The first thing that strikes me about Janisse Ray’s memoir/nature book is the title. I feel titles are often overlooked or under discussed in writing and I want to acknowledge the strength behind this title. It is original and edgy and I think would grab anyone’s attention. Janisse Ray is a very seamless writer. From the beginning of the book I feel her sentences, whether long or short, are tight and clear without lacking originality or rhythm. The first sentence that led me into the writing of Ray came on the first page of the introduction: “At night the stars are thick and bright as a pint jar of fireflies, the moon at full a pearly orb, sailing through them like an egret.” From then on, I was hooked.
Ray takes her readers through a childhood in an unusual landscape. It is not often you read about living in the middle of a junkyard, heaps of metal surrounding the narrator’s bedroom window. I find it refreshing and adventurous, stepping into this foreign world. Ray makes it accessible. She sets a tone that welcomes me as the reader into the characters from which she came. The first few stories seem to focus primarily on Ray’s extended family. She tells stories as though she heard them yesterday, and at times I question her credibility because of how removed she seems to be from the event at hand. That being said, she is a phenomenal storyteller who balances scene and description with confidence and cadence. I especially enjoy the stories of her and her brothers. I think I was hanging on to her voice in them because I didn’t feel her as much in the beginning. She chooses the right memories to include, and as I look back on them I see their significance even more.
I particularly like her organizational structure. She alternates between memoir that reveals the lives and characters of her parents, grandparents and siblings and nature essays that articulate scientifically as well as personally the destruction of the longleaf pine forests. It is not until the end of the book that I started to see a clear message of connectivity between the forests and her family, nature and the junkyard. I admire what she does in her chapter entitled “Built by Fire.” She tells the story of how the pine leaf and lightning battled back and forth until they both learned to adapt and live with one another. Instead of just telling us what happened, she turns the pine and the lightning into characters, characters who have feelings and words. I find that to be an extremely inventive and interesting way to relay information. It inspires me to see the non-human world as characters in my own pieces.
Another question I have relates to her scientific classification. On pg. 211 more than halfway through the book, Ray states that “[she] left home now knowing the name of one wild bird except maybe a crow, and that [she] couldn’t identify wildflowers and trees.” Yet throughout the entire book, even when she seems to be in her “child” voice, she articulates very clearly and abundantly specific names of birds, trees, flowers and reptiles. I know she must have learned all of these names later, then gone back and put in their classifications, but there were times when I felt it was obviously not her voice and took away from the memoirist's point of view. Regardless, she does a seamless job of incorporating such scientific details throughout the entire book and if she hadn’t admitted to her ignorance, I would have never thought otherwise.
Ray flawlessly opens an essay/chapter. Every first sentence I read astonishes me in its structure and meaning. One of my favorites is: “There is a way to have your cake and eat it too; a way to log yet preserve a forest” (251). Or “A couple of million years ago a pine fell in love with a place that belonged to lightning” (35). Each opener holds a snippet of her voice that adds up over the entire book in a culmination at the end. Some of my favorite passages come from the very end and I think it is because I get more of Ray. She is there, in every event, every reflection, and every sentence. There is no Mama, or Dell or biologist friend to take the role of main character.
In this book, Ray is able to get at the heart of the longleaf pine destruction with compassion, detail and sincerity without an agenda or negative tone. She tells it like it is, amidst the stories of her childhood and family so that what we feel for her and the people around her, we can shift to the pines with care.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Nature Blog #4: A Fall Feeling
Sunday, September 27, 2009
6:30 pm
It definitely feels like fall is here. Not only is the air much cooler, but I can see patches of trees in the distant starting to change color. Two black crows fly overhead at a slow steady stride, setting a calm mood on this quiet Sunday evening. It has been raining for two days, a constant steady rush of wetness that seems to have washed away all the summer flowers and budding branches, a little house cleaning as fall arrives. Even the air that normally has wafts of cigarettes from my neighbor or oil from the carpenter that works below, smells clean like fresh washed clothes. The birds are quiet this evening; I imagine they are still hiding in between tight branches from the downpour that wouldn’t cease. But the crickets are strong, a steady rhythmic beat that sounds like a percussion ensemble, with a drum roll of roaring cars zipping down Washington Blvd.
