Hungary celebrates their victory every year with a Bulls Blood Festival.

I have corroborated this narrative with reliable sources, namely Wikipedia and Savoj Zizek (who might be one in the same). I'm spellbound, stupified by such a narrative. Are there others? It's curious. What wine bars do I visit to unearth such narratives?

If you've read this far, I will gladly drink a flight of vino with you at TeSoAria. Eat, drink, and be merry.

Ecotopia's Emperor has No Clothes OR It's Not a Lie if You Believe It

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Wed, 29 Jul 2015 05:14:00 +0000

It is hot and dry in the Pacific Northwest. There is a record drought and acres of forest are burning. More than a quarter of a million sockeye salmon are dying because the rivers are so hot. There is toxic algae in the Willamette River. And, the city that, just this past weekend, held a big float celebration to show it has cleaned up its river has issued a health advisory. Things don't seem to be going so great for the environment in the magic kingdom of Ecotopia.

The term motivated inference refers to contexts where people's beliefs are biased by their goals (great academic piece here). In such situations, like climate change, it is difficult for individuals to consider problems that contradict their individual or collective sense of identity. Climate change poses such an instance; Portland sets forth a particularly frustrating conundrum. In what many have heralded as America's greenest city, environmental problems have been met with boosterism versus real solutions. If solutions are put forth, they are first and foremost ones that satisfy the goal of making money...green capitalism, if you will, is one example of misplaced perception of action.

At some point, new behaviors and paradigms will be needed. I think we are upon that precipice now. Given current conditions of environmental engagement, our goals must shift from boosterism and wealth to connectedness and conservation. I think of Derek Jensen's adage: "you can't have sex without your land base". That's an attention grabber and might get folks thinking. But, I'm sure there's a savvy marketing notion that could somehow distract us. Oh well...at least the water is warm and colorful.

Humility, Hubris, and Dorsal Fins

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Tue, 21 Jul 2015 22:40:00 +0000

Humility and hubris are two different, and quite incommensurable, qualities. The recent media (feeding) frenzy, if you will, with regard to shark attacks has me reflecting on how we respond to the environment we live in and are a part of. My home state of origin, North Carolina, has experienced a lot of attention this summer for its shark activity. And, most recently, there was the shark attack at Jeffrey's Bay where world champion surfer Mick Fanning experienced an intense close encounter of the great white kind. Fanning's remarks and reflections were quite humble, however there has been some more insanely hubris-laden commentary shared in media. Folks have actually called for shark decimation or hunting in an effort to rid the seas of sharks.

Fear and hubris aside, it often seems we've lost our ability and inclination to situate ourselves in relation to the natural world. We've lost our humility. We've lost our way to make sense of ourselves, life, and the earth by simply being humble. I've written before about the detriment of ego. Hubris and ego ride tandem just about always. Realistically, what do these shark attacks tell us about what's going on in our oceans? Importantly, what can these awe-inspiring animals tell us about our own mortality, and its spectrum of emotions...from utter fear to supreme joy and exhilaration? But, to get to this awareness we have to be willing to be humble and honest with ourselves.

As I close this post out, I have to share one other piece that underscores our ability to watch and learn/listen to what our non-human others have to say to us. Many weather models are pointing to a strong El Nino this year, as well as what that may mean for oceans, rain, temperature, etc. I ran across this piece in Surfer that reminds us of how animals can tell us what going to shake down weather-wise (and otherwise) more definitely than computer models, hubris, or ego. We just need to be able to humbly pay attention.

On Meeting Heroes

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Thu, 09 Jul 2015 21:34:00 +0000

What does it mean to come face-to-face with a hero? Not anyone’s hero, but your hero. And, what indelible mark, if any, does it make when this happens? Maybe the myth and infatuation unravels with disappointment or realization that your hero is a fatally-flawed mortal. Such meetings may change lives, or they may simply be another pedestrian interaction. Fundamentally, though, these meetings hold potential to make us look deeply into who we are and what we aspire to be, or what we have to resuscitate.

I met one of my heroes last week, and it changed my life. The meeting summoned from the depths a lost self…a self that I’d sidelined and subjugated for well over fifteen years, dating back to my mom’s death in 1999. As I reflect, I can see that in the two years prior to my mom’s sudden death, hurdles and hiccups in her life and mine had begun to create a context where I was losing my self. Of course, at the time I did not know this. I was not paying attention…maybe I was afraid to pay attention or paid attention to the wrong things. I took my eye off my karma.

