Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
New Territory
Tuesday, December 8, 1:00 p.m. - The first time I had to put gloves on. The ground isn't too hard, but it has lost that muddy feel. The stiff grass cracks under my boots. Once in the woods, Manny is off. He sprints down the path but quickly pulls up to explore and sniff around. I look through the trees and realize that everything has opened up. All of the remaining leaves around are on the ground blending into the dirt and branches across the ground. I take my usual seat on my log. Manny sprints back and forth in front of me in the small opening. He's missed it out here, too. On each of his turns, he slides through the leaves piled on the ground spraying them in the air like an ice skater stopping and shaving a mist of ice into the air.
I can see more houses in the distance. The lack of leaves makes this place seem even less secluded than it already was. Little blankets of snow cover a few logs here and there. The plant life and weeds are rotten brown. Their leaves sag towards the ground; they are soft. I can hear them squishing around in Manny's mouth as he chops at them. I can't really hear anything else. I don't hear the chirping of the birds that frequented the woods when it was warmer. The wind picks up and sends a chill down my spine.
Manny seems to want to go for a walk, or I just make that excuse so we can explore. I'm not sure how I missed it in the past, but I find another tangent of the trail. We walk under a leaning tree and head down a sloping path. At the bottom of the hill, there is a giant tree that has been uprooted. I'm not exactly sure what they are, but a cage of thin vines and sticks surround the roots of the tree. They hang like a bird cage and weave to a point at the top forming what looks like an mini golden roof of an ancient church. On the ground, the hard mud converges onto an area of green grass. It looks fake, like it doesn't belong in the dull, dead colors of winter. Just beyond the fake artificial turf is a giant tree, standing by itself in the middle of everything. Connected to the side of it is a tree stand, i think, for hunting. But it is so close to the houses. It's got to be twenty feet high. I'm terrified of heights, but I decide to make the climb. Manny circles below watching and ready to catch me if necessary.
At the top of the stand, I can see forever. I am in the line of sight of the canopy of bare branches. I wrap my arms around the trunk and lean out to see around the tree. I imagine jumping from tree to tree. What it would be like to be a squirrel or a bird and have the freedom to move about from the ground to the sky. In the distance, I finally hear them. I can't see where they're at but a flock of birds are working to break the silence. I slowly climb down the tree stand and head in their direction.
My blood begins to warm along the walk. We come to a break in the ground. Rocks and a Mountain Dew bottle cover the bottom of the deep creek. My friends and I used to walk through the shallow flow of water, which led us to another creek that opened into the community pond. Manny and I decide to stick stay dry and continue our walk. We make it to a rusted barbed wire fence that has become a part of the vines before we turn back. On the way back, Manny urges me to play a little fetch with him. Stick after stick he shoots after and destroys. I think he's still a little fuzzy on how the game actually works. Before we walk towards home, I pause here and there to take some pictures, even though I know I'll be back.
I can see more houses in the distance. The lack of leaves makes this place seem even less secluded than it already was. Little blankets of snow cover a few logs here and there. The plant life and weeds are rotten brown. Their leaves sag towards the ground; they are soft. I can hear them squishing around in Manny's mouth as he chops at them. I can't really hear anything else. I don't hear the chirping of the birds that frequented the woods when it was warmer. The wind picks up and sends a chill down my spine.
Manny seems to want to go for a walk, or I just make that excuse so we can explore. I'm not sure how I missed it in the past, but I find another tangent of the trail. We walk under a leaning tree and head down a sloping path. At the bottom of the hill, there is a giant tree that has been uprooted. I'm not exactly sure what they are, but a cage of thin vines and sticks surround the roots of the tree. They hang like a bird cage and weave to a point at the top forming what looks like an mini golden roof of an ancient church. On the ground, the hard mud converges onto an area of green grass. It looks fake, like it doesn't belong in the dull, dead colors of winter. Just beyond the fake artificial turf is a giant tree, standing by itself in the middle of everything. Connected to the side of it is a tree stand, i think, for hunting. But it is so close to the houses. It's got to be twenty feet high. I'm terrified of heights, but I decide to make the climb. Manny circles below watching and ready to catch me if necessary.