The sun has finally broken through after two days of gray and cloud. I can see its amber glow highlighting a section of trees to my left. They are the tallest trees in the area, bushy up top with long and lean trunks. As the sun makes its way down, they are the first to feel its fading body heat. These trees to my left draw my attention to a group of birds, each perched on a different branch of a naked brown tree, half filled with crunchy dead leaves hanging on until the next winds pass, and half completely void of any leaves. Each bird’s silhouette is distinct and bold with a cotton blue backdrop and branches sprouting like fingertips. I cannot see what type of bird they are; it is too far away. And I wish I had a pair of binoculars so I could observe this family meeting. The heads are very small, with robust rounded chests that stick out like balloons in the trees’ open air.
Above them is the moon slightly more than half full. It looks like a large pebble floating in the sky, a smooth white and gray drifter that follows the flow and is clear like water. I cannot see the sun, though I feel the warmth of its last rays and glow hidden behind the honey locust's edges.
Sundays in late September, when I pull out my sweaters and jeans always take me back to my childhood, to the beginning of school years, a new classroom, a new teacher. No matter how old I am or where I am in the world, when the weather changes direction and the cooler fall winds come, I cannot ignore the nostalgia that seems to rest in between the tree’s and the sky. It is an air of younger years, of making new friends and wearing new backpacks. It is football games and field hockey practice, homework and spaghetti dinners. There is anxiousness about this emotion, a good and nervous feeling at the same time. Even years later as an adult, I can remember what it felt like to be a child or teenager in the fall. I can remember looking out the window from my desk, or sitting on my front porch with friends, or walking to a football game, and seeing the very same moon I see tonight.
6:30 pm
It definitely feels like fall is here. Not only is the air much cooler, but I can see patches of trees in the distant starting to change color. Two black crows fly overhead at a slow steady stride, setting a calm mood on this quiet Sunday evening. It has been raining for two days, a constant steady rush of wetness that seems to have washed away all the summer flowers and budding branches, a little house cleaning as fall arrives. Even the air that normally has wafts of cigarettes from my neighbor or oil from the carpenter that works below, smells clean like fresh washed clothes. The birds are quiet this evening; I imagine they are still hiding in between tight branches from the downpour that wouldn’t cease. But the crickets are strong, a steady rhythmic beat that sounds like a percussion ensemble, with a drum roll of roaring cars zipping down Washington Blvd.
The sun has finally broken through after two days of gray and cloud. I can see its amber glow highlighting a section of trees to my left. They are the tallest trees in the area, bushy up top with long and lean trunks. As the sun makes its way down, they are the first to feel its fading body heat. These trees to my left draw my attention to a group of birds, each perched on a different branch of a naked brown tree, half filled with crunchy dead leaves hanging on until the next winds pass, and half completely void of any leaves. Each bird’s silhouette is distinct and bold with a cotton blue backdrop and branches sprouting like fingertips. I cannot see what type of bird they are; it is too far away. And I wish I had a pair of binoculars so I could observe this family meeting. The heads are very small, with robust rounded chests that stick out like balloons in the trees’ open air.
Above them is the moon slightly more than half full. It looks like a large pebble floating in the sky, a smooth white and gray drifter that follows the flow and is clear like water. I cannot see the sun, though I feel the warmth of its last rays and glow hidden behind the honey locust's edges.
