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?
Place Entry #5 - Birds, predator and prey
In an effort to stay on topic and keep my entries interconnected, I chose a place where I knew I could find more firsthand interactions with birds and I didn't have to go far the woods at my house are home to dozens of bird species. I sat and I listened, and I observed, and I touched. I was happy to see the robins are back. I've noticed that they're virtually nonexistent during winter months, especially when there is snow on the ground. After all, how can ground birds get worms with layers of snow on the ground? Anyway, the robins are back, in my yard at least. Although I'm viewing them through the foliage and branches of the woods, I sometimes see them scavenging the ground, although I hear them more clearly than I see them. I love their song: melodic, calming, short and sweet. The robins I am seeing are participating in their usual behavior, jumping to each patch of grass, cocking their head to listen to the ground.
But inside the woods, there's so much life. Chickadees, cardinals, blue jays, titmice, woodpeckers, all have their own song. I know them all, too. After I sit long enough, the birds begin coming back after the initial disturbance of my entry into the woods. Crunch, crunch, go the skeletal leaves as I stepped on them, over them, slowly.
I sit on a log, stretching across a few feet, as if placed there by human hands, not the blows of a windstorm long ago. These skeleton leaves blow around with the breeze as I realize how green everything is, green is so much better than white. And white is what I have been used to for several months now. The green of the foliage on the ground, with slight hues of brown, but mostly green. This is because my woods are filled with a very evasive, shade-loving, evergreen vine, it covers the ground, and many feet up the tree trunks. Some trees seem choked out, others seem just fine, as if the vines were simply a protective jacket. Sitting here in the woods, I notice that the birds, especially the chickadees and cardinals, eat the berries that these vines produce. Sustenance in an otherwise merciless season when it comes to food supply. And these vines only produce the berries in the fall through winter. A smart move: the birds become dependent on these berries during the barren winter season, and the birds spread the seeds around. Spreading them around in the woods, no doubt, because they are covered with this vine. Nature always makes smart moves, only smart moves.
Many of the robins, satiated with worms in their bellies, perch on the branches above me. I am covered in song, blanketed in different voices. Their songs are unrecognizable by me, but they are beautiful. Even the blue jays. I continue to sit.... 15 minutes...and sit.... 35 minutes... and sit.... 45 minutes....
Then I hear a different call: a red-tailed hawk (what luck!!). A somber, yet magnificent song, perhaps my favorite of all bird calls. It is so different from the others, it is the voice of a predator. Followed by it are the calls of crows. Around here they are often chasing the red-tailed hawk, whether for food scraps, or to scare the hawk into not eating any of them. I sometimes wish they would just leave her alone.
What greater luck! The hawk landed on a branch far above me, but not too distantly in front of me. I enjoy these moments, I could spend hours viewing a raptor, they are my favorite animal, after wolves. And they are so patient, while all these little birds are hopelessly skittish in flight and dance and head movement, the hawk is patient, and still. Perhaps that is the luxury of being a predator, the ability to be sedentary, not having anything to avoid.
I envy the hawk for its flight, its graceful glide. Sometimes when I see it fly over my head, it's touching the sun. And then I envy how warm it must be, touching the sun. But then, I feel fortunate to view an animal, once a threatened species, now slowly re-emerging as a top predatory raptor, one that takes fairly well to human development. I do not get to see the local red-tail hawk nearly as often as I wish.
As I sit in the woods, the crows come back and annoy the hawk. The hawk spreads open its huge, beastly wings and begins undulating them, so graceful, so careful. I wonder if I could hear them if I were close enough. The sun has finally come out today, and she takes off into the sun, touching it. The crows yelling at her as she glides. Stupid crows.
But inside the woods, there's so much life. Chickadees, cardinals, blue jays, titmice, woodpeckers, all have their own song. I know them all, too. After I sit long enough, the birds begin coming back after the initial disturbance of my entry into the woods. Crunch, crunch, go the skeletal leaves as I stepped on them, over them, slowly.
