Advocacy
Burps, Bottles, and a Bay in Tasmania
by Futoshi Tachino On Tasmania’s east coast, the tides in Spring Bay don’t just bring boats to harbor; they feed a farm. Here, Sea Forest cultivates a native red seaweed, Asparagopsis, that—when fed in tiny amounts to cows—can throttle the methane produced in their stomachs. It’s a climate fix born of the shoreline and aimed squarely at one of Oceania’s knottiest problems: livestock emissions. In both Australia and New Zealand, agriculture is a top emitter, and enteric methane from ruminants is the elephant (really, the cow) in the room. What’s different in Tasmania is that the solution now has a retail label, not just a lab result.
By Futoshi Tachino3 months ago in Earth
How the College of Health and Environmental Sciences at Vertex University Prepares Students to Be Part of the Future of Health Professions
The College of Health and Environmental Sciences at Vertex University stands as a forward-thinking model of online health education that combines academic innovation, community impact, and technological advancement.
By Vertex University P R E S S3 months ago in Earth
the hidden danger above our heads
For decades, asbestos was considered a wonder material — durable, fire-resistant, and inexpensive. It was widely used in construction, especially in roofing sheets, insulation, and wall panels. Yet over time, this “miracle” revealed a hidden danger that continues to affect buildings today.
By אבי דילבסקי3 months ago in Earth
From Earth to Orbit: Jeff Bezos Envisions Data Centers in Space
The rapidly growing energy needs generated by the artificial intelligence (AI) is pushing data centers to the edge, literally. Today, hyperscale GPU clusters consume huge amounts of electricity and water, causing widespread local resistance and environmental concerns. According to the Data Center Watch, $64 billion in U.S. data center projects have been blocked or delayed by bipartisan opposition. These exciting infrastructure projects are facing increased push back from local communities.
By Andrea Zanon3 months ago in Earth
The Lost Nest
The Lost Nest On the edge of a quiet forest stood an old tree — tall, green, and full of life. In one of its strong branches lived a small bird named Laila. She was a tiny, cheerful bird with bright brown feathers and a soft white chest. Her nest was simple but perfect — made of twigs, soft leaves, and a few bits of grass she had carefully collected over many days.
By Wings of Time 3 months ago in Earth
"Guided by the Grid"
Guided by the Grid How Google Maps Helped Me Navigate Life’s Twists and Turns—One Route at a Time I used to believe that getting lost was a part of life. In fact, I was so used to it that I came to expect it—both on the road and in my personal journey. I’ve always been the kind of person who takes the scenic route, not because I want to, but because I somehow miss the turn. And in a way, that summed up how I felt in life: constantly off-track, trying to reorient myself. Then came a moment that changed how I looked at both travel and direction. It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. I had just moved to a new city for a job I wasn’t sure I wanted, in a field I wasn’t sure I belonged in. My sense of direction—both figuratively and literally—was at its lowest point. That day, I had an important meeting with a client across town. I had done my best to memorize the directions like I always had before, writing down landmarks and street names. But as fate would have it, construction blocked the main route, and I quickly found myself lost in a maze of one-way streets and unfamiliar turns. Panic set in. That’s when I finally did something I rarely trusted before: I opened Google Maps. In just seconds, the screen lit up with a blue dot—me—and a highlighted path to where I needed to go. I followed the voice prompts like breadcrumbs in a forest. "Turn right in 300 meters… Turn left onto Pine Street…" The voice was calm, even when I wasn’t. I made a wrong turn once or twice, but instead of scolding me, it recalculated. It didn’t get upset. It just gave me another path. Somewhere between recalculations, something clicked in my mind. Here I was, in an unfamiliar place, without a plan, with deadlines pressing—and yet, there was a system guiding me. A real-time compass that didn’t judge how I got off track, but simply helped me find my way forward. I made it to the meeting on time. But more importantly, I realized something vital: I didn’t have to have everything figured out. Just like the app, life has alternate routes. Detours aren’t failures—they’re just different ways of getting there. From that day on, I started relying on Google Maps more—but not just for navigation. I began applying the same mindset to my life. When things didn’t go according to plan, I stopped panicking. I learned to "recalculate." I once thought technology was cold and impersonal, but in a strange way, Google Maps became a quiet mentor. It taught me that direction isn't about never being lost—it's about having the tools to find your way again. It helped me explore new parts of the city I now call home. I found cozy cafés hidden in backstreets, parks I never knew existed, and shortcuts that saved me hours. I even discovered new hobbies—hiking trails, art spaces, food markets—all through the power of a digital map that kept showing me the way. More than that, it reminded me that movement—forward, backward, sideways—is still progress. That a delay isn’t the end of the journey. That you can always reroute. In many ways, that little blue dot became a symbol for me. Not because it always knew where I was going, but because it showed me where I was—and that was enough to begin again. So now, when friends say they’re feeling lost, I tell them my story. I tell them about that rainy Thursday, and how something as simple as Google Maps helped me find not just a building, but a bit of peace. A bit of control. And I remind them that the road doesn’t have to be straight, or smooth, or even visible. As long as you keep going—and have a guide you trust—you’ll get there. Eventually. Sometimes, life just needs a little zoom-out, a clear route, and a calm voice saying: “Recalculating…”
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Earth
The Misunderstood Hero:
They hiss. They drool. They “play dead.” And most people still scream when they see one. The North American opossum—the only marsupial native to the United States—is one of the most efficient, least appreciated public-health workers in nature. While many fear them for looking “dirty” or “rabid,” opossums are disease-resistant, pest-controlling, and life-saving.
