Blog #4

I've been thinking a lot about dependency, recently.  There are so many social stigmas around the subject that it's hard to sift through them all.  Our culture tells us that you should marry in your life, become "one" with someone else, but then criticizes a loss of independence.  Yet, it also criticizes being too independent, withdrawn from the world, from people.  Too much is bad, too little is bad, but whatever that too much or too little is, it doesn't seem to be left up to us to decide.

When I went to the pond yesterday evening, this subject was on my mind.  In nature, I think there is absolutely an indication of dependency.  Plants and trees are reliant upon the sun, on water, on soil.  Flowers rely on insects for pollination. Insects rely on plants for food. Animals rely on their mothers or parents, on a community, on the earth to give way to a home. I passed by a tree that was smiling at me, and noted that the holes were probably from a woodpecker, another instance of reliance: they need trees for shelter or nourishment. It seems that the 'natural way' IS to be dependent, on one thing or another.

Next to where I sat down by the pond, there were some vine-like branches twining their way up a light post. Vining flora have an interesting kind of dependency, the need to hang on, to wrap themselves around another object.  Stretching out their limbs, they reach for something stable, then grow their way up and around, letting their bodies bend and coil on something completely foreign to themselves.  They are unabashed in their dependency, letting their vulnerability be on display in all its rawness.  I'm not sure about what happens to plants such as this if they grow and cannot find a stabilizing structure.  Maybe they grow out on the ground, maybe they die without the necessary support.  Either way, without the help and solidity of something that is not a part of them, maybe even not a part of 'nature', they never reach the height they would without it.

When I was growing up in my first house, we had a clematis plant growing up the light post outside by our driveway.  I think a couple of our other neighbors did as well, in various shades of purple, fuschia, magenta, indigo.  I'd lay out on my driveway with my cats, drawing with sidewalk chalk or bending plants in to halos for my head.  One particularly warm Spring day, I remember lying down with my back on the hot, grainy concrete, my head right to the side of the light post.  Studying the Clematis, I couldn't figure out how it kept itself climbing on such a smooth, matte surface as the metal pole.  It had nothing sticky or suction like on its thin, brown vines, and with so many heavy flowers, thickly surrounded with leaves, it seemed against reason that it should be able to twine so high.  There seems to be something in the Clematis' nature that is meant to hold on, meant to grow with something close to it.

I think this is a great part of what makes plants like ivy and clematis so interesting: they seem to have an emotional need for touch, for connection.  They hold a yearning and ache just like all the rest of us.

Blog #3

 

Within me there is a fear and I don't know what it is. Untamed and delicate, it crystallizes on the smallest things, blues a new meaning to the word raw. It crowds and splinters inside the thin tubes of veins and catches like a burr to whatever it can: the blood, a memory, being left behind, settling.  Taking a seat among the fallen, great trunk of the tree with its inside exposed, its splinters raw, I touch the open sinews. Tender wood grips my palm and its smell of wounds and cuts is heady. Sitting in the smell of Spring, the crystals shatter, and raw meets raw as the wood absorbs the unknown.

This afternoon I walked through the woods in a light snow for about an hour.  I was drawn to all the tracks left in the snow, thought about the people who had traveled the paths and braved the weather before I had.  It was gorgeous and quiet, stilled by the white hills that piled on the branches and ground, dressing the trees with a delicate dust.

Along the path to the pond, a humongous tree had fallen, probably in the strong winds of a few days ago, directly on the pathway.  Trunk torn out of the earth, dipping into a small pond, broken in the middle and reaching back up into the sky, and then scattering into thousands of splintering directions.  I walked over to it and took a seat on one of the thick splits of trunk.  The open, exposed wood was so many colors- ambers, rich reds, deep chestnuts, light creams, with the grey brown bark on the outside, delicate light wintergreen fungi on the outside, and the small span of snow on top.  I touched the raw meat of the trunk, felt how warm the very middle was, breathed in the scent.  It smelled like fresh mulch that my dad ordered when I was younger, the pile that sat in the driveway for a week as he and my mom spread it around our trees and garden.  My brothers and I would sit on skateboards on top of what seemed like a mountain of mulch, and coast down the bumpy sides of the hill and fly down the driveway.  It was such an interesting mix of senses to be smelling spring amongst all the winter weather and scenery.  Nostalgic and peaceful, I sat for a while with the tree before moving on towards the pond.