I sit on a log, stretching across a few feet, as if placed there by human hands, not the blows of a windstorm long ago. These skeleton leaves blow around with the breeze as I realize how green everything is, green is so much better than white. And white is what I have been used to for several months now. The green of the foliage on the ground, with slight hues of brown, but mostly green. This is because my woods are filled with a very evasive, shade-loving, evergreen vine, it covers the ground, and many feet up the tree trunks. Some trees seem choked out, others seem just fine, as if the vines were simply a protective jacket. Sitting here in the woods, I notice that the birds, especially the chickadees and cardinals, eat the berries that these vines produce. Sustenance in an otherwise merciless season when it comes to food supply. And these vines only produce the berries in the fall through winter. A smart move: the birds become dependent on these berries during the barren winter season, and the birds spread the seeds around. Spreading them around in the woods, no doubt, because they are covered with this vine. Nature always makes smart moves, only smart moves.
Many of the robins, satiated with worms in their bellies, perch on the branches above me. I am covered in song, blanketed in different voices. Their songs are unrecognizable by me, but they are beautiful. Even the blue jays. I continue to sit.... 15 minutes...and sit.... 35 minutes... and sit.... 45 minutes....
Then I hear a different call: a red-tailed hawk (what luck!!). A somber, yet magnificent song, perhaps my favorite of all bird calls. It is so different from the others, it is the voice of a predator. Followed by it are the calls of crows. Around here they are often chasing the red-tailed hawk, whether for food scraps, or to scare the hawk into not eating any of them. I sometimes wish they would just leave her alone.
What greater luck! The hawk landed on a branch far above me, but not too distantly in front of me. I enjoy these moments, I could spend hours viewing a raptor, they are my favorite animal, after wolves. And they are so patient, while all these little birds are hopelessly skittish in flight and dance and head movement, the hawk is patient, and still. Perhaps that is the luxury of being a predator, the ability to be sedentary, not having anything to avoid.
I envy the hawk for its flight, its graceful glide. Sometimes when I see it fly over my head, it's touching the sun. And then I envy how warm it must be, touching the sun. But then, I feel fortunate to view an animal, once a threatened species, now slowly re-emerging as a top predatory raptor, one that takes fairly well to human development. I do not get to see the local red-tail hawk nearly as often as I wish.
As I sit in the woods, the crows come back and annoy the hawk. The hawk spreads open its huge, beastly wings and begins undulating them, so graceful, so careful. I wonder if I could hear them if I were close enough. The sun has finally come out today, and she takes off into the sun, touching it. The crows yelling at her as she glides. Stupid crows.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Place Entry #4 - Marine Frontiers
Never have I felt more secure and complacent than when I am at the beach. I don't know who doesn't love the beach, even if one doesn't swim. It is a frontier: the ocean, a marine wilderness, that meets civilization; homes, hotels, and people. To be near any water body: stream, river, lake; I feel uninhibited, and incur a sense of any water body being a marine frontier. There is something substantial that I feel emotionally when I am near or in a natural body of water, such as the ocean, or a stream that may only be knee-deep. It's a whole other realm of living: it's aquatic, not terrestrial, the creatures must function biologically in completely different ways than those who live on land. Then those are the creatures who can thrive in both: amphibians, waterfowl, even humans (think people who actually live in their boats, not a bad idea... NO PROPERTY TAXES!).
I was at the local lake by my house yesterday (damn, why didn't I take any pictures?!?!?). Some of you may be familiar with it, Brady's Run lake in Beaver County. I remember learning just recently that you can tell if ice can support your weight for skating or walking if it is pure white, once it begins turning a grey or blue color, don't even think about it, unless you want a polar bear bath. Yesterday the lake was beginning to turn that blue-grey color. I was watching the geese walking on the ice, some searching for spaces of open ice where water could be seen, but there wasn't any. They would just stand there, in their flock, some pruning themselves, some pruning each other. At times I could hear the ice cracking as it was beginning to slowly melt and recede. I had never really been at such a large frozen water body before and actually pondered its existence. I mean the entire lake was a sheet of ice, slowly diminishing ice, but blanketed in ice nonetheless. I realized the importance of this cycle in nature, as these place blogs are really enticing me to do. There must be some benefits derived from this freezing affect, that isn't necessarily only human (ice skating). The geese seemed to still enjoy themselves although I'm sure they would have rather been wading in water, than walking on ice. But their patience was virtuous, after about an hour or so, the ice began to give way (so glad I got to be there for this!). Once a crack appeared and water began slowly pouring over the crack onto the top of the ice, the geese in unison began waddling over to it. Within 20 minutes the ice had broken away so much so that a little open pool was available. The water may have been cold, but the geese used it to clean themselves. Some groups would share the little pool, while others would be greedy and chase others off. I thought, this is the cycle of nature, the warmth, the freezing, these changes in season.