By Dr. Mozelle Martin | Ink Profiler3 months ago in Earth
The oldest known stalagmite, which dates back 289 million years, was discovered in rocks in Oklahoma.
Did you know that troglobites are organisms that only inhabit caves? Although it's not the most attractive name in the world, it seems appropriate. evokes visions of damp, chilly, and shadowy spaces where unidentified liquids, some of which have been found to be the oldest water on Earth—and people drank it!—drip from the roof.
By Francis Dami3 months ago in Earth
Light of the Horizon
Nestled between rolling green hills and the edge of a crystal-blue lake lay the village of Liora—a place so quiet, many maps forgot it existed. Yet, for those who found it, Liora was unforgettable. No one rushed in Liora. Morning began not with alarms but with the sound of birdsong and the smell of warm bread baking. Children played barefoot in dewy fields, their laughter echoing through the valley. The sky always seemed a little bluer, and the air carried the scent of lavender and hope. It was in this village that Maren arrived one autumn morning, a traveler in search of something she couldn’t quite name. She had left the noise of the city behind—its honking cars, endless screens, and hurried footsteps—and followed a hand-drawn map given to her by an old woman on a train. “Go there,” the woman had whispered. “They still remember how to live.” Maren didn’t expect much. Perhaps a quaint stop, a few photo opportunities, maybe some fresh bread. But as she stepped off the small bus that only came twice a week, something shifted. The air seemed lighter here, the kind that made you breathe a little deeper without realizing it. An elderly man named Elias greeted her at the village square. He had a beard like soft wool and eyes that had seen decades of peace. “Welcome to Liora,” he said, his voice like river stones. “Here, we live by the rhythm of kindness.” Maren smiled politely, not yet understanding. But she stayed. Each day, she watched. A child, no more than five, helped her grandmother water plants in mismatched pots. A group of teenagers repaired a neighbor’s broken fence without being asked. There were no locks on doors, no loudspeakers, no stress. When someone was ill, food appeared on their porch. When someone grieved, the village walked silently with them to the lake, candles in hand. No one was rich in Liora—not in money. But in time, in community, in joy—they were wealthy beyond measure. It wasn’t long before Maren began to change. She found herself waking with the sun, baking bread with the village baker, singing songs in languages she didn’t know. She painted for the first time in years, her fingers smudged with color. Her shoulders, once heavy with unspoken worries, relaxed. One evening, she sat by the lake as the sun melted into the water. Next to her was Anya, a girl of about ten, drawing in the dirt with a stick. “Do you like it here?” Anya asked, not looking up. “I do,” Maren replied. “It’s… peaceful.” Anya grinned. “That’s because we choose peace. Every day.” Maren looked at her, surprised. “You choose it?” “Of course,” Anya said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Kindness doesn’t just happen. We plant it, like seeds.” That night, those words stayed with Maren. Months passed. The villagers began calling her one of their own. She had found what she didn’t know she was seeking—not just peace, but a way of being. A reminder that goodness wasn’t a rare miracle, but a choice made in every small act. When she finally left, she didn’t feel like she was leaving something behind—but carrying something forward. She knew the world outside Liora was louder, harder. But she also knew something else now: that goodness, once seen, can’t be unseen. That peace, once planted, can grow anywhere. Even in the busiest cities. Even in the darkest times. And so, Maren drew her own map—simple, hand-drawn, with a note on the bottom that read: “Go here. They still remember how to live.”
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Earth
Friends of Monarch Butterflies
The other day, my friend Shay came over, and after our usual chit-chat, I took him for a short walk around the neighborhood. As soon as we stepped outside, I pointed to the house next door and said, “That’s Alyssa’s place. She doesn’t live here anymore, but she visits sometimes. She taught me a lot about milkweed and monarch butterflies.” It was a mix of truth, joy, and sadness—I haven’t seen Alyssa in a long time since she moved out of her mom’s house(the house next door), but she visits sometimes. Yes, it’s true: she really did teach me about milkweed and monarch butterflies. This piece is about that, and my further research, I suppose.
By Homayra Adiba3 months ago in Earth