At the top of the stand, I can see forever. I am in the line of sight of the canopy of bare branches. I wrap my arms around the trunk and lean out to see around the tree. I imagine jumping from tree to tree. What it would be like to be a squirrel or a bird and have the freedom to move about from the ground to the sky. In the distance, I finally hear them. I can't see where they're at but a flock of birds are working to break the silence. I slowly climb down the tree stand and head in their direction.
My blood begins to warm along the walk. We come to a break in the ground. Rocks and a Mountain Dew bottle cover the bottom of the deep creek. My friends and I used to walk through the shallow flow of water, which led us to another creek that opened into the community pond. Manny and I decide to stick stay dry and continue our walk. We make it to a rusted barbed wire fence that has become a part of the vines before we turn back. On the way back, Manny urges me to play a little fetch with him. Stick after stick he shoots after and destroys. I think he's still a little fuzzy on how the game actually works. Before we walk towards home, I pause here and there to take some pictures, even though I know I'll be back.
Reflection on the Class
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I signed up for this class, but I'm glad I took it. I never really thought about doing any kind of nature writing, and I really felt out of place in the beginning of the semester. As the term went on, I started to feel more and more comfortable. I think it was pretty helpful that everyone in the class was so easy going. I probably learned just as much from all of our readings as I did everyone in the class. Like Sheryl said earlier in the semester, this class seemed to be really advanced and into nature writing, which helped me get more from the class. Even though I'm not on the same level as everyone, I think it was nice to be that kind of environment.
As I continue to grow as a writer, I think it is more and more important to feel uncomfortable at times. Putting myself into a new and different situation has only helped my writing. I now have began to think about my writing differently and maybe focusing more on the natural world. I don't consider myself a nature writer, but almost everything I write seems to deal with a certain place. Grounding myself in whatever place it I'm writing about is just as important as the characters or what's going on in the story. This class has given me a starting point for looking at the world in a different way - noticing the smallest details that the average person might not see. I have started to use all of my senses in descriptions of setting.
The blogging exercises about place have been extremely beneficial. Even though there have been weeks where I just didn't want to go to my place because of the weather, I gained an understanding of how one place can change or develop over an extended period of time. I think it has been awesome to see my woods transform over the last fourteen weeks. There's so much that goes over looked in nature. Things that I used to just walk by. Now, anytime I'm anywhere - walking Manny, driving, etc. - I pay closer attention to everything around me. For example, after reading Nancy Gift, I couldn't walk up and down my street without noticing peoples' front yards. I would pull Manny out of the yards with little chemical flags. I held a sort of contempt for the yards that were trimmed and clean cut. I imagined everyone's yard overgrown and free - something that only one could imagine.
When writing my nature essays, I gained more of an understanding of my past. I became more aware of my past and where I come from. This class has opened my mind to different doors that I may have never explored. I even found myself learning things about myself and my family from drafting my essays. I have always known about the things I've been writing about, but I have never dwelled on them or thought about how these things have shaped me as a person today. Especially the environment around me and how that has affected me and my family. The changing of land and scenery in the suburbs has had a profound affect on me. Unlike the open spaces around the world where maybe I would have had a better connection with nature, the suburbs have created a barrier or some kind of block that has been getting in my way of this lost connection.
Overall, I was pleased with this class. I think it's important for everyone to have a class like this even if they're not a nature writer. The main point, I think, is learning how to write about place and immerse yourself somewhere. Being able to bring people along to where ever you're going (at) is important for bettering your craft.
As I continue to grow as a writer, I think it is more and more important to feel uncomfortable at times. Putting myself into a new and different situation has only helped my writing. I now have began to think about my writing differently and maybe focusing more on the natural world. I don't consider myself a nature writer, but almost everything I write seems to deal with a certain place. Grounding myself in whatever place it I'm writing about is just as important as the characters or what's going on in the story. This class has given me a starting point for looking at the world in a different way - noticing the smallest details that the average person might not see. I have started to use all of my senses in descriptions of setting.
The blogging exercises about place have been extremely beneficial. Even though there have been weeks where I just didn't want to go to my place because of the weather, I gained an understanding of how one place can change or develop over an extended period of time. I think it has been awesome to see my woods transform over the last fourteen weeks. There's so much that goes over looked in nature. Things that I used to just walk by. Now, anytime I'm anywhere - walking Manny, driving, etc. - I pay closer attention to everything around me. For example, after reading Nancy Gift, I couldn't walk up and down my street without noticing peoples' front yards. I would pull Manny out of the yards with little chemical flags. I held a sort of contempt for the yards that were trimmed and clean cut. I imagined everyone's yard overgrown and free - something that only one could imagine.
