Layli Maria Miron

Writer, Educator, Researcher

The Hyrax

Posted on May 3, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Q: What would you call Dr. Seuss’s Lorax if he grew taller?
A: The Hyrax, of course!

I had never heard of these wondrous creatures before I visited Hermon National Park in northern Israel. And I might not have noticed them, had it not been for my curiosity about some stairs leading up a hill at this park. Explorer that I am, I decided that I had to see what was at the top. We climbed up accompanied by another gentleman from our group. When we were a few paces ahead of him, we heard him cry out–“Look! Some sort of large creature!”

I froze. Did mountain lions live up here? Was one crouched on the nearby boulder, preparing to pounce? We descended the stairs to see the fearsome beast.

It was a brown, furry, ball of cuteness with a surly face, poised atop the enormous boulder with a clear “king of the hill” attitude. It regarded us with disinterest, these lowly hairless creatures who had blundered into his realm.

Soon we discovered that there was a whole clan of hyraxes living on these boulders. In a reptilian way, they like to sun themselves because they lack good thermoregulation (like me). They are actually rather remarkable. Although they look like big rodents, they are actually related to elephants (they even have mini-tusks), and their ancestors have been sunning themselves on planet Earth for nearly 40 million years–20 times longer than modern humans have been around. Sergey and I went paparazzi on them, and a few indulged us by holding their poses.

Later, I was once again wandering in the park, this time behind some sort of utility building, when I spotted a small animal ahead.

“IT’S A BABY HYRAX!” I exclaimed and gave chase. He skittered behind a tractor away from my camera, but this time we had truly hit the jackpot: a whole extended family of hyraxes peered at us from the brush beside this building.

This one is showing off his tusks in what appears to be the biggest smile a hyrax can give.

This one is showing off his bitty tusks in what appears to be the biggest smile a hyrax can give.

The nursery for the babies seemed to be indoors, through an open window; they played on a thick vine hanging from a tree, running up and down. One young fellow got too excited and tumbled off the vine to the ground, then picked himself up and ran back. It was seriously so cute it made me want to cry.

The time came that I had to leave my new quarry and resist the urge to take one back to Haifa with me. I will have to content myself with my hyrax photo album.

Nimrod and Pan

Posted on April 19, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Last weekend, I exchanged Mount Carmel for its wilder cousins in the Golan Heights, thickly clad in green. There were two destinations on this trip, which was organized by some coworkers: Nimrod’s Fortress and Banias Springs.

After some initial picnic-packing panic due to my forgetting cutlery (“We’ll have to scoop up the rice with Pringles!”), spoons were procured, and the day was off to a good start. After a picturesque drive through verdant northern Israel, we arrived at Nimrod’s Fortress, looking very medieval indeed with its stone battlements crowning the mountaintop.

Fortress ahoy!

The fortress was built in the 13th century by the Mameluke Muslims. According to legend, this is the place where Nimrod, great-grandson of Noah, was punished by God with a mosquito inside his head, which drove him mad. Alternatively, and less interestingly, this might have been where Nimrod built a castle. Anyway, suffice it to say that the fortress is really big and old, with various chambers and passages to explore–“a playground for adults,” as a friend put it.

The first thing I noticed was the tranquility. Quietness is fairly impossible to find in the Haifa/Akka area–there is always the hum of traffic, barking dogs, distant voices, the occasional soccer match or lusty caterwaul. But on this mountain, the predominant sound was birdsong. I could almost feel my eardrums relax in the peace.

After a stroll along the length of the fortress, Sergey and I reached the keep. The keep–the most defensible tower of the fortress–is also called the donjon, which is a much more entertaining name. So, in a corner of the donjon, we found a steep staircase on the edge of the mountain. (Don’t worry, there was a railing.)

“Do you want to go down there?” I asked. “It looks pretty steep.”

“Sure, but will you be ok?”

I took this as a challenge.

“Let’s be adventurous!”

After mincing my way down the crumbled steps, using Sergey as my banister, we reached a chamber. After stooping inside, we saw the only way forward was to crawl through two low archways, which we did. I was pretty proud of myself. Let’s pretend “crawl through medieval fortress” was on my bucket list–accomplished!

Rare moment of physical activity.

My bucket list also includes not dying by tumbling off the side of a mountain in northern Israel, so when we saw that the stairs on the other side were even steeper and more deteriorated, we retreated.

