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Saturday Smithsonian

I'm taking a soccer break Saturday to go to the Smithsonian with my sister and 9-year old nephew. We're heading back to the American History and Natural History museums, which are next door to each other on the Mall. I notice at the Natural History museum there's an IMAX film on sky diving.

This thrill ride of a film takes an up-close look at the world of sky diving and explores what the psychological and physiological forces behind risk-taking and extreme activities can tell us about the world of science and innovation.

It's interesting because I was talking about this with someone last night, how I we have our own walls set up for what risks we'll take. I know mine comes somewhere before sky diving, because I said I'm perfectly happy not jumping out of a plane (or bungee jumping, for that matter). How far does someone who likes to do this kind of thing have to go to find their adrenaline fix once they've done this? I hope I'll get a chance to see this, though I'm not sure my nephew will want to sit through the 40 minute film.

Silent Shooting Stars

I sat on my deck watching the rain in the light that sits to the above-left of my deck. I have a deck above me, as I'm on the middle of three floors.

Rain really is silent, and as I was watching its thin streaks in the light, I thought of vertical shooting stars falling to earth, ones that disappeared where the light ended, which was somewhere between my deck and the ground.

We can hear wind, and yeah, I suppose you can hear the rain if you listen for the echo of what it hits--the ground, the car, a tin roof, the rain gutters.

But in the space between, the rain is silent, and it holds wishes waiting to be wished, waiting to come true, in its streaks that fall to earth.