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??)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
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.
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