When writing my nature essays, I gained more of an understanding of my past. I became more aware of my past and where I come from. This class has opened my mind to different doors that I may have never explored. I even found myself learning things about myself and my family from drafting my essays. I have always known about the things I've been writing about, but I have never dwelled on them or thought about how these things have shaped me as a person today. Especially the environment around me and how that has affected me and my family. The changing of land and scenery in the suburbs has had a profound affect on me. Unlike the open spaces around the world where maybe I would have had a better connection with nature, the suburbs have created a barrier or some kind of block that has been getting in my way of this lost connection.
Overall, I was pleased with this class. I think it's important for everyone to have a class like this even if they're not a nature writer. The main point, I think, is learning how to write about place and immerse yourself somewhere. Being able to bring people along to where ever you're going (at) is important for bettering your craft.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Jimmy Santiago Baca
Jimmy Santiago Baca's "A Place to Stand" was intriguing and moving. His memoir kept me on the edge all throughout. I found myself wanting more when I hit the breaks or only got pieces of certain parts of the memoir. His entire story, especially as a boy, was so tragic and sad. But he survives; he finds a way to move on. Writing and poetry become his means for an escape.
Early on in the prologue, Baca connects himself, just as a boy, with the land and prison. "Outside the thin walls of our shack, howling winds swept the New Mexico prairie with violent moans that reminded me of the misery of the jail, its dark gloom and the faces that stared at me from behind the bars. Again and again I recalled the wasted features of the prisoners, the faraway eyes, pleading to be let out gazing at me as if from a distant place."
Throughout his whole life, Baca was alone and seemed to always be trying to escape. His father was a drunk and his mother was not there for him. Early in his childhood, Baca attempts to find comfort and happiness outdoors. Like many times throughout his life, he begins to relax or find escape but is "jolted back to present day" by something. Here, he finds himself in an awkward and disturbing position. He forces himself to watch a strange man take advantage of his mother through the cracks in the floorboards.
"I scratched at the ground with my fingers and shook my head to blur what was happening. Dizzy and terrified, all I could do was brace my knees to my chest and hug myself in fear as their bodies bucked back and forth and the iron legs of the bed scratched on the wood floor."
This scene was terrifying and disturbing for me. His description is vivid and exact to the point that I felt his pain; I felt like I was under the crawl space with him. Also, even though he touches on his emotions and what he was feeling at the time, I thought there was a kind of distance between him and the telling of this, and other, major event(s) in his life. As the piece moves on, Baca is abandoned over a long period of time. First, his father and then his mother. When his grandfather dies, he is moved to an orphanage. Here, he is separated from his brother, Mieyo, who he "always looked up to."
Another interesting point that seems to connect throughout his life is religion. When he was with his family, he remembers his grandmother's radio playing mass rosaries. At the orphanage, Baca is told that the matter of his parents coming back for him "was in God's hands and children shouldn't ask such questions." This small piece of Baca's life eventually grew into something bigger and became a struggle in his questioning of life.
After turning himself in, Baca thinks about his grandmother kneeling at her cot and praying for him. "Prayers might help others but not me. I wasn't strong enough to deal with life on these terms." He takes a stance against faith, here. He does not believe that there is a higher power, and if there is it's not going to help him now, especially after everything he's gone through with his family. Speaking of his family, I found it interesting when he called his sister, Martina, for help. Within a few moments, Baca realizes the separate worlds they are in. He hears his mother in his sister. His sister not only treats her kids in the same way, but also pushes away Baca. She blocks off her own brother and leaves him for the dogs.
I found the beginning of this memoir different from other things that we've read this semester. He goes into almost everything that has led to him becoming a writer. Although he lived a tragic life, he found outlets and ways to push through. He could have easily given up on himself or the world he lived in, especially with no family to be there for him. He was on his own since he can remember. He is forced at a young age (23) to become a man in prison. I thought his life basically made a change for the better when he began to write to Harry. He became interested in language and being able to use it correctly. He used his time to become a poet.