I saw many tracks on the way- footprints of man, small hoof prints of deer, little diamonds of dog paw marks, my own marks following behind me.  I followed the deer prints into a small clearing, hoping slightly to catch the deer lying down in the woods or nuzzling the snow for food.  Instead, I heard a literal breath-taking crack as I realized I was walking across water that had frozen beneath the snow. Tense and terrified, I back tracked as quickly and lightly as I could and decided veering off paths in woods blanketed beneath snow was not the greatest idea.

My pond was covered in snow, save for a small patch of exposed ice and a little water pool by the willows.  All over the surface were great trunks of tree and logs reaching out of the snow.  Along the edge of the water, I investigated the plants today.  Small dry buds of delicate loveliness shook in the wind, and I learned from an information board on the way back through the woods that they were probably White Snakeroot.  There was another plant that interested me, larger dry tufts the shape of dandelion seeds once they've fluffed and blown off the stem. On a tree beyond the them, higher in the woods, small ledges of growth stuck out from the trunk.  I thought how wonderful it would be to be a small chipmunk or a bird and have a ledge such as that to settle on or curl up for a time.

On the way back out, I sat with the trunk again and touched the wood.  I've been having a difficult time lately, with lots of mixed emotions about where I am in my life physically and emotionally, with a distracting sense of unfulfillment and an anxiety about how to settle myself.  Sitting in the tree and focusing on it's texture and smell, and the energy it gave off while also absorbing my own, a felt a sense of calm I'd really be needing lately.

Blog #2

It's about 11:30 A.M. when I start out for the pond but feels both earlier and later than that since I have only just woken up. A weird thing happens when you wake up near the end of morning.  Your body is still sleepy and warm, so the walk to the water was a little bit more lazy and a little bit less cold than my last walk here.  But also, the light of the day indicates immediately that it's almost mid-day, which makes for some confusion. Since my mind is in morning mode but knows that it's later, it somehow feels even later than 11:30 and also makes me feel like I've wasted the morning. Alas.

Trudging through the dusty white snow, most of it still fresh on the ground since there has been few travelers on these paths since Friday, I get caught up thinking about the light.  Sometimes I play a game with myself in the mornings. If I open my eyes and haven't checked the time,  I'll look out the window from my bed where the light pushes in between the blinds. Or if I'm at Michael's, I'll get up and walk to the window by the chair, not looking at the clock, and try to guess the time based on the light.  Obviously, this is a tried and true method of time indication (sundials), but with the science aside, there's something very distinct about sunlight throughout the day.  The rosy, yellow light of very early morning, which bleeds into the whiter, brighter light of morning, followed by the harder light of mid day. By afternoon the light is darker, somehow, even though it's still light.  Almost a fuller, rounder light, which catches more yellow as it goes on into evening, and blues as it fades to dusk.  There's always a feeling to perceive, too, if you're patient.  If you're still for long enough you can gather the energy, and sense the time of the day.  I like to do this, to test my connection to the earth and the light, to make demands upon my body's sense of energy and it's ties to the world.

By the time I finish all this light-pondering, I'm sitting again on the edge of the pond, looking at the frozen fish. I brought a tarp today, to put on top of the snow so I could sit for a while and not freeze. Most of the water is covered with a padding of snow, but spots have melted away in the sun over the past few days, and the frozen fish are still down there staring up at me with their big, round eyes. Looking around at the trees, most of the snow that had landed on branches has already melted or fallen away, and I'm disappointed for not getting to the pond before this.  Already the quietness that comes with the descent and coating of snow has dissipated, and the enchantment of white topped mazes in the woods is gone.

Still, I'm drawn to looking up at the trees.  My eyes scan the full length around the opening of the canopy.  The big oval of sky above is roughly the same shape of the pond, with branchy distinctions here and there.  I spread out my tarp and lie down in the middle, snow all around and that particular cerulean blue of sky up ahead.