But our adventures were not over. The next stop was Banias. Sergey and I, hardy outdoorsmen that we are, were already exhausted by this leg of our journey. While some in the group proposed a 1.5-hour hike, we sleepily wandered off toward the ruins of Paneas, an ancient Greek site of worship for the God Pan. A wide grotto yawned in the reddish rock face; this was where sacrifices were tossed, apparently. Niches in the rock indicated where statues had been.

Niche with Greek writing above

Now, to our credit, Sergey and I did attempt to do some hiking around the park. We walked along a pretty stream adorned with foliage. According to the pamphlet, we must have encountered the bur-reed, loosestrife, and common hemp agrimony. To me, it sounds like some botanist was feeling buried in strife and acrimony.

About 15 minutes in, I threw in the towel. To our delight, upon our surrender, we walked into a clearing where a Druze couple in traditional garb sold Arabic coffee and thin, crepe-like pita with zatar and lebaneh cheese. It was a snack worthy of Pan.

Ok. So I have endeavored to control myself for the duration of this post, making it somewhat edifying with historical tidbits gleaned from the brochures and Wikipedia, but what I really want to write about is hyraxes, which have since that fateful day entered my pantheon of adorable small creatures. In fact, I think I need to devote a separate post to them–I’m just that enamored.

The Vainest Chameleon

Posted on April 15, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

This blog is transforming into one of a recreational naturalist. I promise, I do more than stumble across mongooses and petrified hedgehogs here! It must be good karma from those tiny lizards I saved from sticky traps last year.

So. I was on my way out of the office headed to lunch. Now, I have an uncommonly beautiful walk to the lunchroom nearly every day, walking through the blooming splendor of the gardens. There’s always some gem to discover, whether it is a tree snowing petals in February, the yellow snapdragons lit up by the sun, or a colorful songbird.

But this day my encounter with nature was super duper extra special.

There I was, on my way out, when I noticed something green sitting on the white marble steps. It was a chameleon!

Already preparing to tip over.

Imagine my delight at seeing this odd creature unleashed from the confines of a pet shop terrarium. Its eyes oscillated in different directions. Its feet were cloven into two sets of two toes each. Its tail was curly. It was a true wild chameleon.

I was getting pretty close to the chameleon because, technophobe that I am, I don’t know how to use zoom on my phone camera. The lizard seemed slightly nonplussed, then sort of tipped over and plopped off the edge of the stoop onto the next step, where it landed gracelessly on its side. I felt guilty, assuming I had caused its flop, but then it slowly picked itself up and walked to the edge of the step and proceeded to do the same, this time tilting over onto the gravel.

Gathering momentum for the next dive

It was truly the most unapologetically graceless animal I’ve had the privilege to watch. I don’t know how it even got up the steps in the first place, but I’m not sure that it had any options for descent besides letting gravity do the work. Furthermore, it was clearly a slave to vanity, choosing to pose against the backdrop of blinding whiteness rather than the inconspicuous safety of camouflage against any of the abundant surrounding greenery. If this was an Aesop’s fable, it would probably have been scarfed up by a fox.

Instead, clever creature, it decided its willowy figure was best accented with a vertical pose.

And then I had to go to lunch and resist the urge to make him my pet.

Rat a tat tat

Posted on April 6, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

It was Friday morning, and I was on my way to the office. As usual, I knocked on Sergey’s door (a few floors downstairs) to pick him up for the daily commute. He opened the door. “Can you come in for a moment?” he asked. “I have something to show you.”

Now, the last time Sergey said that, he had a bouquet of roses waiting for me inside. This time, it is a rat. I don’t want to read too much into what this means about the progress of our friendship, but…perhaps some backstory is in order.

First, Sergey and I had watched Ratatouille, which I find an unbeatably adorable movie. I mean, a French foodie rat with family problems? So cute.

A few days later, the movie really came to life.

Apparently, Sergey’s version of the gourmand critter flew/climbed in through the kitchen window. Yeah, Israeli rats climb walls and break into apartments. He and his flat-mate, upon discovering their guest, hid nearly all the food and dish ware and sterilized the kitchen. They left out sticky traps, peanut butter scented, to catch the beast. But this rat was smart, and, while avoiding the traps, went for the real peanut butter, nearly gnawing through the lid. I had to admire its palate and persistence.

The final weapon in the weeklong battle of man versus rodent was old-fashioned rat traps. That is how on that Friday morning there came to be one terrified rat cowering piteously in the corner of a trap on the kitchen counter as I looked on. Seriously, it was so pathetically afraid–trembling, big beady eyes panicked, squeaking whenever Sergey spoke or moved.

