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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Finding the Balance

Tuesday, November 3, 11:00 a.m. - Such a beautiful day.  I truly prefer the dry, crunch leaves opposed to the soggy woodland floor.  The leaves scattered across the woodland floor are no longer reds and yellows.  Faded brown and beige leaves snap, crackle and pop with every step.  The only color remains in the few yellowish green leaves that are still clinging for dear life to branches.  A tree bearing only a handful of dying leaves bends awkwardly against the shadows from the sun.  It dips into a cluster of fallen and broken trees.  Vines dangle and weave throughout holding the depressed mass together.  The vines pull at the U-shaped tree as if insisting the tree join the fallen ones.  I feel the tension, the struggle, as the tree refuses the invitation.  Its slender, antenna-like arms pull back and stick up helping their white, crusted body to stay rooted.

Manny's found a suitable branch for gnawing and fetching.  When I do manage to get the stick from his bleached, shark-ish teeth he shoots like a bullet into the brush to regain his chew toy.  A horizon of red, orange leaves bleeds through the myriad of white branches.  From the carrot top horizon the color fades into a dull grayness.  The sorrow of the fuzzy atmosphere is fitting for my weeping tree.  Maybe once the color is completely engulfed in the shadows of winter, the sad tree will give up the fight.

The oceanic sky is crystal blue.  A few white marshmallow clouds sail in front of the sun like sailboats.  Looking to the sky, I see a branch twisting and dangling from a knot of vines.  As if someone has recently been executed by hanging, the withering noose dances in the wind.  A gust of wind hurls through the air pushing the sailboat puffs towards their destination.  I am caught in the middle.  Death looms all around me, while the beating sun tries to resuscitate the land, maybe even my dying friend, the curling tree.

A deep growl rumbles in front of me.  Manny's tail is as straight as a floor board.  He's erect, ready.  "What is it boy?"  He lets out an almost intimidating round of barks.  I join his vision only to see the trees.  "Go get'em.  Get after'em, boy!"  He ambles through the bushes and begins nibbling on a cluster of weeds.  Whatever it was, if anything, is gone.  Or Manny just chickened out.

The disengaging leaves have opened my view.  In the distance, rooftops seep through into the woods.  They're coming; they've always been coming.  Invading and taking over.  No one, no thing is safe from the construction (or destruction) of man.  Soon my log will be a little boy's front porch.  It won't be his fault.  He has no control.  He has no knowledge of what exists here, now.  I feel sorry for that boy, who will be fenced in like a dog.  Will he wonder about the young man and his dog who used to visit and find solace in the place where is father barbeques?  Doubtful.

Contemporary Nature Poetry

W.S. Merwin's "The Last One" was one of the poems that jumped out at me most.  First off it was longer and felt more like a piece of prose, a piece of flash fiction.  Merwin does not give a concrete description of who 'they' represents.  He uses repetition by starting several of his lines with 'they,' which I assume is the people cutting down the trees.  I had some trouble with this poem.  I saw 'they' as representations of people from the very beginning.  "Well they'd made up their minds to be everywhere because why not.  Everywhere was theirs because they thought so."  The way people are clear cutting and moving in on the woodlands and forests, today, shows that they believe that anywhere and everywhere is their own property.  They only care about how the trees can benefit them; "some to have some for burning."  They do not care how they are effecting the environment, the world.

At the end of the third stanza, nature seems to be plotting against man.  The shadows, or what I saw as the souls, of the night and the tree have taken enough of a beating, and 'Now' want to fight back.  Man cuts down the last standing tree, but the tree's soul is still there imprinted on the land and water.  They cut the ground, laid boards, and even set fire to try to rid the area of the shadow.  Through all of their attempts, they only fuel the fire as the shadow continues to grow.  Until it finally begins to cut down the men and steal their souls.  "The ones that could see and stood still, it swallowed their shadows, then it swallowed them too and they vanished."  The 'lucky ones' got away and went away as far as possible.  They were lucky because their souls were still intact, but also because they had maybe learned a valuable lesson.

I think Merwin is successful, because he touches on a serious problem in an interesting and mysterious way.  The forest is often seen as a magical place, so Merwin plays off this idea and gives the tree the power to fight back.  In the end, whether I'm right or wrong, his poem has pushed me and challenged me to think about the human relationship versus the non-human world.

"In the Garden of Eden" was another poem that stood out to me.  She starts out describing the vultures comparing them to gods, as if they represent much more than just birds.  The last two stanzas change the tone of the poem.  This is where I realize that this is not just about vultures but about something more.  "And they were happy.  They could not imagine, what they would become."  As if the vultures, which could represent us, were once innocent and a part of the land in Eden.  But people have changed.  Over time they have become unsatisfied and gluttonous, something they would have never seen themselves as.

I like the nature poems that are detailed and descriptive.  Short, but strong, metaphors weaved in throughout that jump out and hit the reader causing them to slow back down and think.  In the end, after what is disguised as something about pretty flowers or birds becomes something much deeper and relatable.  There are several layers, and the reader is forced to go back and reread, trying to discover the real meaning, the truth.