When I was younger, I was driving in my car with my family somewhere and on the way back had fallen asleep against in the back seat.  I woke up before we had reached our house and not wanting to move, opened my bleary eyes out the window and up at the sky.  Tree outlines passed by, creating a break between the indigo and navy night, and the darker, deeper brown of the woods. After a few seconds of watching, I realized I knew exactly where we were from the outline of the trees.  I sat up to look at the road and found that we were right where I had expected us to be- route 100 just before the Catherine Avenue exit- which means nothing if you're not from Pasadena, MD, but it's about two miles from where I grew up.  This memory has always stuck with me, probably about 12 years after the fact, even to the point of remembering the exact place in the road that we were.  I was fascinated then as I am still now that without even trying to memorize that information, I had spent so much time looking at the trees out the window of the car that I knew each indentation, each odd branch, each curve in the outline of the woods.


I spent my twenty minutes by the pond today lying on my tarp in the hard sun of the nearing afternoon, just looking at the outline of the trees, trying to memorize.



_____________________________________________________________________________________

Trees make their own silhouettes

hold arched hands against

            a dense sky, 

                        folding, folding

they rebel against the air,

seize a new space to stab with branches,

            shudder into a gasp of buds and knobs,

                         breathless, bare against a colder weather.

Always the reaching oak regards me,

            dark across the lawn.

I bristle at its lenient bend in wind,

wish I could be less like it:

                        how it trembles at the tips,

                        holds everything within,

                        traps records of the years.

Blog #1

My intention was to blog specifically about the pond at Schenley, but my mental blog really began on the walk to there.  I have been to the pond all the three of the other seasons- first in the Spring, then Summer, then Fall.  It felt very poetically just for me to now be visiting it in the Winter, as well, something which I probably wouldn't have done if not for this blog.  I hold a very passionate, fervent relationship with nature, but I suppose I'm a fickle lover, because my appreciation is often more scarce in the Winter.  Too often I focus negatively on the cold and barren landscape, and already I know the first few weeks of this blog will make me soak in the scenery with the same adoration I do for the fair weather months.

On the way through the woods on the path to the pond, a few things caught my eye.  First was a pair of bright red cardinals.  Their bodies were so glamorous and stark against the mostly grey/brown backdrop of dying trees and leaves. I saw a few more birds along the way, and my reading of Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams has significantly increased my interest in separate species- their bodies, their songs, their habits.  I could identify some finches and chickadees, but there were some I was less familiar with, as well. There was also a small, feeble pine sapling near the opening of the pond that someone had some at some point with a few little blue christmas bulbs and decorated so sweetly.  Not all natural- but an adorable sight nonetheless. It occurred to me then, through this small sign of human contribution, that I would probably be the only person at the pond on this day, in this 20 degree weather. The knowledge of probable solitude and aloneness seemed to open my perspective even more.  I lingered a little longer at a space, I felt more present and more aware of the nature around me without the possibility of people watching.

An important thought I had on the walk to my pond was a final appreciation of barren Winter trees. Normally I completely overlook these leafless forms.  The messy chaos of grey brown branches and bramble, all the same shade at a casual overlook, never appealed to me.  For the first time, I noted how with the leaves gone, you can fully appreciate the form and grace of some beautifully structured trees.  I stopped and stared for a few moments completely up at the canopy.  The elegant shape of long branches bleeding off into smaller; the way sunlight catches sides of them and shadows the other. I realized they are not at all one shade of grey brown, but a beautiful variation on a theme- all the hues and nuances of a black and white photograph.  The shadows and highlights create a depth that can only be seen in the winter, on the leafless branches.

Eventually I made it to the pond. First I had to slide on some ice that covered the path and I made another mental note to wear boots with good traction next time, as well. The first thing I notice is the absence of ducks. In all of my other visits, there were a great grouping of ducks honking and quacking and milling about.  The pond is shaped almost like a lima bean, and I thought next, while walking past the edge to sit in the very middle of the dip in the bean, of the turtles I had seen when I was here in the Fall. So I wondered, aloud, actually, what happens to the turtles when the pond freezes?  Do they hide out in the woods or burrow or make a nest in the willows?  Where do they go?