While there, and getting ready to pack up, I thought, I am so glad to have something that the nonhuman world has created that humans can't control! Nature's cycles come and go, and we can only predict what they will entail, but we cannot control them. (Although conspiracy theorists hold true to the government changing weather patterns, but who knows??)
I was at the local lake by my house yesterday (damn, why didn't I take any pictures?!?!?). Some of you may be familiar with it, Brady's Run lake in Beaver County. I remember learning just recently that you can tell if ice can support your weight for skating or walking if it is pure white, once it begins turning a grey or blue color, don't even think about it, unless you want a polar bear bath. Yesterday the lake was beginning to turn that blue-grey color. I was watching the geese walking on the ice, some searching for spaces of open ice where water could be seen, but there wasn't any. They would just stand there, in their flock, some pruning themselves, some pruning each other. At times I could hear the ice cracking as it was beginning to slowly melt and recede. I had never really been at such a large frozen water body before and actually pondered its existence. I mean the entire lake was a sheet of ice, slowly diminishing ice, but blanketed in ice nonetheless. I realized the importance of this cycle in nature, as these place blogs are really enticing me to do. There must be some benefits derived from this freezing affect, that isn't necessarily only human (ice skating). The geese seemed to still enjoy themselves although I'm sure they would have rather been wading in water, than walking on ice. But their patience was virtuous, after about an hour or so, the ice began to give way (so glad I got to be there for this!). Once a crack appeared and water began slowly pouring over the crack onto the top of the ice, the geese in unison began waddling over to it. Within 20 minutes the ice had broken away so much so that a little open pool was available. The water may have been cold, but the geese used it to clean themselves. Some groups would share the little pool, while others would be greedy and chase others off. I thought, this is the cycle of nature, the warmth, the freezing, these changes in season.
While there, and getting ready to pack up, I thought, I am so glad to have something that the nonhuman world has created that humans can't control! Nature's cycles come and go, and we can only predict what they will entail, but we cannot control them. (Although conspiracy theorists hold true to the government changing weather patterns, but who knows??)
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Prompt Entry #4 - Little Bird
It is summer. I've seen you in my yard for the past several days now, your soft down feathers and light colors show me that you are still barely a fledgling. You let me get very close to you, and you do not fly off, although you hobble a little, and this causes you to fall head first into the ground at times, you stay still, you almost ignore me. Yesterday, we heard tweeting in the garage because the door was open. And there you were, you made an attempt to fly off, but you sort of just muddled about and hid. But today... Today, you let me pick you up and hold you. Despite this and the fact that you won't eat any worms, baby robin, little bird, I cannot succumb to the thought that you will soon die. I stroke your tiny head with just one finger and you close your eyes: a soothing touch on a young body that feels old and weary. We build you a little makeshift house, your final resting place. This way a predator won't get you, and you can die in peace. What happened to you, little bird? Did your mother leave you because you could not fly? I try the worms again, this time I crush them. I usually do not touch worms, but for you I will. I will try to help you. You still do not eat, and I know you will soon die. I check on you often. You, laying in your makeshift bird house, your final resting place, look at me with empty, sad eyes. I'm sorry I could not help you more. But this is the way of nature, little bird, baby robin, and some day I will be in your position. As the day goes by you become incontinent, but you still hold on to life. I can barely stand how terrible I feel, watching you, but I clean the waste around you, and leave you alone. By nightfall you have become as nature intends all of its living creatures, I bury you by the sparrow that flew into the window just a few months before. And you will be by the older robin I will find in just a few weeks.
A few days after I bury you, it is early morning, and the sun has risen. I am awakened by a frantic scratching at the window above my head. In a sleepy daze, I open the blind. There you are little bird, once I see you, you settle on the outside sill, and you look at me. You're here to tell me that you made it to the other side. And that you are grateful for my help. Thank you for coming back. It has been almost 2 years and I have not forgotten you, and I never will. I will see you again, I'm sure of it.