What a Tease!

Sunday, October 25, 1:15 p.m. - Walking into the woods and trying to hold Manny back from ripping out of his leash, my foot gets caught in a root crawling across the trail hidden by the leaves. Booby-trap! I make it to my log keeping my wits about me. A tree to my right serves as adequate protection from the burning sun. This is my first trip to the woods in a few weeks where I haven’t been annoyed by frozen temperatures and rain. Instead of sinking like quicksand, the ground crunches with every step of my boots. Manny’s whereabouts are easily heard with his paws smashing the leaves as he ambles from weed to weed.


Everything seems clearer and more open. It’s weird how a little bit of sunlight and warmth can change an environment, a feeling. (What a tease!  These mini stretches of good weather aren't helpful in preparing for winter.)  I don’t feel rushed or overwhelmed. The calm and comforting weather is inviting, unlike the rain and frost that seems to always force me homeward. Manny even seems more relaxed. He lies back in a pile of leaves while nibbling on the brown, withering leaves of a weed. The area is open. I can see more trees, openings through the trees, and even houses tipping out beyond the trees. At the top of a tree, wrapped in vines, in front of me sits an abandoned bird’s nest. I don’t see any movement or hear any chirping, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.

A light breeze tickles the remaining green leaves clinging to branches. The woods seem brighter and more colorful; it has to be the sun. My log even seems healthier. The sun has moved and shoots golden bars into my right eye reflecting off my lenses. The buzz of crickets and insects drown out any kind of singing the birds might be compelled to express. I expected animal life to be more active, but the only action I see is from two birds.

One bounces from branch to branch and floats to another tree leaving his friend close behind. They relax on the swaying branches taking in the fresh air. I wonder if they’re all business always looking for food and a mate. Do they find time to just sit back and do nothing? Right now, it seems that way. They rejoin each other on a lone branch hiding in the shade. I slide down the log to find a slither of shade like the birds retreating out of the brightness.

I’m reminded of Oliver’s poetry. Is there any tension out here now? On the surface, everything is beautiful and positive. There has to be a reason for the calmness of the birds or Manny. Like the lilies working to break through with open fists, maybe something in the woods, beyond my sight, is trying to break through. There are things outside of my recognition, everyone’s recognition, which are growing and living and surviving. While Oliver points out the light hearted side of nature, there are deeper and more complex meanings to her insights.

Blue Iris

"For there I am, in the mossy shadow, under the trees."  Mary Oliver finds complete remembrance and comfort in the shadows of nature.  Against ambition's suggestion to leave, her mind and body is at ease when holding "the wrists of idleness."  Writing and coming up with lyrics for poems can not entirely fulfill her like the presence of the black oaks or the bleeding-heart plants.

Throughout Oliver's poems and essays, she focuses on the changing of seasons.  "Not tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn pull down the frozen waterfall, the past."  The ice or past is overcome by the strength and the risk to move forward.  The frozen pond is melting - winter to spring; death to life - and with the coming of spring comes beauty and life.  She points out the minute details and wants to appreciate the smaller things in life, like her grandmother did.  We tend to get caught up and stressed out over uncontrollable dealings in life when we just need to slow down and breathe.  Take a look around and embrace our natural world.  As Oliver reflects on the "glossy bush, with many small red hearts dangling" that never miss a spring, we need to analyze our shifts and changes.  "What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty."  Life's trail or journey is never absolute beauty, but there are stops along the way that stand out making the trip well worth the struggles.

"One day they tear the surface, the next they break open over the dark water."  Oliver depicts the struggle of the lilies breaking through "that mud-hive."  Giving the lilies human qualities, she shows the battle between the two.  "The fists crack open," as if relaxing from a fighting position, readying themselves for a beautiful bloom.  From a seasonal slumber or death the lilies are born again.  As in her other poems, Oliver breaks for a moment of reflection or thought.  "Slippery and wild," the lilies are tough to hold a certain meaning; the lily symbolizes many different ideas (birth, purity, devotion, wealth, death).  Just as the lilies are urged to bloom every summer, Oliver notes that people must break free from the baggage of the past; we must move forward with every coming season.

"The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water" touched home to me most.  I feel the pressures of life weighing me down; the leeches' of authority trying to suck the life out of me.  Like the "reeking leaf-yard Oliver describes.  There are times when I want to associate a meaning to something, but "they are devoid of a meaning."  Certain things may just happen, because they are supposed to happen.  Sorrowing over the uncontrollable is a waste of time.  This fight allows for brief moments or seasons of rejoice and reward.  The one day that I tear the surface is when I can thrive in the moment and flourish in bloom over the dark water.

