Como?

     Anyone who says that learning a new language is "easy" is either a genius or an idiot. It isn't difficult in the sense that Calculus is difficult, but is instead difficult on a variety of levels, both mentally, emotionally, and sometimes even physically. Every interaction is a test. Can you understand the person talking to you? Can they understand you? Can you even formulate the things that you want to say? It's always an uphill battle.

     I came with a hardier understanding of Spanish this year. I was more advanced than I was last year, but I was still quite rusty since I had few people back home to practice with. Being immersed in the language is a completely different story than just hearing someone utter one phrase in passing in the grocery store. I felt like I should have come with a full year's worth of Spanish practice under my belt, but the truth was that it simply wasn't possible. It didn't matter how many hours I had practiced on my own, it was nothing compared to being thrust in a situation where I had to understand someone with no ropes to save me.

     My confidence plummeted after a few days of realizing just how "far behind" I was. This time, I was the person who knew the least amount of Spanish, and it was a sinking feeling. People who came after me last year knew more Spanish than I did because I wasn't immersed in it for months at a time. I should have been to that point, and I was embarrassed and disappointed in myself. I felt like I appeared "lazy" or like I didn't care enough to learn their language or like I was dead-set on speaking English or not advancing myself. What was I to do? Plus, I felt like I couldn't even string a sentence together. "What are you saying? I can't understand you, just speak in English." Other people's impatience began to make even the patient people impatient, and that sinking feeling began to grow more painful.

     Here's the deal, though: learning a new language is never easy, no matter how you slice it. Everyone has a hard time with it, some people are just better at hiding it. Everyone has moments of anger or frustration at themselves or times when they feel like they don't understand anything, but you have to pick yourself up off the ground and keep trying. Everyone started somewhere.

    Not ready to give up hope or be shot down so quickly, I strove to make myself better. I began reading books and such in Spanish and leaving the "Google Translate" tab up at all times. I learned the people who were "safe" to test my skills out with and those who were a little less patient. I listened to people's conversations and again looked up words I did not understand. I learned to be brave and ask if there was a word I didn't know. I spoke more often with strangers I encountered on the beach and stopped being so afraid of telling people that I didn't have the greatest Spanish when it was evident that I didn't fully understand them. I have even started watching whatever Doctor Who episodes I can find on YouTube that are in Spanish just to attempt to understand the language better. 

     I've had to accept, though, that I can only do so much. I want to stay up for hours every night struggling with the language and learning it, but I am so exhausted as it is. Sometimes I'm even too exhausted to really attempt to translate what people are saying to me, but I do it anyway. You aren't expected to be able to do everything and improve substantially overnight, and if you are, you are in the wrong place or with the wrong people. I am lucky to be somewhere that is almost always a very safe space for learning a new language. Virtually everyone is attempting to learn another language here, whether it be English or Spanish, and thus I have the wonderful benefit of being right in the middle of an open and welcoming learning environment. 

   Sometimes you have to fight the feeling that people are tired with you or that their patience has run out. Even if that turns out to be the case, sometimes you just have to tell yourself that you have improved even if no one else seems to see it. People can't get in your head and they can never truly know how much you actually understand. In a moment of joking, someone laughed and said in Spanish that I "understood nothing." In reality, I understood them, I just mixed up one singular word with a very similar sounding word. The worst thing is hearing someone mumble something with your name and you don't know what they said about you. It's like a secret they can say in front of you, a stab in the back while you're standing there and watching helplessly. It's hard and it hurts, but you have to ignore it and continue moving on. 

   For everyone who is tired of your trying or impatient with you, there will always be understanding, patient people who are willing to help you try and realize your improvement. There is no better feeling than people telling you that you are doing so much better and that they can see improvement. I think new speakers don't hear it as often as they should, and I cannot stress enough how important it is to encourage them. I try to do it frequently because it really gives people a boost in confidence. 