-------------------
The inspiration for this story is completely nonfiction, even the second part, about it coming to my window. The truth is, a baby robin, one that looked just like the one that had died, was flying about my window, and it did settle as I opened the blind. It looked at me, it was the same robin. I know I sound crazy, but I believe it was, in its spirit form. And I hate myself now, I was so damn sleepy (I didn't dream it, that I'm sure of) that I just looked at it and went back to bed. I really regret not pondering it more. But if it was that little robin's ghost, he/she knows that I saw it, and that I am really glad it came back to me, to tell me it was alright.
It was odd that I had seen the bird in the yard for a few days and that the day I had finally picked it up and held it, was the day it died. I feel like the bird just needed some compassion, and it could die complacently. I am still moved writing all of this, and it brings me to tears, seeing the cruelty that nature can represent for this little robin. But I know of the importance of life, as well as death, for all creatures, myself included.
I feel as though for this entry, I did not need to do research on the animal, I learned firsthand the effects of dying and all that it encompasses: lethargy, no appetite, incontinence. This was the first time I experienced these things for myself, having heard about the nature of death, but never being exposed to it personally. Even without the research, I became very intimate with the juvenile bird. And I was able to experience all that he was feeling and the nature of his death. You will never be forgotten little bird!
A few days after I bury you, it is early morning, and the sun has risen. I am awakened by a frantic scratching at the window above my head. In a sleepy daze, I open the blind. There you are little bird, once I see you, you settle on the outside sill, and you look at me. You're here to tell me that you made it to the other side. And that you are grateful for my help. Thank you for coming back. It has been almost 2 years and I have not forgotten you, and I never will. I will see you again, I'm sure of it.
-------------------
The inspiration for this story is completely nonfiction, even the second part, about it coming to my window. The truth is, a baby robin, one that looked just like the one that had died, was flying about my window, and it did settle as I opened the blind. It looked at me, it was the same robin. I know I sound crazy, but I believe it was, in its spirit form. And I hate myself now, I was so damn sleepy (I didn't dream it, that I'm sure of) that I just looked at it and went back to bed. I really regret not pondering it more. But if it was that little robin's ghost, he/she knows that I saw it, and that I am really glad it came back to me, to tell me it was alright.
It was odd that I had seen the bird in the yard for a few days and that the day I had finally picked it up and held it, was the day it died. I feel like the bird just needed some compassion, and it could die complacently. I am still moved writing all of this, and it brings me to tears, seeing the cruelty that nature can represent for this little robin. But I know of the importance of life, as well as death, for all creatures, myself included.
I feel as though for this entry, I did not need to do research on the animal, I learned firsthand the effects of dying and all that it encompasses: lethargy, no appetite, incontinence. This was the first time I experienced these things for myself, having heard about the nature of death, but never being exposed to it personally. Even without the research, I became very intimate with the juvenile bird. And I was able to experience all that he was feeling and the nature of his death. You will never be forgotten little bird!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Place Entry #3: Color and Temperature in Raccoon State Park
I love Raccoon Creek State Park. The trails are challenging, long, usually undisturbed by other humans, so you're by yourself, in a feeling of solace, even if you're not upset about something. I like this park because all of the trails in the heart of summer are so warm and green. From the ground to the tree canopies, green. In that setting, this color will never get old for me, I will never grow weary of the green moss, green leaves, green ferns. Then suddenly, you approach a different color. It's the natural spring: an orange-red hued, towering rock that sometimes barely trickles during dry spells. This change in color is what makes the natural world so beautiful. We make crayons that match the colors found in nature, and these crayons are often described as such: sky blue, lemon yellow, mulberry, apricot, cornflower, even eggplant! And as you traipse and climb further into the forest, in the heart of the summer, the temperature cools, and gets even cooler as you approach the spring. Another thing we take from nature's integrity other than its colors: the beauty of the cooling affect of temperatures within woodlands during hot summer days. The air we've created is synthetic, artificial air (conditioning) to emulate this comfortable temperature. However such air can never really be mimicked; the air in nature's forests are clean, quiet, and still, and a cool, gentle breeze doesn't leave you shivering like AC does, just refreshed. No, nothing can mimic the comfort one feels from the warm airs of the earth.