And before my amble to the bus
She catches my arm,
While I dream of daisies and roses -
For which my neighbors' gardens provide -
To pick for the girl on the bus,
Lunch and a kiss on the cheek Mom provides.
She opens my hand
And drops three furry, red-veined leaves.
The smell of mint captures my palm,
Even after they dip into my pocket.
Fresh streams from which they grew
Ripple through my mind,
As I lose track of my lovely plan.

Where the Wild Things Are

Friday, October 16, 2:15 p.m. - My breath, little white clouds disappearing in front of my face, dances in the air.  Winter is here.  My fingers and my nose sting from the bitter air.  The trails are gone.  Leaves - yellow, red, brown, black - cover the ground.  My log is soaking and rotting away.  The recent rain has turned everything into an oatmeal mush.  The green that remains screams out against the dull, dreary backdrop refusing to give up the fight against change.  Birds are at full throttle like it is the first day of spring.  It's not raining, but the birds above my head bounce from limb to limb causing for mini spurts of rainfall.

Manny is chewing on everything - weeds, leaves, even my log assisting to its destruction.  No one seems to be out and about today.  Silence creeps through the trees and across the sinking ground.  Out of nowhere Manny takes off like he's caught scent of something irresistible.  He sprints kicking up leaves and mud past my feet and then comes to a sudden stop.  He runs back and forth three or four times, until he hydroplanes and nose-dives off the trail.  He slowly regains his composure, gives his body a shake, and resumes sniffing and chewing on the growth.

I'm not looking for gray hawks; I'm not looking for anything in particular.  I move from the log before I become a frozen shard for Manny to chew on.  About thirty feet from my normal spot is an opening of trees that is landscaped by the chalky sky.  Most of the trees have some vegetation, although discolored, but one tree stands out.  It bears no leaves; it is naked.  Only the branches sticking out like arms of a giant coat rack occupy the space.  Unlike the others, it welcomes the cold having already shed its medallions of spring and fall.

Here, I witness a "silly playfulness of the birds."  Some are so small they seem almost toy-like.  Two of them dodge and weave around each other.  One shouts, "Tag, you're it," after slightly nipping at the other's dark feathers.  Being in the woods or seeing nature always takes me back to a child.  It makes me think of a different world.  I think of Where the Wild Things Are (probably because of the recent movie), and I imagine myself on mystical adventures exploring the unknown, the dark places, getting out of this space.

A gust of wind bullies my head into my hood and my hands into my coat sleeves.  My boots sinking into the muddy quicksand are covered with leaves.  Many snaps, again, and begins another sprinting session.  He would spend eternity running through the trees, nibbling on leaves and bark, or tip-toeing across little creeks, if it weren't for me.  When he finds himself tangled in the weeds, I tell him that it's time to go.  He sits at my feet in a pile of leaves and stares at me with a face of disappointment.  We walk out of the woods and head to the dry, warm comfort of home.

Our Wildflower Garden

Waking up Sunday morning was a little rough, but I was excited to get to the farm.  Driving out of the hectic city and towards the country brought back memories of my childhood before my life in suburbia.


I moved to Pennsylvania in the first grade, but the five years prior to the move I lived in Virginia.  We had one neighbor, Mrs. Jones, and she lived across the two-lane highway.  Land and woods occupied the rest of the area.  Back then my dad was a big-time hunter and fisherman.  We would explore the woods and make our own trails.  I had much more freedom than probably any of the five-year-olds running around today.  We had a German Shepherd named Hannah, who was super smart.  She would chase me around the yard, and I even have a picture (because I really don’t remember) of Hannah pulling my pants down with her teeth as I attempt to escape.  Most of my memories from Virginia stem from pictures.  I was an only child then, so I guess one could say I was a bit spoiled.  My yard was a playground in itself with swings, a jungle gym, and my own personal pool, which in fact could only hold my big toe now.  I was a country boy with a slight twang in my voice, my mother said, until we made the move to PA.


Moving from the warmth of the car to the fresh air of the farm was refreshing.  The air was cool and the grass was damp – I was awake, ready to get my hands dirty.  The open spaces surrounded by woods made me want to run around like I was five again.  Instead, I got to work.  I might not be the most expressive person, but I really enjoyed the whole class getting together to do this small thing.  This class is the first time that I have truly thought about nature and the environment more than hearing about something in the news or seeing a “Green” bumper sticker on a car.  I felt like I was actually doing something decent to benefit nature, even if it was just the beginnings of a tiny wildflower garden.  (I figure I have to start somewhere.)  And now when the flowers are in bloom, we can look back and say that is our wildflower garden.


After the last wheelbarrow of dirt and our healthy lunches (that was definitely the first time I’ve ever eaten a veggie sandwich – not bad), I thought the walk through the woods was incredible.  My favorite part was the little pond that used to be used for ice-skating.

