Being in nature for reasons of blog writing and not out of exploration and discovery (leisurely), has forced me to focus on different aspects in nature. These blogs forced me to realize it's not about simply observing, but about assessing these observations: take what I know and what to learn and write something lyrical about it. Nature has so much rhythm and lyricism to begin with, so how can I make nature proud through my own interpretations of its song? Previously, I would continue walking on if nothing strictly exciting was happening (unless I was there for meditative, not explorative reasons). However, the blogs encouraged me to stick around, wait, and if nothing happened, know that something was happening, it was just a matter of how I interpreted the events, however elusive they were. This type of interaction gave me the authority to write in ways I couldn't have imagined.
Even during winter there was something to be observed and written about. I love the simplicity of winter. And the blogs were here for me when warm days would roll in, sun shining, and the air a little thicker, a little warmer. The blogs separately gave me something to write about in nature, but collectively they created an entire scope for me to go back and look at my interactions.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Place Entry #8 - There's no place like home (a reflection)
It is on my porch with my dogs, where I get to sit and watch the sky turn, and the wind kick up the leaves from last fall, that I feel closest to nature. There's no shortage of wildlife here: birds, mammals, reptiles. Last fall, I saw a large bright green, winged insect fly by close to my head, it was so large, like nothing I've ever seen before. The curious child in me followed it to its landing place, ten feet ahead or so. It was a praying mantis. I was overcome with emotion, a species, once on the endangered, now sustained, right here in my field. And perhaps the symbolism of it overwhelmed me also, even though I know that these symbolic characteristics are human-given. Last summer, I was digging trenches around my eyes for french gutters when a small garden snake slithered out from under my wood siding, staying close to the foundation and out of the sun. I again out of sheer curiosity, followed it into its hole a little ways away (phew, I thought, just stay out of my house, and there won't be any problems!)
It is over my yard that the hawk glides, and the crows and blue jays squawk in their distinct ways. The woodpecker laughs, the doves mourn, and the mockingbird sings his myriad of songs. The squirrels chase each other, the chipmunk chips, and oh does he chip: for a little thing he is loud. My poplar tree loses its fluffy seeds and the wind disperses them everywhere. The sound of maple seeds ("helicopters") dropping.
The mosquitoes are innumerable around here, but I protect myself. When dusk is drawing near, I sit on my porch and squint in the setting darkness, watching the bats flittering about. Off my porch, in the middle of their pattern I sometimes stand unknowingly, then one flies by my head so close I hear its little, skeletal-like wings beat. They may not look beautiful in the human sense of the word, but I appreciate their purpose, and this purpose to me, makes them beautiful.
The beauty of nature astounds me, and it is here in my yard I get to see so much, not everything, but enough to fulfill my connection, to spark my curiosity, to endear my soul, and to appreciate, everything.
It is over my yard that the hawk glides, and the crows and blue jays squawk in their distinct ways. The woodpecker laughs, the doves mourn, and the mockingbird sings his myriad of songs. The squirrels chase each other, the chipmunk chips, and oh does he chip: for a little thing he is loud. My poplar tree loses its fluffy seeds and the wind disperses them everywhere. The sound of maple seeds ("helicopters") dropping.
The mosquitoes are innumerable around here, but I protect myself. When dusk is drawing near, I sit on my porch and squint in the setting darkness, watching the bats flittering about. Off my porch, in the middle of their pattern I sometimes stand unknowingly, then one flies by my head so close I hear its little, skeletal-like wings beat. They may not look beautiful in the human sense of the word, but I appreciate their purpose, and this purpose to me, makes them beautiful.
The beauty of nature astounds me, and it is here in my yard I get to see so much, not everything, but enough to fulfill my connection, to spark my curiosity, to endear my soul, and to appreciate, everything.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Prompt Entry #7 - Weeping Willow
Is it weeping because it is sad? Or is it weeping because of its crown? The two definitions of weeping could be interchangeable: a weeping crown signifies a sad emotion. Ever since I read the book 'Weeping Willow' in middle school, I loved the tree. It is mighty, it is beautiful. Many days in my youth and into my adult life I find myself nestled under the canopy of the sagging branches. They blanket me, they offer me shade from the hot sun. I read, or sleep, or lay with someone I love. They create a private-ness no other type of tree can offer, their branches are like curtains. In the winter, when they lose their leaves, their branches, still weeping, look smokey, as if they were sketched on. They are almost always some sort of yellow color.