Sundays in late September, when I pull out my sweaters and jeans always take me back to my childhood, to the beginning of school years, a new classroom, a new teacher. No matter how old I am or where I am in the world, when the weather changes direction and the cooler fall winds come, I cannot ignore the nostalgia that seems to rest in between the tree’s and the sky. It is an air of younger years, of making new friends and wearing new backpacks. It is football games and field hockey practice, homework and spaghetti dinners. There is anxiousness about this emotion, a good and nervous feeling at the same time. Even years later as an adult, I can remember what it felt like to be a child or teenager in the fall. I can remember looking out the window from my desk, or sitting on my front porch with friends, or walking to a football game, and seeing the very same moon I see tonight.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Edward Abbey and Desert Solitaire
Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire is much more than "A Season in the Wilderness." I’ve read Abbey's essays before, some individually published that come from this collection, yet I now see the power of his voice when they all come together to paint a much larger and more beautiful picture. Abbey took me to an unfamiliar world out West, to a world I have never even stepped foot in, to a world that I now feel I know and love, at least enough to want to go there.
In each chapter/essay, Abbey reveals a different aspect of his stay in Arches Park, Utah. His vivid imagery and detailed accounts take the reader inside his camper, to the fire outside his doorstep, through the dry vast desert hills, and inside the pools that fill canyons. But most importantly, what he does is take the reader on a mental journey where destruction, ignorance, politics and civilization haunt and even encourage a deeper, more meaningful meditation on the world in which we live.
I am overly impressed with his ability to retain and record scientific and historical information, whether it be to name every plant and flower he sees in passing, or to recollect a period in history that occurred on the very same ground he is walking. This, along with his diverse voice that is doused with humor, sarcasm, rant, generosity, intelligence, humility, passion and anger create a story where nothing seems to be missing. Abbey includes all aspects of life by meditating on and questioning existence, death, god, nature, man, civilization and culture. And, he does all of this through telling the story of his six month adventure in Arches National Monument, Utah.
Considering Blog Prompts:
I found Abbey’s method of delivering his opinions and ideals on the topics of industrial tourism, development of national parks and the use of public land to be refreshing, humorous, intelligent and justified. Although as a nature writer myself, I know that environmental agendas in the form of rants are not always respected and/or appreciated in nature writing, I genuinely feel that Abbey was on a different level. From his first essay, Abbey lays a tone for this book, one that is genuine, engaging and credited. His vast knowledge of Utah land, his love of secluded wilderness and his passion for preserving what is still in tact, all play as a foundation for his following “takes” on such topics.
What makes Abbey’s rants work for me, particularly on Industrial Tourism, is that he provides an alternative to the madness he’s trying to prevent. Many times, those who speak out against something are propelled by anger, and come across sounding ridiculous because they do not give any looks or outcomes into another alternative. That being said, there were times in the book when I could not quite believe how viciously honest Abbey was being. I felt that in general his points were heard and whether they be rants of anger and sarcasm or pleads of truth and passion, should be taken seriously.
I especially appreciate Abbey’s take on “wilderness.” He makes it so much more than a place, so much stronger than a nature we know. It is the “past and the unknown, the womb of the earth from which we all emerged.” It is “the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need—if only we had the eyes to see it” (208).
In each chapter/essay, Abbey reveals a different aspect of his stay in Arches Park, Utah. His vivid imagery and detailed accounts take the reader inside his camper, to the fire outside his doorstep, through the dry vast desert hills, and inside the pools that fill canyons. But most importantly, what he does is take the reader on a mental journey where destruction, ignorance, politics and civilization haunt and even encourage a deeper, more meaningful meditation on the world in which we live.
I am overly impressed with his ability to retain and record scientific and historical information, whether it be to name every plant and flower he sees in passing, or to recollect a period in history that occurred on the very same ground he is walking. This, along with his diverse voice that is doused with humor, sarcasm, rant, generosity, intelligence, humility, passion and anger create a story where nothing seems to be missing. Abbey includes all aspects of life by meditating on and questioning existence, death, god, nature, man, civilization and culture. And, he does all of this through telling the story of his six month adventure in Arches National Monument, Utah.