Early on in the prologue, Baca connects himself, just as a boy, with the land and prison. "Outside the thin walls of our shack, howling winds swept the New Mexico prairie with violent moans that reminded me of the misery of the jail, its dark gloom and the faces that stared at me from behind the bars. Again and again I recalled the wasted features of the prisoners, the faraway eyes, pleading to be let out gazing at me as if from a distant place."
Throughout his whole life, Baca was alone and seemed to always be trying to escape. His father was a drunk and his mother was not there for him. Early in his childhood, Baca attempts to find comfort and happiness outdoors. Like many times throughout his life, he begins to relax or find escape but is "jolted back to present day" by something. Here, he finds himself in an awkward and disturbing position. He forces himself to watch a strange man take advantage of his mother through the cracks in the floorboards.
"I scratched at the ground with my fingers and shook my head to blur what was happening. Dizzy and terrified, all I could do was brace my knees to my chest and hug myself in fear as their bodies bucked back and forth and the iron legs of the bed scratched on the wood floor."
This scene was terrifying and disturbing for me. His description is vivid and exact to the point that I felt his pain; I felt like I was under the crawl space with him. Also, even though he touches on his emotions and what he was feeling at the time, I thought there was a kind of distance between him and the telling of this, and other, major event(s) in his life. As the piece moves on, Baca is abandoned over a long period of time. First, his father and then his mother. When his grandfather dies, he is moved to an orphanage. Here, he is separated from his brother, Mieyo, who he "always looked up to."
Another interesting point that seems to connect throughout his life is religion. When he was with his family, he remembers his grandmother's radio playing mass rosaries. At the orphanage, Baca is told that the matter of his parents coming back for him "was in God's hands and children shouldn't ask such questions." This small piece of Baca's life eventually grew into something bigger and became a struggle in his questioning of life.
After turning himself in, Baca thinks about his grandmother kneeling at her cot and praying for him. "Prayers might help others but not me. I wasn't strong enough to deal with life on these terms." He takes a stance against faith, here. He does not believe that there is a higher power, and if there is it's not going to help him now, especially after everything he's gone through with his family. Speaking of his family, I found it interesting when he called his sister, Martina, for help. Within a few moments, Baca realizes the separate worlds they are in. He hears his mother in his sister. His sister not only treats her kids in the same way, but also pushes away Baca. She blocks off her own brother and leaves him for the dogs.
I found the beginning of this memoir different from other things that we've read this semester. He goes into almost everything that has led to him becoming a writer. Although he lived a tragic life, he found outlets and ways to push through. He could have easily given up on himself or the world he lived in, especially with no family to be there for him. He was on his own since he can remember. He is forced at a young age (23) to become a man in prison. I thought his life basically made a change for the better when he began to write to Harry. He became interested in language and being able to use it correctly. He used his time to become a poet.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It's Like a Maze!
Tuesday, November 17, 12:30 p.m. - Walking into the woods has a different feel this afternoon. Some of the trees and vines seem to hang or bend in a different way. Through the branches the sky is a dusty blue. A chill rolls through the air, but I feel comfortable - not too cold. I walk over a couple trees that have fallen across the path. They throw me off guard, and I have to slow down and pause for a moment. I feel like I'm lost, like I am in a new part of the woods. I look around. The continuous cycle of dying leaves might be one of the main reasons that the woods are always changing. Or even the broken trees that cause for mini obstacles along the trail. Either way, I continue to walk with Manny.
After another few minutes, I realize that we've past our usual spot. I can't remember getting lost for any of my blogs. I guess I'm really not lost, but I find it interesting how I got turned around. I could have just not been paying attention, or my mind might have been in a different place. Manny sure as hell doesn't mind. He's enjoying everything on the woodland floor, sniffing and licking all around. He is about twenty yards ahead of me when I turn to go back. I hear his pause in the leaves, and then he takes off to catch up to me heading towards our weekly spot.