    Some days are better than others. Sometimes I understand everything that comes out of someone's mouth and don't even have to think about it and respond so quickly that it feels like I've been doing it forever. Sometimes someone speaks and I miss the most crucial part, respond, and then realize my mistake as everyone laughs. Learning a new language is a journey complete with mountains, valleys, and hills, but it's the journey that changes you. Learning a new language requires so much of you and wears you so thin, but then it builds you back up stronger than before. You have little moments of intense excitement when you realize you said something or understood something correctly and these are what get you through the unnerving moments. Sometimes it is encouraging to take a moment and reflect on how far you've actually come rather than how far you have to go. This year I speak almost entirely in Spanish to my lab buddy, something I was incapable of last year. We've had whole conversations about research, protocols, and other unrelated things, and I was able to speak to him in Spanish and understand him when he spoke to me. That is something to be proud of, and I should be proud of myself for it.

     People probably think that como is my favorite word. I have to use it often after people talk to me in order to ask them to repeat the phrase, sometimes two or three or even four times. But, I keep trying. That's the key. The more you try, the better you will become. 

     The sun rises and the sun sets. There are new days and new opportunities to try again. There are kind people and times of success, and there are people who understand what you are going through and have been there themselves. You are not alone in this. We are not alone in this. 

For the Love of Fish

     For anyone who has known me for even a short period of time, it's no secret that I love fish. I don't know what it is about them, I just love them. I love the way that they move, they way that they look at you, the way that they behave. For crying out loud, I have a fish onesie (which I may or may not have worn in the lab). I cannot explain it, I just know that I have loved fish for years. I've kept my own tank since late middle school and have always found solace in visiting aquariums.

     This time around, I had my mind set on studying fish. Why not do an experiment on them? There was nothing "stopping me" from studying fish. I understand them but there is also so much about them that I don't understand, so much that I want to understand. They are secrets kept in the dark, waiting for me and others to come searching with a light. I am an explorer in an underwater cave bringing light to the never before seen waters. At least that's how I like to think of it.

    For me, this research is incredibly exciting. However, it doesn't lend itself to being necessarily "blog-worthy" like my last endeavor. I'm not staying up all night for several days in a row, thank goodness. There isn't that feeling of "survival" or an "edge" to it. I am staring at a pool for a couple hours in the morning watching fish behavior and then staring at video footage and plugging data into Excel for the rest of the time (both of which are exhausting in their own right but not nearly as much as my last undertaking). Research is one of those things that either seems incredibly glamorous and exciting to people ("I'm diving with sharks everyday and studying the effects ocean acidification on their behavior") or incredibly not-so-glamorous and perhaps boring ("I'm analyzing 16-years' worth of data on barnacle population sizes off the coast of southern Maine, meaning I sit and plug in data for 8 hours straight every day"). The truth is that many research projects include a range of aspects: you have the exciting parts where you are getting the data or the animals and the sometimes very boring parts of plugging it all into your computer and then running it through statistical measures. 

     My current research requires filming 10 minute trials using a GoPro plus watching the fish do their thing from behind a mesh net. I have to wake up pretty early to get started since it can take a while and has to be done in the morning, but I don't necessarily mind it. The first round of experiments I groggily dragged myself out of the bed after having about three-ish hours of sleep (my own fault, we were having a nice get together and then a certain spacey album project called Planetarium that I had been waiting to hear for months came out so I had to give it a listen). I traversed my way in the dark to a place I knew all too well after many intimate and sleepless nights a year ago. The promise of sunlight peeked out over the hills, casting a thin veil of red-orange glow that hugged the skyline. In the early morning air and pale light I realized how much I had grown since the previous year and how much stronger I was now. I was able to hold my own and conduct my experiments solo. I had a set plan and knew the procedures. I was finally starting to feel like a "real" scientist, not just someone who was a bit lost in the flujo of things I knew little about. It's good to have confidence in yourself and in your ability, and it's really wonderful to feel like you are in a place where you finally feel comfortable doing what you have been preparing yourself to do for years and confident enough to have at least a little authority with it.

     The project is coming along, slowly. I am learning to flow like the waters and take life as it comes like the marine animals that live their lives in constant questioning. They don't necessarily know when they will be getting the things they need or what the day will bring, but they embrace it and live through it. Such courage from often very little animals. 