The weeping willow must be near water, so its roots don't have far to roam. They look beautiful next to a pond. Why must they search so scrupulously for a consistent water supply? Other trees are content with the water that seeps below the surface, but not weeping willows. Perhaps they do weep because they are unhappy. If they can't find their sufficient water supply will they die?
The weeping willow universally symbolizes somberness and melancholy in many countries and cultures. Burial sites, deaths, remembrance. There's a sadness associated with weeping willows, and yet I find myself so awe struck by their presence. I do not feel sad in their presence, though, I feel inspired.
Willow trees are unlike any other tree in appearance and symbolism. These branches wrap around me, blanket me. It is here, under the mighty weeping branches that touch the ground, that I feel loved.
The weeping willow must be near water, so its roots don't have far to roam. They look beautiful next to a pond. Why must they search so scrupulously for a consistent water supply? Other trees are content with the water that seeps below the surface, but not weeping willows. Perhaps they do weep because they are unhappy. If they can't find their sufficient water supply will they die?
The weeping willow universally symbolizes somberness and melancholy in many countries and cultures. Burial sites, deaths, remembrance. There's a sadness associated with weeping willows, and yet I find myself so awe struck by their presence. I do not feel sad in their presence, though, I feel inspired.
Willow trees are unlike any other tree in appearance and symbolism. These branches wrap around me, blanket me. It is here, under the mighty weeping branches that touch the ground, that I feel loved.
Place Entry #7 - The River
It was here, where the river forks, that we come for solace, for love, for friendship. Sometimes the river is mighty and fast and loquacious, other times it is timid and still. It is not blue, a reflection of the sky. Rather brown, a reflection of the filth we put in it. The river is our sewage system. But it was not always so. Thousands of years ago, it had been dry land. Some massive rainstorm must have carved its name in the earth and filled up its trenches. It was once clear, not sedimentary.
By this river, my mother had found comfort during rough times. The river's soothing sound, a constant flow of babble, was a reprieve from all the screaming with her cheating husband.
By this river, I had discovered love and romance. The river offered a place to hide in the nude, and be close to someone.
By this river, I realized the strength of friendship, the unbreakable bond of sisterhood.
The river brings us together. It can be a landmark for someone, or for an entire community. When the river breaches its banks, there is no stopping it. It will consume everything in its path, as if nothing else mattered. And when the river is satisfied that it has washed everything away, the river diminishes, back below its banks.
"This big old river will kill us in time. Til then we'll drink its weight, in cheap beer and wine."
It was to this song and many others that I explored the boundaries of love and loss by the river. As long as this river exists, it will be a place for so many others to explore those same boundaries. To be comforted or terrified to the point of madness. By this river.
By this river, my mother had found comfort during rough times. The river's soothing sound, a constant flow of babble, was a reprieve from all the screaming with her cheating husband.
By this river, I had discovered love and romance. The river offered a place to hide in the nude, and be close to someone.
By this river, I realized the strength of friendship, the unbreakable bond of sisterhood.
The river brings us together. It can be a landmark for someone, or for an entire community. When the river breaches its banks, there is no stopping it. It will consume everything in its path, as if nothing else mattered. And when the river is satisfied that it has washed everything away, the river diminishes, back below its banks.
"This big old river will kill us in time. Til then we'll drink its weight, in cheap beer and wine."
It was to this song and many others that I explored the boundaries of love and loss by the river. As long as this river exists, it will be a place for so many others to explore those same boundaries. To be comforted or terrified to the point of madness. By this river.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Prompt Entry #6 - A Place of Sorrow
It was the place I saw you last, Granny. No real place can spark such somber emotive as it is when I am here, looking at your gravestone. It is always so quiet. I remember when you were buried here, it was just as quiet as it is now. It was toward the end of December when I last saw you over 5 years ago, snow blanketed the ground and the wind was so harsh. I buried my face in Pap's chest as protection. I thought for sure the pallbearers would fall carrying you to the plot, your final resting place. When you were alive and we used to come here together to look at your family members passed, I never felt the way I do now when I come here. I come here for you, even though I know you are with me always, everywhere. Five years later and my sadness turns my mind and body mute when I look at your gravestone and think of your meaningful, former existence on the earth. I still think of how proud you would be of me now, I wish you could have lived longer to see the woman I have become. Pap is awful lonely since you left us. Sometimes I think he wished it was him that went and not you. Still, your memory lives with us. We all miss your laugh most. You were the one who introduced me to nature, and to God. Of course, I imagine at how disappointed you would be, or are, if you knew how much I fight my own beliefs, constantly questioning, never accepting. I am sorry for my continued doubts.