Almost five, maybe six, years ago, my friend and I found a similar pond in the woods of Cecil, fifteen minutes from my house in Canonsburg.  In the winter we would trek through the woods with our ice skates and hockey sticks.  We made his little brother drag the aluminum hockey net through the jagger bushes (I know jagger is a Pittsburgh thing, but I can’t figure out the true name) and trees.  We withstood the burning pain that shot through our fingers as we laced up our skates and ignored the whining of my friends little brother.  Our only obstacle, other than the unshaven ice, was a single car tire that stuck out of the ice.  We played until it was too dark to see the puck.


I really don’t know much about rebuilding that kind of thing, but I would love to see the pond in its prime.  Maybe a project for the near future, if anyone’s interested.

Here are some pictures that I finally figured out how to load.  They are from earlier in the semester.  More to come as my place looks completely different now.

Bring on the Rain

Friday, October 2, 5:45 p.m. - It's raining.  The sky is a dusty powder blue.  Today's walk almost feels like my first trip.  The woods are quickly changing, and I take my time to find my spot on the log.  I hear an orchestra of birds at the top of the trees beyond my normal spot.  Before I can reach my nook, I pause to catch my breath.  An eerie silence sets me back a step, and I hear a tidal wave of wind swooping above.  The flock migrates to another tree.  It doesn't take them long to resume choir practice.

The day I don't bring Manny and there's some action.  Two separate neighbors are walking their dogs in the woods.  It's pouring.  Rain pounds my back; the naked tree limbs display a pathetic attempt at giving me shelter.  Two black dogs are barking in the distance.  One makes eye contact with me and takes off in my direction.  It's partner, a bigger version of my attacker, seems as if it is only interested in chasing the other;  I am not even in the picture.  They jump and lick smelling Manny's scent on my clothes.  The owner walks around the trail to avoid me as she yells for her pups.  The bigger puppy sprints another lap around me and the trail before exiting with his family.

The woman looked freaked out probably thinking what is this bum doing sitting in the woods on a log in the rain.  The ensemble of birds has moved trees, again, and I've lost them.  The only thing disturbing the silence is the raindrops pelting off the ground of leaves like BB's hitting off aluminum siding.  Or like a child popping a giant sheet of bubble wrap.

Spending time in the woods has helped me to remember a lot more of my childhood.  Even after what I said in my last entry about not being able to write about my childhood.  I think it is funny how one little thing leads to another.  These woods hold tons of memories.  My friends and I owned (or thought we owned) these parts.  From the drawing yesterday, I came up with so many more memories.  Where I am now was where we spent most of our time; I have the fondest memories of placing squares of carpet in our tree house.  My friend walk through these trails to a creek deep in the woods where we would dig for crawfish under the rocks.

The good times are shadowed by one dark moment that sticks out in the back of my head.  The woods behind my house where we sometimes explored was host to a disturbing scene.  Twelve to fifteen foot bike jumps lined the dirt of an area in the woods.  My friends and I would sometimes watch the older kids or even weave over and around the bumps of a mini track.  One day, an older kid had a bad accident.  When everyone was at the hospital and the neighborhood was calm, we checked out the scene.  Walking the plateau we followed a trail of blood that seemed to drag across the dirt for half a mile.  The next day a crew of bulldozers flattened the mounds.

Here come the bears.  These other two dogs are massive;  their fur is thick and matted like a wet bail of hay.  They leave me with a healthy serving of slobber.  I decide to make the trek home as the rain comes down even harder.

Junkyard Heaven

Janisse Ray's Ecology of a Cracker Childhood was much different than anything I've read this semester much in part because it is a memoir.  She uses a lot of strong metaphor and vivid detail to explore the environment of her unique childhood.  Like Gift and Abbey, Ray is reliable.  She has a strong hold on her surroundings.  Just as Gift knows weeds, Ray knows junk.  Ray shows her knowledge of the junkyard and everything in it whether learned from her own experiences or her father.  Ray's passion for the longleaf forests also show similarities to Gifts love of weeds.  Throughout Ray's novel, her writing resembles that of Abbey's at times when describing nature.  She gives vibrant and popping details that set me in southern Georgia.

Her eloquent description of the pine trees singing is one example:

Rustle, whisper, shiver, whinny.  Aria, chorus, ballad, chant.  Lullaby.  In the choirs of the original groves, the music must have resounded for hundreds of miles in a single note of rise and fall, lift and wane, and stirred the red-cockaded woodpeckers nesting in the hearts of these pines, where I also nest, child of soft heart.  Now we strain to hear the music; anachronous, it has an edge.  It falters, a great tongue chopped in pieces.

Something as simple as the wind blowing through the pines is described as this beautiful compilation of song.  She turns around at the end and tells us how the song is now misplaced in time, lost.  The melody has been destroyed.

The difference in Ray's writing with the others is her story.  Her memoir is a powerful and moving story, which tells of her poor and hard times growing up in a rugged land.  I feel that Ray uses her knowledge of the land and its history to make herself more believable.  When she did tell second-hand stories, they came off truthful and valid.  Because of her confidence and telling of the actual facts, I did not find myself second guessing her.