In the abstract, I don’t think retaining vermin is wise. Rats carry all sorts of pestilence and are a health danger to humans. But, watching this creature, clearly so afraid to die, how could we do anything besides give it freedom? So outside we went with this pet, and released it into some bushes. It ran off without so much as a backward glance.

TO A RAT (apologies to Robert Burns)

Small, worm-tailed wee creature,

with dirty paws your concerning feature,

why do you choose to live

‘neath this ancient fridge?

At quiet hours you grow spunky

and gnaw a banana like a monkey

leaving your marks of hunger

for us in the morning to discover.

I am sorry that we curse your life,

tempting you with cruel delights,

tidbits luring you into traps like sirens,

rewarding your desire with a prison.

But, wise rat, you chose well your abode

for herein dwells a gentle landlord

who cages and evicts you without pain or loss–

though perchance you will miss this kind host.

Check out “To a Mouse” for the classic rodent ode.

Farewell, puppy

Posted on March 25, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Shadow Amerson, 2004-2014

My family’s dog of a decade passed away.

I’m not even sure where to start with writing what I guess is an obituary for her. Ten years is a long time, at least for a 22-year-old. I’m not sure how people manage to condense a human life into a newspaper column, because I really struggle to write this.

We got Shadow directly from a breeder. I remember this lady as rather brusque and slightly racist, which are perhaps common features for someone with such passion for purebreds. If I recall, Shadow’s father was an actual German German Shepard. I’m sure she had a proud lineage, and in fact, her family tree is probably better mapped than mine. But as German Shepards go, she was of the longhair variety, considered inferior and inadequate for a show dog, which made her affordable.

Unfortunately, her pedigree didn’t serve her health. Even in puppyhood, she was a sickly dog. I won’t go into the details–in fact, I can’t even remember all her various sicknesses and emergencies. Suffice it to say that her cone became a frequent accessory.

I have some memories of puppy behavior class at PetSmart. Mainly I recall one gentleman who, to our distress, insisted on ruffling her ears. Growing ears should be handled with utmost delicacy so they grow erect and regal, but she had one ear that insisted on flopping over. As the years went on, she acquired more physical eccentricities. The extraction of a broken canine left her long, mole-specked tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth. An affliction in her eyes made them droopy and bloodshot. But she was a beautiful dog, weighing in at 100 pounds, massive for a female.

Shadow in the snow

Oh yes, remember that behavior class? Well, she didn’t either. As Shadow grew bigger and stronger, it became difficult for Jasmine and me to walk her. Any understanding she had of the command “heel” dissolved at a sighting of a squirrel or passerby. Our walks reached their inevitable culmination when, one day, walking her in the prairie behind our house, a jogger stepped out from behind a bend and Shadow, surprised, lunged. I was pulled to my knees and hung on with all my might (which wasn’t much) as she pulled me along in her pursuit of the jogger. It was rather like water skiing if the boat were a dog and the water was grass and no skis were involved. Finally we got her under control, and I got up, my knees grass-stained and shaky. Really, big dogs should come with brakes installed. From then on, it was choke collar–which didn’t do much with her thick fur–or the halter.

She was the ultimate family dog, protecting us with spit-flinging barking fits from any delivery person who dared ring the doorbell, or worse, friend who dared to step into her territory, and entering panic mode when we were absent. One thing you need to know about Shadow was that, underneath the stoicism (instead of seeking affection, she seemed to resign herself to my insistence on petting and baby-talking her) and the fierceness was a profound sensitivity.

Shadow: “Stop…touching…me.”

(I write that, and then I think about her lifelong greeting: goosing me. Well, sensitivity takes many forms.)

As a puppy, she was once outdoors taking a bathroom break during a storm when an enormous clap of thunder scared her nearly to death. From then on, she retained a phobia of thunder and similar booms like fireworks–we cursed Hometown Days with its lengthy grand finales that made our dog tremble and whine piteously–and later on any remotely bass sound. The grumbling motor of the garbage truck terrified her, turning Mondays into the Day of Whimpering. When she was young, we would sometimes spend the day in Waukesha with our grandparents, leaving her in the basement tornado shelter as a makeshift kennel. One of these times, a storm passed over Verona. Driving home through the puddled streets, we had no way of anticipating the mess we’d find in the shelter. Great bloody streaks ran down the door with bits of fur embedded from when she had tried to claw her way out. It was like something from a horror movie entitled “Separation Anxiety.”