The water from the spring tastes blood-like from its iron content, and some days this taste is worse than others, but after walking to it, especially if you've taken the side with the slope, you must drink some for your efforts, your reward. After all, that spring, it is the goal of all travelers who take that path, whether up the sloped trail or the flat one, there is only one ending: that spring.
For some reason, when I go to Raccoon Park I feel so child-like again: I want to climb, and get dirty, especially with the promise of cool, natural spring water to cool you down or clean you up.
As you turn away from the spring and onto another path, you're once again greeted by the green luster of the forest. No crayon color could imitate the real color of green as nature intended it, and those metallic, neon colors are just atrocious. You're also re-entering the warmer temperature from the cool temperature and this causes you to get goosebumps, at least I do almost every time.
All is well, I am in solace although I am not upset about anything, and I take my time getting back to my car, where I will probably crank up my synthetic, human-invented cooling system, for sometimes days in the heart of summer can be unbearable.
The water from the spring tastes blood-like from its iron content, and some days this taste is worse than others, but after walking to it, especially if you've taken the side with the slope, you must drink some for your efforts, your reward. After all, that spring, it is the goal of all travelers who take that path, whether up the sloped trail or the flat one, there is only one ending: that spring.
For some reason, when I go to Raccoon Park I feel so child-like again: I want to climb, and get dirty, especially with the promise of cool, natural spring water to cool you down or clean you up.
As you turn away from the spring and onto another path, you're once again greeted by the green luster of the forest. No crayon color could imitate the real color of green as nature intended it, and those metallic, neon colors are just atrocious. You're also re-entering the warmer temperature from the cool temperature and this causes you to get goosebumps, at least I do almost every time.
All is well, I am in solace although I am not upset about anything, and I take my time getting back to my car, where I will probably crank up my synthetic, human-invented cooling system, for sometimes days in the heart of summer can be unbearable.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Prompt #3 - Intimacy and a Poem
For this blog, I found my intimacy with a bare tree near my house, my favorite tree, the one I asserted a single swing onto to feel more like a child again. I used this tree as a representation of many trees. I took this tree in my yard and visualized it in a desolate place, with no other surrounding trees, no grass, gray skies, and with this tree having still no leaves on it. It is almost smoking, as if a wildfire barrelled through and took everything in its grip but this one tree, with its swing, silent and still. I used this one visual idea, and a poem began unfolding (as I've been trying to get at least one poem out of my system for this class).
I think the poem reflects an intimacy I pictured with this tree, and the precise nature I felt when writing this poem was that I sort of became the tree, thinking about its battles and tribulations. I feel this relationship I built out of this poem presents a very different conversation from that of an animal or human, because trees are possibly one of the most helpless of all life forms: humans can talk or leave, animals can leave a place, but trees must stay put, they choose where they want to live, and if something in their environment goes awry, they must deal with it, grow with it, they cannot leave it. While this immobility can cause them to live a very long time, it also has consequences: they cannot up and go, so they risk being destroyed.
I completed this poem promptly, and other than getting stuck on a few words, I tightened it up. My inspiration sort of came from just one of the readings, Land of Little Rain: desert which to most is wasteful land that cannot be utilized or civilized, but to anyone with ecological conscious, knows of its benefits and importance. This can be compared to a tree, worthless in the eyes of some, valuable in eyes of others.
Also inspirational was Miller's The Case Against Metaphor: An Apologia, which struck me because she was with a biologist, and she noticed things as a broad-picture sense, while her biologist friend noticed all of the intricacies in a given place. Trees are seen as trees, forests, woodlands, very little times are they seen as singular, and their importance as a singular being, unless they are an old growth tree or a particular landmark, or both.
Here is the poem, elementary, yes, but I am not nearly where I need to be as a sophisticated poet, so I must start somewhere!
If Trees Could Talk
If trees could talk,
what would they say?
Would they talk to us,
humans?
So full of arrogance,
and yet empathy.
Would they want to be understood?
Or be left alone?
Each season the trees change:
From bare, to bud, to bloom, to bate,
without thought, only necessity.
If trees could talk,
Would we talk back?
Converse?