I thought that her stories were unique and outrageous, which made them even more believable.  I absolutely lost it when she briefly describes herself steering and braking cars home with her father, while connected to his truck by an "eight-foot range of iron chain."  Her short anecdotes sometimes serve to describe the traits people or the area, rather than Ray telling us.  Her father might not have had the book smarts, but he had enough brains to understand hard work.  Working five days on the math problem just gives me an understanding of her father's dedication and desire to finish.

I thought that Ray used the major theme of the vanishing longleaf pines to symbolize the life of her father.  The pines, which she was born from, are massive and godlike.  "You look up at leaves so high their shapes are beyond focus . . . you stand and press your body into the ancestral and enduring, arms wide, and your fingers do not touch."  Although uneducated, her father was a smart man and a great salesman who knew how to deal with people and make the best of his business.  Even though "an invasion of a terrible army of axemen" may have caused the vanishing of longleaf pines, this seems like an uncontrollable force.  Her father falls at the hands of a similar force, a mental state that almost seemed unavoidable.

I don't think that I could write about my childhood with such passion and description.  My memory is not as strong as hers.  I think that her circumstances differ from mine.  Her childhood was tough and in the deep south, in the backwoods.  Mine was in the suburbs where both parents held steady jobs.  I believe that those hard times in your life stick out the most, because you know what you had to go through to come out barely breathing.  My past as a child holds few similarities to Ray's.

A Change of Faces

Wednesday, September 23, 9:00 a.m. - As soon as I sit down there’s movement above me.  Leaves spiral down around me.  I look up and see nothing.  A bee zips by my face.  Manny has joined me again.  I’ve given him a little more freedom, and I think he appreciates it.  He is becoming braver each second digging his nose deeper and deeper into the trees and weeds away from the trail.  In the distance, construction of some sort disrupts my thinking.  I am only here from time to time and I’m annoyed.  I wonder how the woodland life feels?

A constant humming brings me back to my seat on the log.  I think that the humming is coming from locusts.  Either way, I think back to when I was eleven or twelve years old in California, Pennsylvania at my grandmother’s house.  I remember walking around town picking the miniature, fragile shells from the trees.  The tiny, needle-like legs would stick to my skin; the cloudy yellow shell crackled like broken glass between the sidewalk and my Nike’s.  The dead skins were in such abundance that a feeling of terror came over me.  I felt that at any moment the over-sized skeleton insects would jolt to life, release their grasp of the bark and attack by first digging through my hair.  Crushing them made me feel better.

Back in the woods, the birds have decided to join Manny and I, even though I still see none of them.  I think of Edward Abbey.  What are the birds saying?  Are they saying anything?  They have to be.  One whines as if in pain or in need of some kind of help.  Another sings a beautiful harmony.  Maybe, like people, some are born for American Idol and some just aren’t.  I wonder if the birds would show their colors if I could speak their tongue.  Would they trust me?  (Snow White might be able to give me some tips.)

Leaves are dropping to the floor all around me like a light rainfall.  Everything is changing; the green is quickly becoming different shades of brown, dark reds, candy-corn yellows and oranges.  Nature must be preparing herself for the Halloween season, only her mask is a dead one.  The weeds with the ant-sized seeds that love sticking to my clothes and are decorating Manny’s black fur have become quite a sad sight.  Less than a week ago they stood, strong, healthy, full and green.  Nothing full about them now.  Their leaves are rotten-banana brown and droop towards the soggy ground.

In the leaves at the tips of my feet are an army of ants weaving over and under the leaves.  I move from my log and squat to get a better view.  I’m not sure what they’re doing; it looks chaotic.  They aren’t carrying anything that I can see, but their movement is fleeting.

Movement in the weeds behind me diverts my attention from the ants.  Manny and I go to explore.  Slowly making our way around the trail towards my sighting, I feel my nerves kicking in as if I was going to come face to face with a mountain lion.  I wonder if I will be able to stand my ground for as long as Abbey did with the snakes.  Excited for nothing.  Whatever it was, if anything at all, is gone or well hidden.  Disappointed, I lead Manny out of the woods where I clean his tangled hair before heading home.

The Serpents of Paradise

Abbey is a beautiful writer.  He paints a picture for the reader by not telling us about the desert but showing us the “the voice of the desert rising to a demented howl and blotting out sky and sun behind yellow clouds of dust, sand, confusion, embattled birds, last year’s scrub-oak leaves, pollen, the husks of locusts, bark of juniper . . .”  I have never been to the desert, but Abbey knows exactly how to make his words jump off the page and pull the reader into this Hellish, magnificent place.

When describing the land, I love how Abbey juxtaposes the idea of the canyon and tableland as a red wasteland, a Hellish atmosphere, with the beauty and wonderment of such things as a yucca or cactus flower.  He sees a paradise of life and beauty within the dead land.

"Life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid aggainst the lifeless sand and barren rock."