     I believe you can learn a lot from fish. Fish are such patient creatures. One of the predator fish in my experiments stared intently for nearly thirty minutes at the prey fish across the transparent plastic barrier. He knew the barrier was there and that he couldn't quite possibly make through after many failed attempts, but he remained where he believed he could escape if at all possible, waiting for a moment I knew would never come. Fish are so very focused, locking onto their subject and maintaining a notable amount of intensity with the task for long periods of time. Fish are also quite curious. They explore new places or try new things, bolting around a new habitat or peeking into an unfamiliar crevice. Fish can also become stressed, sometimes even extremely stressed. Excessive stress can have damaging effects on fish, often in more visible ways than we often show. Their colors turn pale, they breathe faster, and often they fall ill or contract an infection. Fish can become stressed by a variety of factors, including being housed with unfriendly fish or bullies, being subjected to bad environmental factors, or being thrust into a completely new situation after previously stressful events. Fish vividly show that stress can affect you, often deeply.

    Fish have been my teachers over the past few weeks. When pumps break or we don't get a lot of fish, I remember their patience and how they just flow with the water. Often the journey is more important than the destination, and I think that period of flux between the beginning and the end of something are some of the most important aspects of an experience. 

     Oh the things I do for the love of fish! Waking up early, braving monster storms, digging through mountains of old piping, and other unconventional activities have all been done in the name of fish and science. Perhaps I love them too much, or perhaps I've simply found my calling. Either way, I don't think it's a love that will fade away any time soon. 

Adventures in Snorkeling Part 3

     I have had a couple (mis)adventures with snorkeling over the past year, beginning with my Chilean adventure last year. After a somewhat traumatic first outing, I desperately wanted to try again. I was a marine biologist for crying out loud, I had to be able to snorkel. Last year I was determined to successfully snorkel in Chile, clinging to the hope that I would be able to do it before I left and give the story a fulfilling ending. Unfortunately, things never quite panned out and I honestly left disappointed. 

    Upon my return, I was absolutely dead-set on finding some way to snorkel. I had bought my own gear to make certain that everything was fit to my size so that I could prevent as many possible issues as possible. I made it the top priority in my packing. At the station, I watched the waves for days and found the website everyone else used to track wave and wind activity. I learned the patterns of the water and the waves, how long they moved and how they behaved. I even watched how the birds handled oncoming waves. My time was spent subconsciously preparing for snorkeling. 

     The ocean here is not particularly forgiving. It is often strong, sometimes even violent, and therefore snorkeling is not usually an option. However, out of the blue the sea changed its tone for a day and was the calmest it had been in a very long time. A small passing remark in a conversation turned into a plan, and before I knew it two of the darling gringas (Americans) Katie and Allie were working to get us out to sea. I was completely beside myself, but part of me was terrified that it wouldn't work out. I wanted this so desperately, but I could barely contain my excitement. The night before our excursion, I could barely sleep because I was so excited. I don't even remember the last time that happened.

      The morning arrived cold but with beautiful sunshine and no waves. Everything was perfect. We even spotted dolphins before we set out, and I knew that the day would be wonderful. We entered the water at a beach I'm quite familiar with (the first photograph), but the water was a bit rougher right at the entrance than I thought. As we entered the water, I suddenly felt a feeling I knew unfortunately all too well: "the spooks." I characterize these as a sudden feeling of nervousness coupled with rapid breathing and inhaling water. The rapid breathing and feeling like I can't properly breathe makes the nerves more intense and the cycle gets worse and worse. I have no idea why I got nervous. Maybe it was the waves, maybe it was that my fin decided to pop off, maybe it was a triggered response from my first escapade. Regardless, it was there and the fact that it was there made me even more nervous. I sought out the nearest rock and tried to put my fin on more securely, all the while focusing on my breathing. The others waited patiently for me, telling me we would just take it slow and that everything was going well. I really appreciate these two dears, they made this snorkeling trip for me. 

   I caught my breath and proceeded out to the open water, and suddenly it was easy. I was doing it. The underwater world I had only read about in dry black and white publications suddenly came to life in front of my eyes, glorious and very much alive. I saw everything: crabs, chitons, sea stars, giant snails, all of it. When I saw my first fish I squealed through my snorkel. I continued to squeal happily through my snorkel, pointing and exclaiming at everything the sea had to offer me. A glittering silvery school of fish swam past and around me and I nearly cried with glee. 

