The snow has been falling all day in Bethesda, alternating between light and heavy flakes floating from sky to ground. I cancelled all appointments and took advantage of the luxury of free time to write, to think, to snap a few photos of the magical white blanket covering outside. Beautiful. Peaceful. Quiet.

The day is a crack in my busy schedule, a precious crack where ideas can drift through my mind. We so often mistake movement for “getting something done.” Today I start my blog, slowly, looking back before I look ahead.

In 2008 I went to San Marcos, Guatemala by Lake Atitlan with Lona (my wife) to attend a two-week writer’s workshop organized by Joyce Maynard. Life seemed suspended from all obligations, with uninterrupted time to think and learn and be surrounded by perspective. These are special moments in a full life: a snowed-in day at home, a hidden alcove with no Internet by a quiet lake for two weeks.

In Guatemala, Lona and I went with a few other writers to experiment with Mayan chocolate. The leader brought the chocolate containing a substance that allowed the mind to drift wherever it pleased, if I gave it permission that is, which I did. Imagine: free of commitments in San Marcos, immersed in mountains by the lake, out of touch from the frantic world, and drifting with chocolate. I found a quiet spot by the lake, alone, with pen and pad (no computer). I wrote a poem, the only poem I had ever written. I called it “Drifting,” which is what it was, which is what we do when we are lucky, when we give ourselves the opportunity. My high school friend Van Andruss in British Columbia published my poem in his literary journal, Lived Experience, later that year. Here it is:

Drifting

Mayan chocolate
Alive once, nourished
By moist soil
Brown mud now

Sweeten it with sugar
If you please, or not, he says
Or sharpen it with chile
And let the sting subside
Within your bowels

He continues
The door will open, if you wish
And the grey matter of your brain
May sparkle

Distance may draw close
Shackles may release
Passages may change
From dusk to dawn,
Or not

Your choice, he says
Entirely your choice

I lie upon the ground
And close my eyes
To let the demons roam

I see changing shapes
And colors trapped within a grid
Of tiny squares of light

Feel the energy? he asks
I don’t, I say
But to myself

I drift upon a lake of air
Perhaps I feel the energy of space

Wait
The drifting stops
The movement is beyond me now
My body still
Yet very much alive

My many arms are wide and green
My legs sink beneath the ground
I have no head, no eyes, no ears
And drops of water from the rain
Despite no clouds above
Roll off my leaves
But never seem to reach the earth

I am a plant among my peers
I cannot see
I cannot hear
I cannot change my place

Yet still a man, and not all plant
I sense small living things with hair
Move fitfully, in cautious jerks,
First here, then there
Arriving at
No destination

I sleep yet am awake
I dream
But also I am here

My eyes still closed
The sun shines in
Blackness not attainable ‘til death

I turn my head and raise
The curtains called my lids
I see few people next to me
Who were lying here before

The scene has changed
The time has come
To haul my frame
Above my aching legs

To stomp upon the solid path
Avoid the rocks
Walk past the plants
And find a place to grow new roots,
Or not

Joram Piatigorsky
San Marcos, Guatemala
February 15, 2008

But, I am not a poet. In fact I read very little poetry, hardly any to be more precise. I don’t even understand most poems. After 50 years of science, I now write prose. Science and prose, not as different as some may think. A few months ago I gave a lecture at the Whitney Laboratory in St. Augustine, part of the University of Florida, on the narrative nature of science. I just finished writing an essay comparing scientists and novelists. All this is too much for today, but my blog has started rolling downhill. These are ideas for later, which I hope will gather readers. Contact me, give me your input, tell me where I err and where you agree. We are all on this planet together, drifting.

Even before I wrote “Drifting,” when I was a full time scientist at the National Institutes of Health, I squeezed through small cracks of time to write short stories and an essay or two. Here’s one I wrote in 2005 on cracks, named appropriately, “Cracks.” This is what I hope to do with my blog. Slip through cracks of time to speak my mind, try out ideas, tell you what I think. Why not?