Sitting on the edge of the concrete lip that surrounds the pond, I took out my pen and notepad to jot my thoughts so far.  The ink in my pen was so cold it came out very thick and light.  My hands immediately turned red and stiff against the air.  I realized I forgotten to bring tissues as my nose started to run.  I made a mental note to bring my best gloves, a pencil, and tissues on my next visit.
After a few minutes, though, as the wind that had been blowing on my walk seemed to die down, I had the delicious feeling that is basking in the sun on a cold day.  With the air stilled, the warmth was direct on my face and I smiled into it, thinking how this is a feeling you can only have in the Winter.  No other appreciation of the sun is quite so rewarding as on a brisk, brisk day.  I mentally chastised myself for not spending enough time outdoors in the Winter, which I chalked up to the preconception I think a lot of society has about Winters only being beautiful in 'beautiful Winter places', such as Aspen, or the Alps, for example.  I hereby mentally resolve to give Winter more appreciation than I have been believing it deserves, wherever I may be.

As I made notes, I could hear the ice shifting and thawing in the sun. Birds tweeted above in the branches and farther away, dry branches scratched against each other like a hiss or whisper or the sound of a zipper, some cars on the bridge to my left and the water rushing from a brook I passed were the sounds I heard around me.  The hair the smell of plain cold- not snow smell, just ice smell.

I turned my attention to the pond.  There were so many surfaces that made up the bean.  Pussy willows along the left edge, and ice stretching out in a C from them.  In the middle, a patch of water that rippled and glinted against the sun, some lines where the water blew in different directions, and a patch of snow on the far right of the bean. The leaves suspended and frozen beneath the ice created the same depth as the trees in the canopy.  Various shades of brown and tan enhanced by the shadows and light made it look endless. In some spaces, the sunlight hit the water and the snow reflection to create a very glacial pale green, and the fungi growing the edges was a matted amber hue.  In the midst of the amber fungi, I found dead fish.  Small, frozen bodies in a brilliance of color- I 'fished' one out to get a better look.  They were so many colors in the sun- silver green yellow gold with a slight purpleish tint in the center and near the gills.  The circular eye with rings and dots and swirls, the fascinating hinge of the gaping mouth when I pulled gently with a finger, the smallest razors on the inside.  My 10 year old self made a mental appearance and wanted to give the extracted fish a burial, but then realized the proper burying site for a fish is the water, so I slid him back through the cold surface. I saw five dead dish total, floating in the water that day, although I couldn't help it, didn't like to keep looking for them. I didn't like to think about the process a living being feels when freezing to death.  I thought momentarily of how it reminded me of Titanic, but it wasn't fair because Titanic was filmed in an Olympic sized hot tub.  They had it easy.

After releasing the fish, I walked to the far edge of the pond where the snow was. There was a something on the surface I wanted to investigate. As I strolled around, happy to have my hands in my warmer pockets, I looked up and took in the deep blueness of the sky, the faint crescent of moon over the bridge.  Looking back to the pond, I saw how the snow seemed reach at the edges, fingers and peaks that longed for the center. I sang while I walked around, thought about the possible outcome if I happened to slip in the edge, walked a little more cautiously. I saw some dead plant life to my right as I approached the snowy side- one I particularly liked had tufts of taupe fuzz on the ends, and under the fuzz lay small daisy-like buds, about the size of a pea, in shades of brown and tan with black centers.  Sometimes death can be just as lovely as life.

The mass on the surface of the ice turned out to just be a log.  I wondered how a log came to be on top of completely frozen ice, instead of half in the ice and half out.  It came to my mind that I should check the time and saw my meter would be up in 7 minutes where I parked, so I hurried past the pond and through the path much quicker than when I came.  When I came to the final set of stairs up to the roads and out of the park, I was happy to see the brilliant Cardinals still flitting about.