I’ve got some ideas about what happened socially and professionally; but, the devastating result was that I failed to nurture, or turn to the wisdom, of a self that could have taken me humbly, graciously, and mindfully through some pretty significant life moments and decisions. I’ve done pretty well since my mom’s death and am so grateful for what I have accomplished, as well as the opportunities I have. But I wish I’d remembered my self sooner.

Thankfully, last week, one of my heroes showed up. He stood right in front of me, with a cosmic mirror. There was nowhere to hide. What I saw and experienced propelled me back in time to pick up something I should not have laid down. What me hero said, in our private conversation and in his talk to a larger group, moonshot me powerfully into the present moment. For the first time, in a long time, I recognized myself reconstituted. My gratitude continues to overflow.

Humility, beauty and gratitude on Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Sun, 21 Jun 2015 14:54:00 +0000

Father’s Day…I’m glad it’s here. I love my family and especially my son. He’s gives me the greatest gifts, with none of them being material. Well, of course, he does give me great material gifts but the ones I cherish most are the soul soothing heart expanding ones…the gifts of love, experience, and reminders of what it means to see and experience things anew. Watching and being with him enables me to thrill with delight all of life’s gifts, which include the exhilarating ones as well as the scary, intimidating ones. If I really allow myself to drop into my heartspace--which is hard for people to do, especially men—my son teaches me a lot about humility. It’s a gift my dad never gave me and one that I did not (or was not encouraged to) experience as child.

Thomas Merton wrote that "pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real". I like this, a lot. Pride, namely false pride, is something that can’t inhabit the same space as humility. Arrogance and ego can’t be in that space either. My son, makes things anew and helps me be different, better, and revolutionary in my humility. I am eternally grateful for that gift. Thanks D.

Maintaining Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Wed, 12 Nov 2014 22:57:00 +0000

There has been a bit of press (though not nearly enough) on dementia as of late. Some has been spurred by findings that Robin Williams (along with 1.3 million Americans currently) suffered from Lewy Body Dementia in addition to early onset of Parkinson's Disease.

Here is a recent APA piece entitled "Speaking of Psychology: Protecting Your Aging Brain" that
addresses the causes of dementia as well as the effectiveness of activities such as physical exercise and brain training games in preventing it.

Don't Drink the Water (or swim in it either)

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Wed, 13 Aug 2014 05:39:00 +0000

I've been going to water a lot, rather as much as I can, this summer. I've been to the ocean, rivers, lakes, streams, etc. Mostly, it's been a pretty frustrating experience. Initially, I thought that I was going to the wrong spots. What's more probable, though, is that there is something wrong with the places that I've visited. There's nuance to this supposition, a nuance that's predicated on subjectivity and awareness. My most recent visit was to Seattle's Lake Union.

It was beautiful. It is beautiful. People were on the water enjoying what appeared to be the most sublime of natural offerings that exists on the urbanized Puget Sound...enjoyment, seemingly without care. Hell, why not? Just about every "how to see Washington or the Northwest" visitors' guide has something like the following in every issue that I've perused this year. I'm inspired by this messaging too.

Until, I notice the "no swimming or fishing" signs posted on the perimeter of the lake. Evidently the lake is toxic. Seventy-five years of industrial activity has lined the lake with arsenic. As, in all over the bottom of the lake. See the article: "Crews to remove 8000 yards of arsenic-laced mud from Lake Union".

And, what's starkly apparent is the fact that there are a lot of other places I haven't gone that are suffering the same fate. Evidently, at least one third of Washington's waterways are polluted beyond safe levels according to the state's Department of Ecology (as quoted in the EcoReport). When I've been to the coast I have to check the warnings for raw sewage runoff, as I also have to do when paddleboarding in the Willamette River. It doesn't seem that things should be this way. More profoundly, it doesn't seem that people should be able to simply look past this as they do. Granted, I'm a recovering Marxist but the false consciousness and disconnectedness is utterly baffling.

I grew up swimming and surfing at Wrightsville Beach, NC which is consistently lauded for relatively pristine water quality. Shouldn't this be the norm? The Northwest has a lot of cred when it comes to "eco-consciousness" whatever that means now. But, some of this spin and negligence when it comes to water quality is a bag of shit that we shouldn't have to accept. Lipstick doesn't look good on this pig.