Shadow had her quirks, her phobias, and her ailments, yes. Her eccentricity was only rivaled by the lead character in Marley and Me (go read it!). Nevertheless, my fondest memories of her are relatively normal: playing in our backyard. She had a big red ball that we would roll across the grass and she would chase and even dribble it with gusto, tripping over it with her big paws.

A rare slightly athletic member of the Amerson clan

In the winter she bounced through the snow, ignoring the ice-balls that would gather between her toe pads, leaping, diving, chomping up snowballs. I remember her eagerness, waiting for a ball to be tossed, her body poised and taut in anticipation, sometimes uttering a yip if we made her wait too long. Even in her dreams she would play–or at least that’s what I imagine she experienced as her legs twitched and she emitted adorable sleep-woofs. Later on her dream life progressed to scratching at the floor as she dozed, and sometimes I would wake up to the sound of her scratching downstairs. I wonder what she was digging up.

When I said goodbye to her this summer, I knew there was a good possibility I wouldn’t see her again. But still the loss stings. How strange to imagine my house without all the sundry arrangements we made for her–the water dish in the downstairs shower with the curtain hemmed high enough to let her under, the toddler gates, the doghouse in the kitchen. The strange emptiness there must be without her sounds, her scent, her doggy presence.

Shadow, girlie, I will remember the smell of your ears, that waxy sweet fragrance hidden in the soft fuzz and sticky skin of those keen, twitching sensors, the way I still remember the dusty, salty scent that clung to the feathers of Skippy, my parakeet. I will remember kissing your dry, rough nose. I will remember burying my hands in the warm, luxurious fur around your scruff. I will remember your canine language of woofs, whines, whimpers, growls, groans, and barks. I love you. Like so many pets, you helped teach your humans new ways to love.

The Fast

Posted on March 15, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Today, my groggy eyes are presented once again with a stunning sunrise. The sun peeks up at 5:52 like a fiery tangerine hoisted from its nest behind the mountains. I lift a hand up to protect my eyes, and it is stained orange by the light. Some of the clouds look like mountains that have simply detached from the earth; both land and sky are permeated by the same pink glow. Two minutes after the sun rises, on schedule the lights at the seaport switch off.

Climbing onto my bed with a prayerbook in hand, pulling up the curtains, and assessing the sunrise has become one of my fasting rituals. Most days, a layer of clouds obscures the sun now that we’re finally getting rain, but every once in a while, I am treated to this splendid feast of colors.

The first sunrise of the Fast

For me, the Fast forces heightened consciousness about time and habits. I’m not saying my focus gets sharper during the Fast; the afternoons are always a struggle between my desire to take a long nap and my need to keep working. The other day, I bumped into a friend who told me that during the rest of the year, our souls are slaves to our bodies, but now our bodies are slaves to our souls. An interesting theory, but my stomach is certainly an ill-behaved thrall, kicking and screaming for food.

There is no other time of the year when sunrise and sunset hold so much sway over my habits. In fact, usually I rarely see the sunrise. But I also notice other things–for example, over the past two weeks, my sugar cravings have declined, and I have survived on a nominal half-cup of coffee in the mornings. And getting up at 5:15 gives me so much quiet time before going to the office in which I can write. I think I might be a closeted earlybird.

I’ve also realized just how close my office is to the upper terraces, the Bahá’í gardens that climb up Mount Carmel. Without the routine of coffee breaks in the morning and afternoon or the daily trip to the lunchroom at noon, I find myself with more time to go outside and enjoy the scenery and sunshine, which is a form of sustenance in itself. On one of my photosynthesis strolls with Sergey, I spotted a big praying mantis sitting motionless at the bottom of some terrace stairs, and crouched down to watch this alien-looking creature. (Have I mentioned I like creepy-crawlies?) It was the first time I’ve seen a “wild” mantis in ages. A few days later, we saw what appeared to be an otter scampering through the gardens. He clarified that it was not a landlubbing otter but rather a mongoose. All my mongoose knowledge stems from the 1975 movie Rikki Tikki Tavi, which I remember watching on one of my parents’ compiled VHS tapes of children’s films. It was pretty great to see one in real life, long, sleek, and tawny, though with no apparent cobras in tow.