The language of trees
would have to be different
from our own.
For the trees learn not
from us how to discourse.
But from the soil in which they grow,
and the sky their branches touch.
From the wind that stirs their leaves,
and the animals who play within
their veins and vessels
They learn from the wise old owl,
and the cunning vulture.
The ornery squirrel,
and the careful mantis.
We learn from our skeptical parents,
and our greedy society.
From elusive strangers,
and our own selfish minds.
If trees could talk,
would we listen?
No, for we care only about ourselves.
We could never take the time to hear
the tales of the trees.
For we believe our tales
to be better, wiser, truer.
If trees could talk
we would hush them, bind them,
cut them down.
Therefore trees keep quiet.
and continue...
Bare, bud, bloom, bate
not out of thought,
but of necessity.
I know what you're thinking: what a depressing poem. And perhaps if trees could talk, they would be lively in thanking us, however I find that hard to believe. And since it is my poem and I can do with it what I want, I took my intimacy with my tree and made it depressing. Like I said I was focusing on its problems.
I think the poem reflects an intimacy I pictured with this tree, and the precise nature I felt when writing this poem was that I sort of became the tree, thinking about its battles and tribulations. I feel this relationship I built out of this poem presents a very different conversation from that of an animal or human, because trees are possibly one of the most helpless of all life forms: humans can talk or leave, animals can leave a place, but trees must stay put, they choose where they want to live, and if something in their environment goes awry, they must deal with it, grow with it, they cannot leave it. While this immobility can cause them to live a very long time, it also has consequences: they cannot up and go, so they risk being destroyed.
I completed this poem promptly, and other than getting stuck on a few words, I tightened it up. My inspiration sort of came from just one of the readings, Land of Little Rain: desert which to most is wasteful land that cannot be utilized or civilized, but to anyone with ecological conscious, knows of its benefits and importance. This can be compared to a tree, worthless in the eyes of some, valuable in eyes of others.
Also inspirational was Miller's The Case Against Metaphor: An Apologia, which struck me because she was with a biologist, and she noticed things as a broad-picture sense, while her biologist friend noticed all of the intricacies in a given place. Trees are seen as trees, forests, woodlands, very little times are they seen as singular, and their importance as a singular being, unless they are an old growth tree or a particular landmark, or both.
Here is the poem, elementary, yes, but I am not nearly where I need to be as a sophisticated poet, so I must start somewhere!
If Trees Could Talk
If trees could talk,
what would they say?
Would they talk to us,
humans?
So full of arrogance,
and yet empathy.
Would they want to be understood?
Or be left alone?
Each season the trees change:
From bare, to bud, to bloom, to bate,
without thought, only necessity.
If trees could talk,
Would we talk back?
Converse?
The language of trees
would have to be different
from our own.
For the trees learn not
from us how to discourse.
But from the soil in which they grow,
and the sky their branches touch.
From the wind that stirs their leaves,
and the animals who play within
their veins and vessels
They learn from the wise old owl,
and the cunning vulture.
The ornery squirrel,
and the careful mantis.
We learn from our skeptical parents,
and our greedy society.
From elusive strangers,
and our own selfish minds.
If trees could talk,
would we listen?
No, for we care only about ourselves.
We could never take the time to hear
the tales of the trees.
For we believe our tales
to be better, wiser, truer.
If trees could talk
we would hush them, bind them,
cut them down.
Therefore trees keep quiet.
and continue...
Bare, bud, bloom, bate
not out of thought,
but of necessity.
I know what you're thinking: what a depressing poem. And perhaps if trees could talk, they would be lively in thanking us, however I find that hard to believe. And since it is my poem and I can do with it what I want, I took my intimacy with my tree and made it depressing. Like I said I was focusing on its problems.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A Response to Martone's "Flatness"
It is interesting that some of us as travelers aspire to see the background of a given area, not just brochures at a rest stop. However, we still take the route most travelled (interstate) and Martone illustrates, that the "interstate defeats our best intentions." The stereotypical flatness of the Midwest of America to travellers holds true to those seeing it from a modern road. It isn't until you travel deep into the heart of these states that as Martone points out, one might begin to see the flatness' "slight unevenness." Martone points out the significance of the Midwest's flatness in accordance with its geology and its necessity to ecosystems. This reading sparked something in my mind I would have never thought about, let alone write about. So I appreciate his thoughts on it. However, he goes through a whole spill of beautiful, visionary writing and then in the last paragraph says "Perhaps I make too much of geology, topography imprinting on our lives." To me, I think, that is the inspiration behind this text and that he second guesses. I don't know, I feel as though he didn't need to make a mention of questioning his motives for this particular writing. Although I do relate and understand his ideology. And I feel that topography does effect us in some way, even subconsciously.