     This was a world I had longed to see for years, and now here it was in front of me. A wave of understanding washed over me (I'll show myself out) as I was able to piece together all of the information I had read. The habitat is made up of several sheets of rock with deeper crevices in between. Some of the rocks have patches of short, bushy kelp (not like the kind you see in California) while others had patches of purplish crustose algae (imagine flat splotches of pastel purple paint on rocks) or just boulders and little rocks. It's a mixed habitat that basically looks like a lot of shelves with sneaky places for creatures to hide. I could see everything I had read and heard about right in front of me, and my understanding grew triple-fold. I could feel the pulsing and see the animals behaving in their natural environment, many ignoring me for the most part and allowing me to see them in their natural state. At one point the sea swelled and the kelp below us flowed with it in a flash of yellowish green, making you feel like you were gliding over them even though you were in the same place.  I had the biggest grin on my face the whole time. I was unabashedly happy. I honestly don't even remember the last time I was that happy. 

     Those minutes felt timeless. There was the three of us and the sea, with all of its splendor and wonder. The blue-green water swayed and life abounded. We were visitors in an alien, weightless world that had allowed us to slip into itself for a whisper of time.

     Before I knew it we had to return and I slowly slipped out of the watery world and back into my own. Right before I left the water another silvery school of fish swam around me, with a few fish lingering and allowing me to soak in their beauty. Slim and shimmering, they moved delicately through the underbrush of algae and into the sun. One stayed a moment and looked at me. We both had a moment of curious understanding before it slipped away into the blue-green haze. I turned and beached myself on shore with the biggest grin on my face that didn't leave all day. Finally, my snorkeling story had a successful Chilean ending (and hopefully, this is merely the beginning).

     For some my giddiness may seem a little childish, but for me this is my life. This is what I am passionate about, what makes my blood run. Successfully snorkeling and entering a world I knew only from the surface for so long was a big step in the right direction for both my time here but also for my career. That thing that you are passionate about, that thing that gives you a little glitter in the corner of your eye when you talk about it or makes you feel at home when you are thinking about it is so important. So often people travel down a path they are not enthralled with because it is easier or because they are too scared to pursue what they love. Trust me, there are few things more fulfilling than actively engaging in something you absolutely adore. It is worth the obstacles, the exhausting nights, the thoughts of doubt or the other difficulties. That feeling of true, unrestrained joy and love for what you are doing is worth everything and worth pursuing. You won't lose it. Some words that have haunted me for years were uttered in honesty in a moment of quietness: "One day, you will look at those waves and they won't fascinate you anymore." I told myself from that moment on that I could not let that happen. If you love something, it will continue to entrance you and fascinate you. It won't feel like work, it will be an object of love. But akin to love, there will be hard times and trials and frustration, but you will always find yourself coming back, needing to come back. It won't let you leave. Find that thing in your life.

Yo Regreso

You can't keep a fish out of water for too long.

     I knew I had to return. The marine station had enraptured me too tightly to let me loose completely. Everyone's first question upon my initial return last year was, "When are you going back?" Quite frankly, I hadn't even really solidified in my mind yet that I was actually going back. At the time I was juggling between ECIM and a few other summer research options, but something about Chile just wouldn't let me go, and so I decided I would traverse back to its waters again when the summer returned. 

     This time, leaving home was a different experience. The first time, I was a bundle of nerves, and by the time my flight day had come, I was no longer excited but instead sick to my stomach. This time, however, I was a grand mix of feelings: nervous (of course) but also incredibly excited. It's like a return to form or like going back to a second home. I could not wait to see my friends again, meet new lovely people, research fish (cue the external excited screaming), photograph and film, see all the marine critters, just all of it. I was excited for my first day, I was excited to get to the half-way point where I was truly involved in everything, and I couldn't wait to return home. I was excited for the whole dang thing, and this seemed like it would be a significantly smoother ride. Not to mention, I won't have to stay up all night forever and ever, so I might be a little more awake and alive to do and experience things. 