In fact, many office workers have the same idea and emerge these days. I wonder if the local gardeners think it’s funny, this yearly exodus of winter-pale Bahá’ís to the outdoors, sniffing the fresh air and clambering up the staircases of our Eden. Where else in the world would I get to fast with so many other Bahá’ís, who all experience the same hunger pains, sour breath, and low blood sugar afternoons?

Kingfisher

Posted on March 10, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Today for the third time

I saw the kingfisher.

Today for the third time

he saw me and flew away.

Jewel bird, he is his own diadem,

amethyst crown and sapphire cloak

with a lick of silver at his throat.

He saw me, and he retreated

as I stepped closer, hoping to gaze

at such treasures as my greedy eye

and his glittering wing can alchemize.

Happy (belated) Ayyam-i-Ha!

Posted on March 6, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Ayyam-i-Ha is the period of 4-5 intercalary (between calendars) days in the Bahá’í calendar. It is a time for generosity, hospitality, and fellowship. Here, there is an opportunity to host “Special Dinners” in celebration. You sign up for a type of cuisine and a date, then get assigned a guest list. Sergey and I decided to host one of these dinners (Tex-Mex themed, because I have no idea what Wisconsin-Moldovan cuisine would entail) for two reasons. One was to extend hospitality to our colleagues and friends. The other was to study our behaviour under pressure.

It proved to be a great test for that latter point. From a beginning guest list of ten, we eventually inflated to 25. Now, I’ve done most of the cooking for 15 before (Thanksgiving dinner), and had 25 people over (for the weekly study meeting), but this was my first time cooking solo for so big a crowd. Calculating how much food I would need to feed 25 people bulking up for the Fast, I began to mildly panic. Would polvorones and tres leches cake (which was almost autocorrected to the less appetizing “tres leeches cake”) sate the many sweet teeth? How many gallons of horchata to brew? Four kilos of chicken? Ten avocados for guacamole, twenty tomatoes for salsa? And how much caffeine for me?

And then there was the cleaning and organisation to be done. Sergey recently moved into a flat that was previously occupied by an artistic nature lover. Therefore, scattered around the flat were odd arrangements involving bamboo poles, rocks, houseplants, and an iron tub. My favourite was in the dining room, where in a corner several bamboo poles and rough white rocks sat on a dais of tree trunk, with a lamp and a houseplant nestled in the middle.

Eventually we got the place looking less like an eccentric’s greenhouse, and I merrily went about watering the many plants. One giant plant seemed especially thirsty, so I kept watering it. Several minutes later, I noticed a yellow puddle spreading under the refrigerator from the plant saucer and realised that I might have been overenthusiastic in my plant care. While mopping it up, I thought of an incident years ago during my toddling days when I had also overestimated my green thumb. In our living room, we had some big potted jasmine plants. In my childish ignorance, I guess I thought soil contained seeds, and all one had to do was sprinkle dirt around and, poof, plants would grow. So, after enlisting poor Jasmine in my plan, we scooped handfuls of soil out of the pots and sowed a mess on the carpet and couches. Our harvest was two peeved parents.

Anyway, despite our nerves–mine manifested in excessive baking sprees–and obstacles like a contrary oven, the night was a success. (There were a few jalapeño issues, but no trips to the ER.) After eating, we had an anonymous gift exchange, and then a musical portion with sing-alongs and call-and-response. Although by this point I was collapsed on the floor, I really enjoyed hearing the voices of our guests joined in song. People were happy. There’s a quote of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá about how a gathering can transform a home into a house of heaven, and indeed, it was one heavenly flat.

Blushing

Posted on February 18, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Nine roses

Do you blush? Maybe you’re one of those cool and collected types. Actually, I’m usually one of those types, except when my “personal life” comes up. In those cases, I am the most bashful of them all. I couldn’t actually tell you what colour I turn, but beet red sounds like an accurate description, as all the blood in my body rushes to my face.

I brought a love poem to share with my poetry group this week. As lunch started, I found myself goring increasingly nervous and regretting that I’d cheekily subtitled the poem “Yes, this is a love poem.” (One of my friends in that group is constantly accusing my poetry of being about love. No. It’s about birds.) When that time came–“Did anyone bring anything?” I reluctantly admitted I had…and started blushing.

“Uh, it’s a poem I wrote for Valentine’s Day, so it’s kind of embarrassing,” I said. (I mean, who wouldn’t bare her heart in gratitude for a bouquet that perfectly colour coordinates with her red and green themed living room?) I promised that if my face returned to the more pallid end of the pinkness spectrum, I would share. At some point I steeled myself–blushingly–and distributed the poem. If I could manage that, then I can handle sharing one with you, dear reader.