When I was much younger, possibly the summer heading into fifth or sixth grade, my friends and I thought we knew the woods better than anyone. We would all meet at someone's house, and then we would cut through some yards and head into the woods. We found a shortcut through the woods that would lead us right to the community pool. One day, along the way we found a giant bush, or even a bunch of bushes tangled together, of berries. Black berries and raspberries. We'd show up at the pool with juice stains on our lips and teeth. Our fingers would be stained black and red. The berries lasted for a long time, and we made sure to keep their location a secret. Only our small group would be able to enjoy the sweet fruits. After a while they were gone.
As the summer went on we tried to search for more berries but were unsuccessful. My friend, Chris, and I decided one day to go on a hunt deep into the woods for some berries. We started at all of our usual spots. Nothing by the pool. The baseball field that was past the pond and tucked into a corner of the woods was berry-less. We scaled the edges of the creek and a few open spaces at the edge of the woods. Once our reliable areas let us down, we headed off the trails and into the thickness of the woods. When you're in the woods, time seems to sift by. You get caught up in everything around you; you become dazed almost. We searched and searched until we realized that the sun was going down. The only rule that our parents had was that we needed to be home by dark, at least to check in or get something to eat. We turned and started to head back to where we thought we had come from. In the dark, the woods seemed to transform. Things seemed different, like we were in a giant maze where the walls had moved changing the paths. We were scared and hungry. Before we gave up on the ground and started crying, we made our way to a break in the woods where we could see rooftops. We hustled to the edge of the woods only to find ourselves at the opposite end of our neighborhood. We took the long way home by sidewalks and streets.
After another few minutes, I realize that we've past our usual spot. I can't remember getting lost for any of my blogs. I guess I'm really not lost, but I find it interesting how I got turned around. I could have just not been paying attention, or my mind might have been in a different place. Manny sure as hell doesn't mind. He's enjoying everything on the woodland floor, sniffing and licking all around. He is about twenty yards ahead of me when I turn to go back. I hear his pause in the leaves, and then he takes off to catch up to me heading towards our weekly spot.
When I was much younger, possibly the summer heading into fifth or sixth grade, my friends and I thought we knew the woods better than anyone. We would all meet at someone's house, and then we would cut through some yards and head into the woods. We found a shortcut through the woods that would lead us right to the community pool. One day, along the way we found a giant bush, or even a bunch of bushes tangled together, of berries. Black berries and raspberries. We'd show up at the pool with juice stains on our lips and teeth. Our fingers would be stained black and red. The berries lasted for a long time, and we made sure to keep their location a secret. Only our small group would be able to enjoy the sweet fruits. After a while they were gone.
As the summer went on we tried to search for more berries but were unsuccessful. My friend, Chris, and I decided one day to go on a hunt deep into the woods for some berries. We started at all of our usual spots. Nothing by the pool. The baseball field that was past the pond and tucked into a corner of the woods was berry-less. We scaled the edges of the creek and a few open spaces at the edge of the woods. Once our reliable areas let us down, we headed off the trails and into the thickness of the woods. When you're in the woods, time seems to sift by. You get caught up in everything around you; you become dazed almost. We searched and searched until we realized that the sun was going down. The only rule that our parents had was that we needed to be home by dark, at least to check in or get something to eat. We turned and started to head back to where we thought we had come from. In the dark, the woods seemed to transform. Things seemed different, like we were in a giant maze where the walls had moved changing the paths. We were scared and hungry. Before we gave up on the ground and started crying, we made our way to a break in the woods where we could see rooftops. We hustled to the edge of the woods only to find ourselves at the opposite end of our neighborhood. We took the long way home by sidewalks and streets.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Freedom
Sunday, November 8, 12:30 p.m.
Part One - SICK OF SITTING.
I have no intentions of sitting on my log today, while Manny has all the fun running around. As soon as we enter the woods, I free him from his harness. We continue past our usual spot, and I tell him we're on a journey for the tree house, today. I've talked in earlier blogs about the tree house my friends and I built as children, so my plan was to see what still, if any, existed of it. The sky is clear and ocean blue as the sun bursts through the trees. The trail is covered with crisp leaves that crunch under our every step. An opening off to the side of the trail under an umbrella of vines and branches catches my attention. Manny follows me into the brush. Burrs and jaggers rip across my clothing. I push through; Manny bobs and weaves slipping through the weeds with ease. I really have no idea where the tree house would be exactly. The woods have changed, morphed, after thirteen years. So I just go where the woods take me. Ahead beyond a line of trees is another opening. Once past the line, an area spotted with patches of long grass rolls up and over a mini-valley that eventually meets the beginning of a creek. At the merger of the small hill are a tree that has vines and another fallen tree entwined throughout. I feel the need to climb. First, I pick up a large branch and break it in half. This should keep Manny busy, while I attempt to regain some of my childhood. It does. I step onto a hanging vine that acts as a ladder rung to boost me up to the tree. This is exciting until my next two steps cause for excessive bending and cracking. I figure Manny isn't going to be a good spot, so I jump down. I tried. Maybe in my younger days I could have made it a little higher.