   The day that I was to depart finally arrived. This time felt very sudden, like it had arrived overnight and I had not been expecting it. This was in part because I had a rather arduous semester, so I was so focused on my classes that the trip had to take a back seat. Regardless of how sudden it felt, though, it was here. Unfortunately I can't seem to have a trip without a hitch, though.

     My initial flight was delayed and I had to be switched to another one so that I could actually make it to Chile on the scheduled day of arrival. I departed to a different airport and was told upon arrival that I had to go all the way from one end of the airport to the other. I had to practically run from one end of MIA to the other to make my flight and I just barely made it. The second I slumped down in my seat on the plane, feeling disgusting from my 20 minute rush to my destination, I panicked a little inside. Was I on the right flight? Did I have everything? Did they get all my bags? At this point I was so over it and just ready to be there. After an exhausting flight (what flight isn't exhausting? I envy people who can sleep on planes...), I finally arrived in the airport and made it to the station in one piece.

     It was weird arriving back at ECIM. I expected it to be some big exciting thing, but it wasn't. It felt like a return to normalcy, like I had just been gone a week and now I was back. No nerves, no nothing. I was here. Everything looked the same, many of the same people were still around, and I felt like I was falling back into a rhythm. My first weekend I traversed the places I had come to know well and just felt at home. The first week passed and I sat in an office that felt like mine. I was truly comfortable.

     Upon my arrival, I was itching to do everything I loved. There are only so many hours in a day, though, so I've had to pick and choose what to do while remembering that I still have time to do everything. Several of my days off (including a lunch break or two) have consisted of me digging around through tide pools merely for the heck of it and losing my mind over all the critters in these rich little ecosystems. Beautiful little fish, shrimp, crabs, chitons, amphipods, mussels, barnacles, snails, and more have enthralled me as crawled around from pool to pool (also in a skirt at one point, which I don't recommend). I cannot relay to you just how excited I am and how happy I am. I am a sea lady in her rightful habitat, and I am relishing every moment.

     I haven't had any adventures yet, but then again I've only been here for a short period of time. Adventures will come in time. The best is always yet to come. I'm a bit impatient, but perhaps the journey is in the waiting. Perhaps some of the best memories are in the small moments, those little times in between the big events.

    I have not been idle with my camera. I got to work pretty much immediately, utilizing the techniques I learned last time and over the course of the year. This place truly is a gold mine for photographing.

     A word I used a lot last time was regreso. It means "I return." I used it more to let people know that I would be right back, but eventually it become something greater, something with more depth to it. I looked a dear friend in the eyes and told him I would return. At the time, I didn't know when or how, but I knew I would be back. A year later, I have indeed returned. I have returned to my dear friends who always seem to put a smile on my face, to the laboratory where I wrestled with sleep in the deep of night, and to the sea that gives me life. Yo regreso. Y estoy feliz.

Plant Life with Erin

     Supposedly it was going to rain, but it wasn't going to be anything too problematic. Well. You know how the weather goes.

     Soaking wet, with dripping hair and squishy socks, I tried to get to the building on campus for my shoot with Erin as the rain pummeled down. Perhaps biking in the rain wasn't one of my best ideas, but regardless I would have been soaked anyway. I was just glad that at least I wasn't the one being photographed and I was keeping my fingers crossed that Erin looked nothing like my wet self.

     We had a bit of trouble with parking (gotta love university parking), but eventually we made it to our photography destination. I am a big fan of shooting outdoors, and most of my non-music sessions happen outdoors. However, one of the buildings on campus caught my eye with its lovely assortment of plants. The collection appears to always being changing (once they had a cactus and some sort of spiraling plant in there), and the pretty greens against the white walls made a nice sort of contrast that I was intrigued by. I was thrilled upon scoping it out to find that they had added to their collection and had an even wider assortment of pretty plants just waiting to be photographed, and I was itching to get in there with my camera.

     So despite the truly disgusting weather, Erin showed up like a beam of sunlight complete with the cutest yellow top and yellow sunglasses. As everyone cleared out for the weekend, we stayed in the thankfully dry entrance of the building with lots of happy plants and photographed away.

     I am struggling not to post every single shot from this session, it was so wonderful. I guess it goes to show I should take photos indoors a little more often!