Now when I sit on the log in front of your gravestone, in a fight with my beliefs, fighting both what I want to believe and don't want to believe, I think about how much I do hope there is another world where our souls go, and that your soul can see me and be with me, be proud of me. After all, what is the point of this world if there is nothing better to go to? I hope this isn't the be all end all, because this world has so much pain and sorrow in it, that when I sit here next to your final resting place, I think, there must be something better, a world untouched by wicked men, where our souls live on. I sit here and think about what our next meeting will be like. It is here where I imagine what life would be like now, five years later, with you still alive. A constant flow of thought and regret and love and resentment. This is certainly not a place for meditation, but contemplation, of this world and the next.
The point of a graveyard seems absurd. Only created for those who feel as if their loved one is not only literally buried there, but truly buried there, soul and all. For those who believe that going to the graveyard is the only way to feel close to that loved on. But I know that that decaying body in the coffin six feet below is only your shell. Your lively, beautiful soul must be somewhere else. Far from here, but still in my own heart. And yet, I always feel a sense of depression and betrayal turning my back to your gravestone and leaving. But I know you are still with me, and Mom, and Pap, and Burlin. Please don't ever leave.
Now when I sit on the log in front of your gravestone, in a fight with my beliefs, fighting both what I want to believe and don't want to believe, I think about how much I do hope there is another world where our souls go, and that your soul can see me and be with me, be proud of me. After all, what is the point of this world if there is nothing better to go to? I hope this isn't the be all end all, because this world has so much pain and sorrow in it, that when I sit here next to your final resting place, I think, there must be something better, a world untouched by wicked men, where our souls live on. I sit here and think about what our next meeting will be like. It is here where I imagine what life would be like now, five years later, with you still alive. A constant flow of thought and regret and love and resentment. This is certainly not a place for meditation, but contemplation, of this world and the next.
The point of a graveyard seems absurd. Only created for those who feel as if their loved one is not only literally buried there, but truly buried there, soul and all. For those who believe that going to the graveyard is the only way to feel close to that loved on. But I know that that decaying body in the coffin six feet below is only your shell. Your lively, beautiful soul must be somewhere else. Far from here, but still in my own heart. And yet, I always feel a sense of depression and betrayal turning my back to your gravestone and leaving. But I know you are still with me, and Mom, and Pap, and Burlin. Please don't ever leave.
Place Entry #6 - Song of the Stream
The melting snow and subsequent rising water levels means that ponds, lakes, and streams get to fill their brims and welcome their supporting wild creatures. So here I am, next to a stream, furiously flowing over rocks and moss. Transcending down its trench, a trench that has been carved out by its flow for some time now. Although the trench was dry this time last month, it is overflowing. Even at it's driest times it retains its little meanders and form, waiting for the quench of snowmelt or rainfall to fill the void. It is warm, beautifully warm, so warm that sitting directly in the sun makes my brow sweat a little, forcing me to take my coat off, my shoes. I dip my feet in...waaayy too cold still. But refreshing nonetheless. The birds are yet again singing and basking in the sun and stream, the waitfor springtime is finally over, and the wait was worth it. Soon will be the time to return to the same nesting sites, procreate, and hurry the fledglings on their way to create new generations of birds: starlings, robins, blue jays, juncos, geese.
In the spring, birds are given the luxury of time and leisure. The competition for food is a little less vicious, because the fresh bloom of new plants gives an offering of abundance to all. Of course, the plants have their own plans in mind with their consumption by the birds: the promise of their spreading seeds to create their own new generations.
In the springtime, the competition for food is less, but the competition for a mate is crucial. It is here in the belly and bellow of the stream that I see male cardinals chasing each other, sometimes a few at a time. Other birds chase each other, but with cardinals it is much easier to discern gender than the others. Their flight is so quick and planned. Their instinctive flight is impeccable: they fly through the thickets and branches and never crash into anything. So graceful in their speed as to almost be unreal.
This type of day, warm and sunny, every little thing in seeming sustenance and satiation, can pull anyone from their winter blues. I find myself personally feeling overwhelmed with comfort and happiness on such days.