Oh, and yes, this is a love poem.

Your name is a lamp

for the flame of my tongue

and to call out to you

through the dark

sends sparks

through the lacework

of night

I wonder, did the saint

of the alphabet

know the brightness you would be

when he invented the

wheeling majuscule

and smile-capped conclusion

of your name

Sing it or say it, you make me

live every day

radiantly

Mysterious calcareous encrustations

Posted on February 7, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Haifa in the morning

It’s been a busy week. Sergey and I went up to Nahariyya, a seaside town on the border with Lebanon. After a ride on a public sherut, we stood on the pier, watching schools of skinny fish and a line of fishermen lackadaisically dipping their lines into the Mediterranean. In what is typical of our relationship, I got suddenly hungry before we reached a restaurant, and demanded that we stop for ice cream. I decided to wait for the frozen yogurt line, while he went for ice cream. He got his before I was helped, and I proceeded to “safeguard” the ice cream while he put his wallet away. Then I ate most of it, all the while apologizing for my greed.

“It’s okay,” he said as I contritely attacked the chocolate ice cream. “Really, I’m letting you eat it out of self-defence, because I know how you get when you’re hungry.”

Once I had consumed my pre-lunch dessert, we sat down in the restaurant, Penguin. Then suddenly I felt a strange sensation, a slackening around my neck. One of the strings of my beaded necklace had broken and beads were cascading down. I clutched at my neck, but already a number were spilling onto the floor. Our server approached and wordlessly handed me a doggie bag for my accident. While I managed to slip off the necklace, some rogue beads slipped down the front of my dress. Observing my discomfort, Sergey suggested I “want to go to the washroom.” And stand up like a maraca with beads pouring out of my skirt in front of all the nice families around us? No thanks. So I sat primly paralyzed until the barista started grinding coffee… “Now!” Sergey said. I stood up, releasing my incubated cargo beneath the din of the grinding, and scooped up the beads from my chair like a clutch of tiny eggs. It was the sort of thing that would have had me blushing myself ablaze on a first date, but luckily now it just sparked laughter.

***

Hey, maybe you can help me with my homework. Last week, I hosted my orientation group’s weekly deepening. Wait, let me clarify. My orientation group in the Serving the Divine Plan program has embarked on a three-month study of a course called “A Discourse on Social Action,” and I managed to cram 23 of these souls into my tiny flat for dinner. It is at times like this that I know I owe Chandu, who taught an Indian cooking class, a great debt of gratitude; because of him, I learned how to make the most delicious dish known to man (butter chicken) with zero chopping and minimal prep, allowing me to feed a crowd on short notice.

Anyway, tackle these and send me your answers to these questions from the Discourse on Social Action material:

What is the purpose of friendship?

The purpose of certain things is truly complex. Yet it is often possible to find a sentence that expresses this complexity in a beautiful and profound way. Consider, for instance, the statement that “The purpose of our lives is to know God and to worship him.” How does this statement embrace all the praiseworthy aims of our lives, for example, to acquire knowledge, to find true happiness, to serve others, to love and to be loved?

To engage in a process of societal transformation requires faith–the assurance that such transformation is possible. How does one acquire this faith?

***

In recent days my work has taken me into a chilly room with two objects conservators who share a number of interests, from archaeology to beading to Dr. Who. My total ignorance about such topics makes me feel like a bit of a third wheel–they sympathetically apologized for my situation trapped in a room with the two of them–but by the same token, I’m learning a great deal about old things, for which they have unbridled enthusiasm.

One of them is a metal conservator. She looks like she stepped out of an Orientalist painting, with a long black braid that flows down her back, glittering jewellery, and striking features, an appearance counterposed by her Californian accent. From her I’ve learned some of the poetry of metal conservation–terms like “mysterious calcareous encrustations.” Suddenly, everything has a “healthy patina,” from relics to lab coats. The other, a collection specialist, has bright red hair, and pert British accent that perfectly complements her sharp wit. She described how, in “uni,” she spotted the top of a skull sprouting in her flower garden and was immediately filled with excitement. What being did this belong to? To the horror of her “mainstream” roommates (“I think we call them ‘muggles'”), she excavated the skeleton, which turned out to be a cat. A few more credit-hours with these two ladies, and I expect to earn my own degree in conservation.