Prompt Entry #1: The landscape of my birth, the home of my soul
Take me to West Virginia! I know this is a broad place, but it is very important to my soul and has nurtured me and essentially given birth to me. It's shaped me in so many ways to the woman I am today because it is pure wilderness. My grandparents (now just my pap since my granny died) live in the mountains about 2 and a half hours straight south into W.VA. from the Pa border. Since before I could walk I went down there several times a year. In the winter, the snow accumulation is horrendous: a normal winter for my pap would be a total of 8 to 10 feet of snow through the entirety of the season. But in the warm spring or summer weather, it is beautiful. Everything is so lush and green and fecund. The soil has an almost "perfect" feeling, a mixture of sandy, soft, fluffy soil, very easy to till.
Going into the woods or fields and feeling the wind around me, and the smell of grass is a feeling I remember since I was a little girl, and still make it a point to do so as an adult when I visit. Ever since my granny died, I now portray her as the wind I feel the and earthy, country smells I inhale. The wildlife there alone is enough to make me want to carry a gun with me for a feeling of security: bears, coyotes, feral dogs (people in these particular mountains by my paps seem to have a hard time getting their pets fixed). When I was young I remember rarely seeing a car drive down their dusty road, maybe one or two a day. Five was certainly busy.
Now a days, with more people desiring to live in more remoteness and in a country setting, there are dozens of cars that drive by. Not to mention the log trucks. If my family decides not to sell the house after my pap dies, I fear that my children or grandchildren (should I have either) may not be able to go down there and see the same beautiful, nostalgic place I had grown up in. I guess someone who owned acres and acres of some woodlands a little down the mountain from my paps sold it, or the kids sold it, and this has allowed logging to take place. You can sit on my pap's porch and almost hear the diesel trucks roaring. I'm just happy I don't hear the trees falling, that would be terrible.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little bit of me get carried off with those lifeless logs down the dirt road, descending the mountain.
Going into the woods or fields and feeling the wind around me, and the smell of grass is a feeling I remember since I was a little girl, and still make it a point to do so as an adult when I visit. Ever since my granny died, I now portray her as the wind I feel the and earthy, country smells I inhale. The wildlife there alone is enough to make me want to carry a gun with me for a feeling of security: bears, coyotes, feral dogs (people in these particular mountains by my paps seem to have a hard time getting their pets fixed). When I was young I remember rarely seeing a car drive down their dusty road, maybe one or two a day. Five was certainly busy.
Now a days, with more people desiring to live in more remoteness and in a country setting, there are dozens of cars that drive by. Not to mention the log trucks. If my family decides not to sell the house after my pap dies, I fear that my children or grandchildren (should I have either) may not be able to go down there and see the same beautiful, nostalgic place I had grown up in. I guess someone who owned acres and acres of some woodlands a little down the mountain from my paps sold it, or the kids sold it, and this has allowed logging to take place. You can sit on my pap's porch and almost hear the diesel trucks roaring. I'm just happy I don't hear the trees falling, that would be terrible.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little bit of me get carried off with those lifeless logs down the dirt road, descending the mountain.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Place Entry #1 (full entry): Title Intro. and The Death of Nature
The title for this blog is through the creative genius of Cesar Milan. Yes, the dog whisperer. I love dogs and all animals, and Cesar Milan is an amazingly novel person. He refers to "living in the now" as the mode of dogs, and how that mindset is what humans need to channel in order to rehabilitate their dogs because dogs do not remember the past, nor think of the future. It is also important that humans live in the now in a similar way that dogs do. The past may be what has made us who we are today, but thinking incessantly about that does not allow us to progress and mature for the future. But living in the now will allow us that passage.
Now moving on to the substance of what this blog is supposed to be about...