In the spring, birds are given the luxury of time and leisure. The competition for food is a little less vicious, because the fresh bloom of new plants gives an offering of abundance to all. Of course, the plants have their own plans in mind with their consumption by the birds: the promise of their spreading seeds to create their own new generations.
In the springtime, the competition for food is less, but the competition for a mate is crucial. It is here in the belly and bellow of the stream that I see male cardinals chasing each other, sometimes a few at a time. Other birds chase each other, but with cardinals it is much easier to discern gender than the others. Their flight is so quick and planned. Their instinctive flight is impeccable: they fly through the thickets and branches and never crash into anything. So graceful in their speed as to almost be unreal.
This type of day, warm and sunny, every little thing in seeming sustenance and satiation, can pull anyone from their winter blues. I find myself personally feeling overwhelmed with comfort and happiness on such days.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Prompt Entry #5: Columbiana, OH
I spend 99% of my time with my boyfriend, in our house in Columbiana, OH.
Columbiana County and many of its surrounding counties in Ohio are predominately Amish built and run. Consequentially, there is much farm land, where the first example of environmental detriment finds its place in the form of corn and soybean, all corn and soybean. One summer I saw a field of sunflowers growing, I don't know what the use of them was, but it was a fun sight: going by in the morning and all the flowerheads were facing east, go by in the evening, the flowerheads were facing west, true sunflower behavior. I haven't seen the field filled with them since.
The environmental implications of the dichotomy of soybeans/corn and sunflowers are quite different. Corn and soybeans, when planted in annual consistency, leach the soil, require a great deal of farm equipment use, need tons of pesticides and fertilizers, and use water like it's going out of style. Sunflowers on the other hand, are commonly used for phytoremediation in pulling degrading compounds from both soil and water. These compounds can be radioactive, petroleum-based, or sewage. They are very innovative in that way, and are becoming recognized as more efficient than any technology when it comes to their remediation capabilities.
I imagine the existence of these 2 dialectic plants (I'm grouping corn and soybean together) present two different environmental ramifications to local residents. The scrupulous requirements of corn/soybeans no doubt negatively effect the population, while sunflowers may positively effect it, both aesthetically and environmentally.
To see another local environmental issue, all one has to do is download google earth, zoom into the border of OH and PA. From space, one can see that a good majority of western PA is green, how a good majority of the entire state of OH is brown, representing a great deal of mining that has taken place over the last century or so. The mining does not take place on the same scale as it did, probably because it has been stripped, or at least seems so while viewing it through Google earth.
Lastly, the history of the town of Columbiana is settle in affluent founding families. One of the families was the Firestone family, yes, as in Firestone tires. Harvey Firestone, the innovator for the tire company, was born in Columbiana. There is one testing plant in Columbiana. Here are two links about the testing site: http://www.firestoneag.com/producttesting.asp
http://www.firestoneag.com/news_article.asp?article=1537
It is short but sheds light on exactly what it does.
Also, here is a news article from a Youngstown newspaper about the Plant:
http://www.vindy.com/news/2001/aug/05/testing-torturing-tractor-tires/
Several months ago I recall reading in article in the paper at a local cafe about the testing plant incurring fines for some reason. I can't seem to find the article online, and for the life of me I cannot remember what the fines were for. Or it may have been increasing their taxes. Something. Anyway, I am not sure if the plant pollutes in any way, but testing rubber tires must make some type of undesirable outcome to local residents, but I cannot say this with complete certainty.
In an attempt to make these environmental issues lyrical, I've put together this short story.
Vast flat land, the land of the Midwest. This topography is perfect for agriculture. The Amish take advantage of this, they must self-sustain, and they do, they pillage the farm land with their tractors and their foods: potatoes, corn, blueberries, raspberries, asparagus, gourds, and others. I go to their markets, I support their agriculture. Is that good or bad? Giving them money means they will continue to pillage their land, and unsustainably: every year when I go through their fields on the highway the same plots of land consist of the same crop as the year before. A monoculture. The Amish support a monoculture. However, what qualms should I have with supporting local agriculture? I see bumper stickers that tell me to buy local, so I oblige.