I Need to Go Surfing, or "Screw You Guys I'm Going Home"

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Wed, 30 Jul 2014 18:24:00 +0000

It has been a hot summer in the Pacific Northwest. The heat has ushered forth a lot of physical and emotional discontent for me, some certainly due to the lack of AC in our Portland home; Portland is on track for its sixth warmest July on record. When we moved here a year and a half ago, the word on the street was that summers were perfect and there was no AC required. Well, slow down big fella because my psychological dependency on air conditioning has garnered a very real physiological precedent having lived in our sauna of a house this summer.

And, it appears from this National Weather Service article that the East is cooler than the West this year AND this pattern may persist (in the near term) in our increasingly warming world. Great...drought, wildfires, and less snow in the PNW while the East Coast enjoys new cooler summers. See except here:

cool conditions in the East contrasted, as they have nearly all year, with baking conditions in the West, which have exacerbated the effects of California’s epic drought and helped fuel wildfires. This temperature pattern is occurring over a background warming fueled by the accumulation of greenhouse gases in Earth’s atmosphere that are making record lows overall less likely and record highs more common. The pattern the U.S. has seen is also one scientists say could be more common in a warming world.

But, of course, this role reversal of cool summers is temporary. Increasing concentrations of carbon dioxide put into the atmosphere will ultimately ensure that everyone sees more record highs against record lows. Early in the summer, I found myself thinking that enduring this heat and traffic of Portland would at least payoff with some snow in the Cascades this winter. But given last year's delayed snowfall on Mt. Hood and what looks like a trend (see Timberline chart here)I've often though about what Yvon Chouinard (Patagonia's founder) said about climate change: "We're getting into the surf market, because it's never going to snow again, and the waves are going to get bigger and bigger". Chouinard seems right. Now if only the Oregon ocean water heat up and the sharks will stop eating people, I'm set.

On Preference and Buoyancy

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Fri, 18 Jul 2014 21:52:00 +0000

This past Monday my son and I took a day off from work to join a couple other parents and their kids on a brief jaunt up I-5 into Washington so that we could swim in Lake Merwin. The trip was a much welcomed respite from the summer heat that has finally arrived in Portland. Lake Merwin is beautiful for sure.

And, having grown up in and around the ocean on the East Coast I have found myself restless to immerse myself in water sans wetsuit (something not very often done in the Pacific Northwest). We'd suffered through the rain and cold of Portland all winter, not to mention the torment of Facebook posts from our East Coast friends who've been swimming bareback in 70+ degree water for months now. In short, this was to be some sort of payoff to a psychological setup that I'd been constructing for months. Going into it I knew that the swimming wouldn't appproximate the memories I have of the warm Atlantic, but the urge toward nostalgia and hope of discovering the joy of lake swimming in the Northwest with my son was too great to resist.

The best part is...the trip to Lake Merwin delivered, though not in all the ways I'd anticipated. My son had a blast. I did too. The water was clear and refreshing, though much colder than the Atlantic this time of year. My son was thrilled to be in lake and to swim to the rope boundary and back. I was stunned by my own exhilaration generated though witnessing and sharing his joy in the water...excitement that increased exponentially with each stroke he took. It was shear delight.

My biggest surprise of the day came after our lunch break, as the children in our group were running up and down the rock and sand beach collecting feathers and rocks. My son came running up to me to show me something. He clasped five feathers in his right hand and in his left hand was a white object about 4 inches in diameter. With unbridled delight he handed the white object to me exclaming, "Here, daddy, it's a seashell...my favorite! Keep it for me to take home." He then ran off to water to float on a log with his friends.

I watched him sprint back to the lake, then studied what he'd handed me. It was a white piece of plastic, most likely a corner of a shattered cooler that someone had left on the beach. My heart sank. The rest of the afternoon, while walking across the beach to the lake, I found myself staring across the sand looking for seashells. I knew there were none to be found. I was on a freshwater lake in Washington, far from the coast.

The trip to Lake Merwin was magical for me, as well as for my son, and I hope I always remember our afternoon there. But, something shifted for me that day. I realized that, in at least one sense, Portland isn't home. The saltwater in my veins still runs strong and, that no matter the beauty of lakes and rivers, the ocean still calls me. The oceans call me to bring my son so he can know their boundless life force, infinitude, and shells with secrets that can't be found on lakes or in cities.

At the end of the day, I finally had to wrangle him in to the lake beach and pack up so that we could drive back down I-5 to Portland. We stopped for raspberry milkshakes at our favorite Northwest shake and burger joint on the way home. The kids listened to a CD of The Magic Treehouse as the adults talked. Things felt OK. I was grateful for a day away from work with my son, as well as the warmth of summer heat.