My favorite essay was “The Serpents of Paradise.”  He has a unique eye for his surroundings and uses the language masterfully to describe the desert.  “The pinyon jays are whirling in garrulous, gregarious flocks from one stunted tree to the next and back again, erratic exuberant games without any apparent practical function.”  The smallest details that the average person takes for granted Abbey manifests into a spectacular event.  He has a phenomenal grasp of the language, something I hope that I can one day perfect.  He uses detailed and extravagant lists to describe everything.  The lists do not slow down his work but only makes it more fluent and visual.  Usually my lists are clunky and distracting completely disrupting my piece.

Abbey seems to have quite a fascination with snakes.  His encounter with the rattlesnake is terrifying.  One of my worst fears is being caught in a pit of snakes, which is just behind being covered in spiders.  I find it interesting that Abbey struggles with killing the snake at such a close range when in fact he doesn’t hesitate to brutally kill a harmless rabbit in the following essay.  This obviously contradicts his statement that it is his “duty as park ranger to protect, preserve and defend all living things within the park boundaries, making no exceptions.  Also, why would he prefer to kill a man rather than a snake?  Maybe this backs his fascination with snakes.

More than once Abbey becomes a snake.  He watches from a snake’s-eye level as the two gopher snakes put on a performance for him.  He is not afraid to get down in the dirt, up close and personal with the couple.  Even when they notice him and advance in his direction, he is “paralyzed by wonder” and does not move.  The fear that kicks so late would have kicked in as soon as I saw the snakes; I would have been at a much greater distance if even still around.  This could be why Abbey is such a great writer; he is not afraid to get into the shit.

“They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins . . . .”

Is this true?  He questions what the coyotes mean when yodeling at the moon or what dolphins are trying to tell us.  How does he know they aren’t whining?  Maybe they do lie awake weeping for their sins.  Do we know what animals are saying?

Summer mornings in my back yard are hidden from the golden rays of the lemony sun.  My house stands between a bright tangerine sunrise and my pre-pubescent face.  The newborn dewy grass tickles my bare feet and glides between my toes like a silk blanket.  I am not interested in the green, though.  I have my sights set on my great wall, a fence of mud and rocks.  A giant mound of dirt, my climbing wall, my Aggro Crag, is piled to the side of the yard.  I dig my hands into the soft clay and form figurines, soldiers of the Earth, to battle across the miniature Alps of suburbia.  I am a regular Picasso.  Worms and spiders and beetles claim there territory; they weave in and out of the hard, rocky mud as if they are weaving it together.

The chatter and singing of the airborne community is drowned out by the heavy artillery in my soon-to-be neighboring yards.  Ancient steel dinosaurs, Long-necks, Triceratops’, Stegosaurus’ dig their teeth and claws into the ground destroying and shortening my playground.  The metal and viscous banging of tools and machines sets a rather unique scene for my men going into battle.  As the the burning globe  peeks over the roof of my home, I fall out of the shadows of morning and into the light of war.

Some Company in the Woods

Thursday, September 17, 10:00 a.m. - This morning I decided to bring one of my good friends to my spot in the woods.  Before journeying into the woods, he insisted I walk him through the neighborhood.  Manny is my sleek black lab who is not even a year old.  The woods I refer to are located a street over from mine behind the houses across the street from my house.  My house is in a housing plan off Route 19 called Glencannon.

Eager to show Manny my place, I encourage him not to stop at every mailbox in every yard to sniff the ground.  Once we reach the opening in the woods, I feel more welcome than I did last time when it was later in the day.  The clover surrounding the entrance is plentiful and green.

Finally, we reach our destination and Manny begins to use his super senses to explore.  I take my usual seat on the log.  The woods seem more lively in the morning; I hear a wider variety of singing birds.  The sun dives through the trees dropping golden bars of light onto the ground.  Manny's found a relaxing spot in a pile of brown leaves with a stick that seems a bit too long.  He manages to cut it down to size.

I can't help but notice the diversity of weeds surrounding me.  I still have no clue what I'm looking at, but I'm attempting to draw some of them.  (I hope my writing is better than my drawing, or I'm screwed.)  The weeds that I enjoy most are the taller ones that are grouped in threes.  Their tiny flowers atop are white, which makes them stand out from everything else that is dying brown or thriving green.  Maybe next time a field guide would help.

A hard gust of wind pushes the trees around in a synchronized motion causing a whirlwind of green and yellow leaves.  My log is scattered with moss;  the bases of trees around me are covered in moss.  The moss also climbs to certain spots of the tree trunks.  The moisture and softness reminds me of Gift talking about walking barefoot on it.  Too bad there's not a nice carpet of moss around me now.

I hear birds flying over head.  One sounds like it is squealing; others talk in ways that I'm struggling to find words to describe.  The birds are like Navy Seals, camouflaged within the branches and leaves.  The sun isn't helping either.  Now that I hear the sound, again, I don't think it is a bird.  It sounds like a creaking wooden floor or even hinges on a door that need greased.