Driving on that same highway the stench of their cows fill the air. The Amish: slave drivers. Although, I shouldn't be so cynical, after all, driving on that highway right through their fields, you can see that the cows have free roam of their pasture, a freedom that many farms do not offer their cattle. I also should not be so cynical towards the Amish in general. Other than the fact that they do not have to pay taxes, they are applaudible. They lead simple lives, I sometimes see women in their simple cotton dresses with their simple bonnets, in the grocery store or the post office. I never see men, though. The women are quiet. They are not a plague on the local society, far from it. They own resturants, and supply the community with local foods. No, I should be more supportive of the local Amish community, and even their monoculture. The Amish keep to themsevles, they are self-sustaining, and who can't respect that?
Columbiana County and many of its surrounding counties in Ohio are predominately Amish built and run. Consequentially, there is much farm land, where the first example of environmental detriment finds its place in the form of corn and soybean, all corn and soybean. One summer I saw a field of sunflowers growing, I don't know what the use of them was, but it was a fun sight: going by in the morning and all the flowerheads were facing east, go by in the evening, the flowerheads were facing west, true sunflower behavior. I haven't seen the field filled with them since.
The environmental implications of the dichotomy of soybeans/corn and sunflowers are quite different. Corn and soybeans, when planted in annual consistency, leach the soil, require a great deal of farm equipment use, need tons of pesticides and fertilizers, and use water like it's going out of style. Sunflowers on the other hand, are commonly used for phytoremediation in pulling degrading compounds from both soil and water. These compounds can be radioactive, petroleum-based, or sewage. They are very innovative in that way, and are becoming recognized as more efficient than any technology when it comes to their remediation capabilities.
I imagine the existence of these 2 dialectic plants (I'm grouping corn and soybean together) present two different environmental ramifications to local residents. The scrupulous requirements of corn/soybeans no doubt negatively effect the population, while sunflowers may positively effect it, both aesthetically and environmentally.
To see another local environmental issue, all one has to do is download google earth, zoom into the border of OH and PA. From space, one can see that a good majority of western PA is green, how a good majority of the entire state of OH is brown, representing a great deal of mining that has taken place over the last century or so. The mining does not take place on the same scale as it did, probably because it has been stripped, or at least seems so while viewing it through Google earth.
Lastly, the history of the town of Columbiana is settle in affluent founding families. One of the families was the Firestone family, yes, as in Firestone tires. Harvey Firestone, the innovator for the tire company, was born in Columbiana. There is one testing plant in Columbiana. Here are two links about the testing site: http://www.firestoneag.com/producttesting.asp
http://www.firestoneag.com/news_article.asp?article=1537
It is short but sheds light on exactly what it does.
Also, here is a news article from a Youngstown newspaper about the Plant:
http://www.vindy.com/news/2001/aug/05/testing-torturing-tractor-tires/
Several months ago I recall reading in article in the paper at a local cafe about the testing plant incurring fines for some reason. I can't seem to find the article online, and for the life of me I cannot remember what the fines were for. Or it may have been increasing their taxes. Something. Anyway, I am not sure if the plant pollutes in any way, but testing rubber tires must make some type of undesirable outcome to local residents, but I cannot say this with complete certainty.
In an attempt to make these environmental issues lyrical, I've put together this short story.
Vast flat land, the land of the Midwest. This topography is perfect for agriculture. The Amish take advantage of this, they must self-sustain, and they do, they pillage the farm land with their tractors and their foods: potatoes, corn, blueberries, raspberries, asparagus, gourds, and others. I go to their markets, I support their agriculture. Is that good or bad? Giving them money means they will continue to pillage their land, and unsustainably: every year when I go through their fields on the highway the same plots of land consist of the same crop as the year before. A monoculture. The Amish support a monoculture. However, what qualms should I have with supporting local agriculture? I see bumper stickers that tell me to buy local, so I oblige.
Driving on that same highway the stench of their cows fill the air. The Amish: slave drivers. Although, I shouldn't be so cynical, after all, driving on that highway right through their fields, you can see that the cows have free roam of their pasture, a freedom that many farms do not offer their cattle. I also should not be so cynical towards the Amish in general. Other than the fact that they do not have to pay taxes, they are applaudible. They lead simple lives, I sometimes see women in their simple cotton dresses with their simple bonnets, in the grocery store or the post office. I never see men, though. The women are quiet. They are not a plague on the local society, far from it. They own resturants, and supply the community with local foods. No, I should be more supportive of the local Amish community, and even their monoculture. The Amish keep to themsevles, they are self-sustaining, and who can't respect that?
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