I've thought about the broken "shell" that sits on my kitchen counter everyday since. Oddly, it is affirming. Maybe because I know that Portland is a "drive in and drive out" for me in this life journey...a lot like the lake trip. More profoundly, I feel happy that the ocean reached me on that lake in Washington and told me to come home with my son.

How Humans Have Reshaped Ecological Process

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 22:15:00 +0000

Anthropogenic Biomes(Anthromes) offer a new way to understand our living planet by describing the way humans have reshaped its ecological patterns and processes. Click here for a link and description of the infographic below. The work is is based on a system of 21 Anthrome classes divided into 6 broad groups, as described in Ellis and Ramankutty (2008;Anthromes v1).

My Upcoming APHA Proposal

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Tue, 08 Jul 2014 19:41:00 +0000

I'll be presenting at the annual conference for APHA in New Orleans on November 17, 2014. Here's my prospectus for the roundtable discussion. I'm pretty excited about sharing my nascent research and would love some thoughts, comments, and constructive critiques. Additionally, if anyone would like to participate in this ongoing research concerning ways health care professional engage climate change please let me know.

Sustainability, climate change, and nursing education: Curriculum for clinical intervention

Monday, November 17, 2014

Hill Taylor, PhD, MS, MA , School of Nursing, Oregon Health & Science University, Portland, OR

Nursing and medical education must address current and future impacts of climate change. This presentation examines responsiveness in nursing curriculum and clinical practice at Oregon Health & Science University. This study’s key objective is to establish protocols and frameworks for managing the health effects of climate change. The outcome of this study is the formulation of tools that enable nurses to introduce sustainability in multiple contexts.

Public health leaders have underscored the key role of nurses in promoting sustainability in an era of rapid climate change. This presentation showcases a descriptive case study that investigates in-group perspective and practice of nursing students and faculty in Portland, Oregon, arguably one of the most “sustainable” and healthy cities in the United States. These current and future clinicians are developing knowledge and practices predicated on experiences in Portland, Oregon; often, such frames of reference, differ from nursing contexts outside the privileged boundaries of Portland and the United States.

Preliminary qualitative analysis of curriculum, combined with data from semi-structured interviews of nurses, has produced a concept map for use in clinical settings. This map encourages health consultations that incorporate environmental and sustainability education for patients and families navigating health effects of climate change (e.g., air and water quality, nutrition, response to new disease vectors). The presenter demonstrates use of this sustainability concept map as one learning tool to be used by educators in the health professions in efforts to introduce sustainability education into didactic and clinical settings.

Infographic on the Benefits of Mindfulness

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 23 Jun 2014 22:46:00 +0000

Up Here in My Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 23 Jun 2014 22:40:00 +0000

Theobold Reading Hybrid Activity (11/5/12)

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Sun, 04 Nov 2012 23:47:00 +0000

Identify one key concept in the Theobold reading (available on Moodle). State that concept, then explain what it means in your own words. Lastly, link to a newspaper article that, in some way, relates to this concept..

Oct 1 and Nov 1 Post (Hydrid Day)

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 17:10:00 +0000

Post one excerpt from the Taylor & Helfenbein reading, then ask a question about the quote/excerpt. That's it!

10.8.12 Hybrid Day Post

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 12:49:00 +0000

After viewing The Meatrix, what do you discern the main thesis (or theses) to be? How is this communicated through visual rhetoric? How effective were the clips in persuading your thoughts and/or actions? What counterarguments might you make? Please make sure your response is at least 8-10 sentences in length.

Extra Credit: Environmental Visual Rhetoric

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 15:46:00 +0000

Read this definition of visual rhetoric (from Wikipedia no less). Next, locate an example of visual rhetoric as relates to environmental action and awareness. Post to your blog, replete with image and a brief explanation. Once you have done this, comment below with a link to your blog. You will definitely want to describe how technology can aid or influence environmental thought and action.

Bioregionalism Defined

noreply@blogger.com (Hill) — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 14:47:00 +0000

Please post your provisional definition of bioregionalism or bioregional literacy below. This will be the term that you operationalize in your thesis, in order to comment on Gary Snyder's poems in Turtle Island AND your own chosen place (re: its environmental concerns/qualities). Lastly, provide an in-text citation and a full citation, as would appear in a Works Cited list, at the end of your quote. Feel free to use the NCSU citation builder.