Received news from my mentor today. I'd put off telling her about my engagement for ages, fearing she'd disapprove of me choosing a life in which a career in science could only ever be my number two priority. She was, of course, excited for me and offered her best wishes. She seems great, greatly enjoying her new post-doc, a local field site, and being freed from stressful confines of the Cornell community. She says she's loving science again. Direct quote: "I really like learning about Carbon!" Her happiness means a lot to me, and her enthusiasm for science is contagious, and is part of what helped me fall in love with it in the first place. The trouble is, I can't see myself ever exclaiming over my love of learning about carbon, or nitrogen, or any other element for that matter.

I like science well enough. Ecology is especially interesting. It's a field that has formed and progressed rapidly in the last 50 years through a marvelous integration of every other branch of science. It's fascinating to listen to a well put together lecture (or read a well done scientific paper) that flows, narrative style. Old-hat beliefs are laid out in the exposition, the rising action of progressive thought leads to an ingenious experimental design which, at the climax, reveals some new ecological paradigm. The best part is that the conclusions don't end with neat, newly established equilibria. Instead a series of further questions are raised by the new understanding, filling the listener with speculative hope and wonder. It's fun. Open-ended, but tidy enough.

The most this proves about me is that I appreciate a well-worked lecture and a good story. It says nothing about my love of science. It says nothing of my desire to acquire knowledge through the scientific method. It says nothing of my possession of the deep curiosity that engenders all truly great scientific discovery. Perhaps my handicap is the inability to delve into an unfinished narrative, full as such creatures are of the insecurities of a yet unknown end. This doesn't seem to bother me in most endeavors, but for some reason in science it seems insurmountable. Maybe because I don't believe in the ending possibilities as much. Or would just as soon believe in some easy aphorism that fit congruently enough with my previous beliefs. Logical, methodical proof just gets in the way sometimes. I've always been more of a mystic than science seems to allow.

There are some openings at the bookstores in Falmouth. Eight Cousins, Inc, a children's bookstore, and Inkwell Bookstore. I know I have idealistic and wholly unrealistic visions of what such a job would entail. (And I'm not even allowing myself to think about the pay cut.) But surely there would be moments. A parent would come in, ask my advice on a gift for their horse-loving 10 year old daughter, and I would recommend the perfect triage of books, having in my day read all of the available literature for horse-loving 10 year olds. The parent is thankful, I'm immensely pleased. This low-stress job would leave me with plenty of mental and emotional energy to spend with Mac in our cozy cottage, with a cozy assemblage of books, a fireplace and a bubble bath. I can't imagine a more wholly perfect life. I'd probably end up mind-numbingly running credit cards or constantly reshelving books that unruly children have thrown on the floor. This human interaction, however maddening, would still be preferable to continuing with the only profession I've trained to do. The profession that promises to have me sitting hunched over a balance for several months, packing ground leaves into 0.0035 gram packets. No way to spend a glorious autumn on the Cape.