I find it interesting how people use the woods as a garbage can. I continue my journey finding two separate trampolines in two completely different areas. One of them works perfectly. Manny stares head cocked to the side, as I jump arms and legs flailing. The leaves that covered the black surface spring around my knees and float through the air. After Manny becomes restless, I hop back to the ground. Near the trampoline I locate my staff; its fit for a king. The walking stick is massive and sturdy enough to help me through some of the unstable ground. Scattered throughout the weeds and across the ground are lightbulbs, empty chip bags, plastic buckets, etc. When I reach the other trampoline it is bent and busted leaning upright against a tree. What's wrong with leaving it in front of your house for the garbage man? I guess that'd be too easy.
Part Two - SHOULD HAVE STAYED SITTING.
I come to a small tree that is worthy of being photographed. Since I don't have a fancy digital camera, I usually use my fancy phone camera. Well not anymore. It's not in my pocket. I know for a fact I brought it with me, because I remember looking at the time when I entered the woods. The destination has changed. I back track as best as I can, even going to get my twelve-year-old brother to help in the search. My own personal search party - Manny and Sammy. The tree I failed to climb shows no signs of my phone. Maybe it fell out when I was jumping on the trampoline. Nope. We, of course, find nothing. On our way back home, we do find a couple neat spots. We sit on the ground under a covering of fragile branches that are weaved perfectly, like a throw. I listen to Sammy tell me about his adventures in the woods with his friends. He tells me about their tree house. We exit the woods covered in burrs and bloody scratches. The woods have freed me for the time being.
Part One - SICK OF SITTING.
I have no intentions of sitting on my log today, while Manny has all the fun running around. As soon as we enter the woods, I free him from his harness. We continue past our usual spot, and I tell him we're on a journey for the tree house, today. I've talked in earlier blogs about the tree house my friends and I built as children, so my plan was to see what still, if any, existed of it. The sky is clear and ocean blue as the sun bursts through the trees. The trail is covered with crisp leaves that crunch under our every step. An opening off to the side of the trail under an umbrella of vines and branches catches my attention. Manny follows me into the brush. Burrs and jaggers rip across my clothing. I push through; Manny bobs and weaves slipping through the weeds with ease. I really have no idea where the tree house would be exactly. The woods have changed, morphed, after thirteen years. So I just go where the woods take me. Ahead beyond a line of trees is another opening. Once past the line, an area spotted with patches of long grass rolls up and over a mini-valley that eventually meets the beginning of a creek. At the merger of the small hill are a tree that has vines and another fallen tree entwined throughout. I feel the need to climb. First, I pick up a large branch and break it in half. This should keep Manny busy, while I attempt to regain some of my childhood. It does. I step onto a hanging vine that acts as a ladder rung to boost me up to the tree. This is exciting until my next two steps cause for excessive bending and cracking. I figure Manny isn't going to be a good spot, so I jump down. I tried. Maybe in my younger days I could have made it a little higher.
I find it interesting how people use the woods as a garbage can. I continue my journey finding two separate trampolines in two completely different areas. One of them works perfectly. Manny stares head cocked to the side, as I jump arms and legs flailing. The leaves that covered the black surface spring around my knees and float through the air. After Manny becomes restless, I hop back to the ground. Near the trampoline I locate my staff; its fit for a king. The walking stick is massive and sturdy enough to help me through some of the unstable ground. Scattered throughout the weeds and across the ground are lightbulbs, empty chip bags, plastic buckets, etc. When I reach the other trampoline it is bent and busted leaning upright against a tree. What's wrong with leaving it in front of your house for the garbage man? I guess that'd be too easy.
Part Two - SHOULD HAVE STAYED SITTING.
