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.
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