The sun points out glistening cob webs that are connecting three thin trees like they are holding them from crashing to the woodland floor.  Things seem to have calmed since Manny and I have been here.  Maybe we've disturbed the population of the woods, like when you walk into your first class at a new school.  The normal chatter comes to a whisper as everyone stares and wonders about the new kid.

I've sort of forgot about Manny as he rummages through a tangle of weeds.  He exits covered in tiny prick-lies, which obviously I have also failed to correctly identify.  On our way home, I spot a patch of dandelions in my neighbors yard.  I grab one and attempt to color Manny's black coat against his will.  The yellow doesn't smear quite as well as it used to against my classmates skin.

Weeds

Nancy Gift's A Weed by Any Other Name is probably not a book that I would read on my own.  However, I found the text to be somewhat nostalgic and funny at times; I found myself learning about the weeds that I grew up in.  I didn't know much about weeds, except that most people don't like them.

I thought that Gift did a wonderful job with her metaphors.  They were very visual and easy for almost anyone to understand.  They made what might seem like a boring subject come to life and jump off the page.  In her first section, she compares trimming the multiflora rose to some sort of "blood sacrifice."  She moves on to immediately compare the thorns of the bush to "the size of bear claws."  Later, when talking about the perfect turf, Gift  says that "the grass is perhaps an inch in height but thick, more like green chipmunk fur than like my father-in-law's thinning crew cut.  Green chipmunk fur is about how natural the turf is, too."  The idea of green chipmunk fur is ridiculous just as her view of turf.

The most important parts of the book, to me, were when Gift showed her views toward two certain ideas.  She illustrates her disgust for lawn-care chemicals and herbicides.  She feels that society has forced people to conform to the clear and tidy yard, instead of the natural yard.  "We may not want every weed in our yard, or every critter, but we want to keep a yard that weeds and critters can live in, because that means the yard isn't too poisonous for us, either."

I completely agree with this view.  My parents have a small garden on the side of our house where they grow tomatoes.  If we ever hired a lawn service to raid our yard, I would have second thoughts about eating anything grown there.  Again, I laughed when Gift discovered that her parents had "sold out" and "employed the Evil Empire."  I thought it was interesting how she acted after feeling angry and betrayed.  She refused to let her kids play in the yard and refused to plant in her parents gardens until the clover and violets reappeared.  Like most of us, she saw herself reverting to a childlike manner when arguing with her parents.

One scene in the book that stuck out to me was when her neighbor sprays his yard, and Gift is in her yard playing with her “yearling daughter.”  “Having him spray upwind of us was an offense I was not willing to ignore.”  She does two things here:  defends the safety of her child and backs up her anti-herbicide views.

While reading this I became enraged.  I wanted to walk over there with her to confront this simpleton.  I can only imagine myself doing the same thing for my family.

Another point that Gift continues to touch upon is the newly formed barrier between children and nature.  With the profound advances in technology, kids are finding more and more reasons to avoid the outdoors.  Gift says that she believes that she learned something by playing with plants.  Today, most kids don’t have that opportunity.

I can remember, as a child, pulling at foxtails as their seeds popped off or collecting dandelions at recess to “paint” my friends arms and clothes, whether they liked it or not.  I have a fairly bitter memory of thistle, partly because of my parents.  In the fourth grade we had to pick a thistle and use it for an art project.  I forget the exact process of the project, but I know it dealt with carving the weed into a thin piece of metal.  The bitterness comes with the final result.  My artwork is still no where to be found, whereas my younger brother’s hangs proudly on our basement wall.

Gift constantly compares herself to weeds.  “If the definition of weeds applies to people, I felt like a weed there - a person out of place with the locals.”  I can relate because I constantly feel like a weed.  Maybe everyone is comparable to weeds.  As at certain times we may feel out of place or out of our comfort zone, we each have different periods or seasons of growth and prosperity.

My Woods

Monday, September 7, 6:40 p.m. - Walking into the woods is almost cinematic.  An entrance, as if a giant door once stood here, is surrounded by trees and their hanging branches of brown and yellow leaves.  Across the muddy trail a daddy long-leg spider scurries, while a tiny frog hops deeper into the brush away from the dangerous trail.  The trees closest to the trail are marked or painted with red arrows pointing towards the direction I am already walking.  Down the path, I find a tree that has done its time standing tall.  The tree is now a log; it becomes my seat.

The log is thick and spotted with soft, green moss.  I set a folder on the rain soaked log to keep dry.  As I sit thinking of what to write, a yellow leaf catches my eye as it floats to the soggy ground to join the growth of death.  It makes a sound, like a small paperclip falling onto a pile of paper on the floor.  I am reminded of a question, "Does a falling tree make a sound if no one is around to hear it?"  I've read that the answer is no and that the tree only makes sound waves, not sound.  For sound to exist, an instrument such as an ear must be a part of the equation.  This whole debate reminds me of Pattiann Rogers and her idea that Nature encompasses all contradictions.