I come to a small tree that is worthy of being photographed. Since I don't have a fancy digital camera, I usually use my fancy phone camera. Well not anymore. It's not in my pocket. I know for a fact I brought it with me, because I remember looking at the time when I entered the woods. The destination has changed. I back track as best as I can, even going to get my twelve-year-old brother to help in the search. My own personal search party - Manny and Sammy. The tree I failed to climb shows no signs of my phone. Maybe it fell out when I was jumping on the trampoline. Nope. We, of course, find nothing. On our way back home, we do find a couple neat spots. We sit on the ground under a covering of fragile branches that are weaved perfectly, like a throw. I listen to Sammy tell me about his adventures in the woods with his friends. He tells me about their tree house. We exit the woods covered in burrs and bloody scratches. The woods have freed me for the time being.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Solace of Open Spaces
After reading Gretel Ehrlich's "The Solace of Open Spaces," I found myself rethinking the West. Ehrlich took me to a place that I didn't realize existed. I've never really thought about the west, let alone Wyoming, being such an open and stagnant place, as if the people there are stuck in the past (cowboys and herders). She describes the land so beautifully though, which makes me want to go there. The whole idea of slowing down and meshing with the land is so inviting. "Despite the desolate look, there's a coziness to living in this state," Ehrlich says. Getting out of the overpopulated cities and suburbs would be a rewarding experience where I could lose myself and possibly find something through the natural, rugged world of Wyoming.
At the beginning of her essay, "The Solace of Open Spaces," Ehrlich says that the name Wyoming comes from an Indian word meaning 'at the great plains.' This instantly contradicts the land, which is "valleys, great arid valleys, sixteen hundred square miles, with the horizon bending up on all sides into mountain ranges." This kind of sets the tone for her connections between nature and culture. She says, "Most of Wyoming has a 'lean-to' look." The dugouts, low sheds and log cabins are fitting for the harsh land. Ehrlich states that sagebrush covers 58,000 miles of Wyoming, while the largest city has a population of fifty thousand. The sagebrush takes up more space than the people. This is a small example displaying the impact of nature on the people and not vise-versa.
"And despite the physical separation, people stay in touch, often driving two or three hours to another ranch for dinner." Ehrlich begins to touch on the loneliness that many of the people in Wyoming encounter. Like the desolate land, people are a scarcity. To keep their sanity, people sacrifice several hours to journey for a brief moment of company. Ehrlich makes two comments on isolation that say a lot about the people who live there. "To emerge from isolation can be disorienting." When people do have to rejoin a populated area, they are out of their element; they become uncomfortable and awkward. "Things happen suddenly in Wyoming, the change of seasons and weather; for people, the violent swings in and out of isolation."
Ehrlich reflects on page five with a lyrical description of one's life. Instead of a series of dramatic events, a person's life is a "slow accumulation of days, seasons, years, fleshed out by the generational weight of one's family and anchored by a land-bound sense of place." The culture of Wyoming is this whole idea. The meticulous hand is needed to live in a place like this. Great accomplishments or terrible failures do not hold a life, but instead becoming a complete part of the place, the land, manifests a person's life.
The character of the people is brought out through Ehrlich's descriptions. The people are very proud of their land and, although may seem rough and rugged, are tender hearted. When telling the story of her friend Cliff, who cut off half his foot, I could not believe her words. The man was more worried about the cows getting out than his life. With the amount of blood he was losing, he could have easily died. But the cows, the land, are these people's life support. They farm and herd. Because of their isolation, they are very intimate with the animals and the land. Losing any piece of those things would be more devastating than losing a foot.
In my hometown, I feel the complete opposite of those in Wyoming. It is a completely different world. Where they embrace the natural world and make it a part of their culture, we go against it. The culture I live in is concerned with taking up space; building more to accommodate the ever growing population. I'm not sure what else this area could do, though. Because Wyoming is less populated, there is open space, while here we have to continue to locate even the smallest space for people or businesses to thrive. Our connection with nature is slowly disappearing, in most part, because we do not live off the land like the westerners. I am really having a difficult time deciding why or what has contributed to the development of this culture. Maybe it's only a matter of time before places like Wyoming undergo a transformation into a less nature-dominated and isolated lifestyle.
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