It was not until last winter (the winter of 2009-2010) that I had decided to refute my own belief that winter only brought about a barren, desolate, empty season. There is little reminder of life, it is cold (I HATE the cold/being cold), there is not much of anything to really look at or admire. It wasn't until I put a bird feeder in my yard that I realized there is an existence about nature even in the most seemingly desolate season. It may be much quieter, colder, more motionless, but existence is still all around me. I had always heard of the importance of being outdoors as much in cold, wintry weather, as in nice warm weather because being in nature is just better for you, physically and mentally (especially mentally), despite the frigid conditions. But one couldn't catch me dead in cold weather unless I have to be. More recently however, taking a walk in the woods by my house brought to my attention that I actually appreciate the calm, the quiet. It's beautiful. Snow falling does not make an ounce of sound (except the really wet snow) and here it was, pouring like rain, but being humble and quiet, even in feet of accumulation.
I also realized that the quiet in which winter exists is necessary for the survival of all living creatures. It is the time for rest: no reproduction, or the competition that reproduction presents. The metabolic rate of creatures slows to ensure survival on little food. Hibernation, torpor. Even trees partake in a sort of rest period: they lose their leaves in order to gain energy to simply stay alive until Spring, when the promise of rain and humidity quenches them enough to produce their thirsty leaves. I then decided: "why can't we (humans) be required to do the same?" And "Where in our evolutionary development did we stray so far as to not enjoy the rest that winter brings?" (Of course, "where in our evolutionary development did we stray so far from..." is always a prefix to things I contemplate on our connection to the natural world, for example where did we stray so far from our actual connection and obligation to the natural world, but that's a different blog for another day).
Since my revelation last winter, I may not exactly look forward to winter, but it comforts me to know that it does not bring about the death of nature, simply a period of rest. I now pursue walks in the winter, and feel that the quiet brings me closer to my natural surroundings than I could have ever imagined. Of course, the promise of a warm house to return to makes it that much more pleasant.
Now moving on to the substance of what this blog is supposed to be about...
It was not until last winter (the winter of 2009-2010) that I had decided to refute my own belief that winter only brought about a barren, desolate, empty season. There is little reminder of life, it is cold (I HATE the cold/being cold), there is not much of anything to really look at or admire. It wasn't until I put a bird feeder in my yard that I realized there is an existence about nature even in the most seemingly desolate season. It may be much quieter, colder, more motionless, but existence is still all around me. I had always heard of the importance of being outdoors as much in cold, wintry weather, as in nice warm weather because being in nature is just better for you, physically and mentally (especially mentally), despite the frigid conditions. But one couldn't catch me dead in cold weather unless I have to be. More recently however, taking a walk in the woods by my house brought to my attention that I actually appreciate the calm, the quiet. It's beautiful. Snow falling does not make an ounce of sound (except the really wet snow) and here it was, pouring like rain, but being humble and quiet, even in feet of accumulation.
I also realized that the quiet in which winter exists is necessary for the survival of all living creatures. It is the time for rest: no reproduction, or the competition that reproduction presents. The metabolic rate of creatures slows to ensure survival on little food. Hibernation, torpor. Even trees partake in a sort of rest period: they lose their leaves in order to gain energy to simply stay alive until Spring, when the promise of rain and humidity quenches them enough to produce their thirsty leaves. I then decided: "why can't we (humans) be required to do the same?" And "Where in our evolutionary development did we stray so far as to not enjoy the rest that winter brings?" (Of course, "where in our evolutionary development did we stray so far from..." is always a prefix to things I contemplate on our connection to the natural world, for example where did we stray so far from our actual connection and obligation to the natural world, but that's a different blog for another day).
Since my revelation last winter, I may not exactly look forward to winter, but it comforts me to know that it does not bring about the death of nature, simply a period of rest. I now pursue walks in the winter, and feel that the quiet brings me closer to my natural surroundings than I could have ever imagined. Of course, the promise of a warm house to return to makes it that much more pleasant.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Entry #1 (partial post): Nature & Environmental Writing
Never ever in my life have I wrote blogs, and rarely read blogs, however this is a new experience I welcome. I'm looking forward to paying greater attention to the details in nature to write about, amongst other thoughts and observations.
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