Before I go too far off, I refocus on my surroundings.  I am tucked back in the little bit of woods still remaining in my neighborhood.  I'm actually surprised this is even still here.  More homes and mini-strip malls are taking over the trees and trails these days.  I can remember when I was nine or ten years old, and my friends and I owned these parts.  We lived and got lost here.  The constant humming and chirping of insects and birds is calming.  It almost drowns out the motors from the highway.  Talks of extinction usually focus on animals, but is there a time when the woods will cease to exist?  Technology seems to move children, today, where as not so long ago we would hop on our bikes and cruise the woods for edible berries or small creeks where the crawfish just couldn't hide from us.

I am surrounded by trees, but as winter draws closer this weak and dying canopy lets in the dull sky.  There are no clouds but a hint of more rain is in the air.  The population around me sounds extremely busy, yet I've only seen nose-diving leaves.  I bite my tongue.  A beautiful, bright-red bird lands for a moment as if to tell me to look harder.  Through a few vines, which are hanging desperately to a lowercase r-shaped tree, the bird bounces among the branches before flying deeper into the trees.

Before the heavy rain kicks in, I decide to leave.  I stand up to see that I have had a friend for an unknown amount of time.  A black and white caterpillar scoots across my folder.  It stops its unique gyrations when I move to pick up the folder.  I lean the folder at an angle so that the furry creature with furry black and white horns can move back to the moist wood.  It takes full advantage of my kindness and worms its way back onto nature.

The walk out seems tougher than the walk in.  I stumble over anaconda looking vines that slither across the path; I walk against the red arrows, out of the woods and into a light fog.  I rejoin the cookie-cut houses of civilization.

What is Nature?

Pattiann Rogers says, "Nothing that is goes against nature, because nature is the way things are."  What exactly is Nature?  Throughout her rant, Rogers smacks the reader in the nose with the juxtaposition of several provocative images and names.  "Pedophiles and saints equally are nature."  Dazed and teary-eyed from the initial impact of that left hook I came up with an idea of how I viewed Nature.  When I think of Nature I see everything beyond the hustle of everyday life, beyond the realm of chaos.  Outside of the bumper to bumper, pollution infested atmosphere there exists a tranquility - Nature.  After taking into account Rogers' views, I was forced to rethink my Mickey Mouse-crafted definition.  Rogers' goes on to say:

We cannot legitimately use the word "natural" as synonymous with the words "unsullied," "pure," or "righteous."

Nature is not just beautiful landscapes and exotic inhabitants; it is sometimes cruel and viscous.  From destructive hurricanes to uncontrollable floods and rabid animals to disease spreading insects, Nature embodies the "cruel and benevolent."  Maybe I was being naive but, in my opinion, when asked what nature is most people will give the Disney version.  The truth is that Nature holds as much horror and disgust as everyday life, which backs Rogers' essay.  I believe she sums up her entire piece with one quote:  Nature encompasses all contradictions.


Thoreau begins "Walking" by saying, "What I have been preparing to say is, that in Wildness is the preservation of the World."  At some point in time, whether stemming from an ice age or an atomic bomb, civilizations have been forced to survive in the wild.  Literally, the wild can be a person's savage or barbaric nature.  Somewhere inside everyone lives a primitiveness that may or may not come out.  To say a person is wild can mean they are crazy, where as a wild animal is something that is of the wilderness and cannot or should not be tamed.  But I'm not sure if Thoreau sees Wildness and Wilderness as the same thing.  I believe the Wildness is something beyond the status quo.  If the world fell to a nuclear holocaust, everything would become chaos and wildness.  The Wilderness is beyond the boundaries of modern civilization.


Thoreau, who speaks highly of himself as a man of the Wild, looks down on modern civilization.  The odor of musquash on the trapper's coat is a much sweeter scent to him than that of the merchant's or the scholar's garments.  He finds wonderment and beauty in everything these civilized people would see as below them or a means of exploitation.  "I seek the darkest wood," Thoreau says.  His sanctuary lies in the deepest corners of Earth where the fearful refuse to explore.  


Speaking of Nature, Thoreau states that "her chronicles inform us when her wild animals, but not when the wild man in her, became extinct."  Although I am probably not the epitome of the wild man in nature, they do exist.  I would not say the wild man is extinct, maybe just dying off.  I believe that as long as man exists the possibility of the wild man can not be disregarded.  Society today continues to push towards less freedoms and less wildness.  Thoreau is correct in saying that "all good things are wild and free."  The more we are restricted and confined, the less use we have just as the tanned skins of tigers used for shoes "is not the best use to which they can be put."


A challenge for my writing is this course.  I have not done any type of nature writing.  Nature and the environment have always caught my attention whether it be walking through the woods, building a tree house as a kid, or spending hours watching Planet Earth on the Discovery channel.  Through this course I want to shed the clothes of the spectator; I want to become or at least find the wild man inside me.