Considering Blog Prompts:
I found Abbey’s method of delivering his opinions and ideals on the topics of industrial tourism, development of national parks and the use of public land to be refreshing, humorous, intelligent and justified. Although as a nature writer myself, I know that environmental agendas in the form of rants are not always respected and/or appreciated in nature writing, I genuinely feel that Abbey was on a different level. From his first essay, Abbey lays a tone for this book, one that is genuine, engaging and credited. His vast knowledge of Utah land, his love of secluded wilderness and his passion for preserving what is still in tact, all play as a foundation for his following “takes” on such topics.
What makes Abbey’s rants work for me, particularly on Industrial Tourism, is that he provides an alternative to the madness he’s trying to prevent. Many times, those who speak out against something are propelled by anger, and come across sounding ridiculous because they do not give any looks or outcomes into another alternative. That being said, there were times in the book when I could not quite believe how viciously honest Abbey was being. I felt that in general his points were heard and whether they be rants of anger and sarcasm or pleads of truth and passion, should be taken seriously.
I especially appreciate Abbey’s take on “wilderness.” He makes it so much more than a place, so much stronger than a nature we know. It is the “past and the unknown, the womb of the earth from which we all emerged.” It is “the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need—if only we had the eyes to see it” (208).
Nature Blog #3: Balcony Rain
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
12:30 pm
What I love about my balcony is that although I feel nestled in curtains of trees and animal dwellings, I have a roof to cover me during rainy days like this. The rain is a constant drizzle, falling on all sides around me coating the trees high leaves like the glaze of pottery being fired. The air is cool and the breeze sends hidden smells of damp earth and clean honey. Birds still faintly chirp in the background, yet the sound of raindrop tattering against the nearby canopies outcries the random birdsong’s call.
From up here, I can see the soil between weeds begin to darken and bleed rich with moisture. Each blade of grass is highlighted in the feeble sun’s rays hiding behind a sheet of rainclouds luring up above. The grass is long in my yard, and there are patches of blades that curl over and fall like a mini weeping willow. Being outside in the rain, feelings its wetness and hearing its fall, reminds me of camping. Whenever I am camping and it starts to rain, there is nowhere to go but inside a tent. Yet between me and the outside weather is a nylon sheathing, thick enough to keep out too much water, but thin enough that I can still hear the pellets as they tap like fingers against the sides, and still smell the earth beneath my bottom soaking up water in underground passageways. I still feel like I am “in it,” cleansing right along with the earth and its inhabitants.
The water comes down heavy against the gutter that lines my neighbor’s balcony. It sounds like denting metal in a bathtub, unnatural to this tree top height of pitter- patting rain drops and slowly stifling leaves. I cannot forget I am in a city however. The splashing of tires against the rain’s puddles echoes through the trees and into my balcony. I cannot see the obnoxious automobiles, yet I hear their turns and swivels.
Most of my fellow dwellers are hiding in their dens. The three groundhogs that live beside my balcony in a large vacant field are nowhere to be seen. When rain begins to pour, I’ve seen them scurry into their holes filling their entrances with the bush of their floppy tail. The bird’s nest that sits above my shoulder at the corner of the building’s roof is completely silent, except for the splatter of raindrops meandering through its woven fibers, falling from below on to the metal covered roof. My spider webs are all gone, blown away by the rain’s shifting winds, glistens of wet string falling graciously to the cemented walk below. And, although my fellow creatures who are usually here as my companions are gone, I do not feel lonely simply staring into the trees.
The honey locust looks like a dripping wet grandfather, its wrinkles and crevices collecting water and debris, its hunched-over trunk and branches darkening in the steady pour. It is cloudy and overcast, but the green is still lush. Green like limecicles and moist like their sweat, just after you open one up into room temperature. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice four birds leaping from branch to branch in the drooping pine that sits to my left. They seem to be talking to one another, trying to figure out what to do on this rainy rainy day.
12:30 pm
What I love about my balcony is that although I feel nestled in curtains of trees and animal dwellings, I have a roof to cover me during rainy days like this. The rain is a constant drizzle, falling on all sides around me coating the trees high leaves like the glaze of pottery being fired. The air is cool and the breeze sends hidden smells of damp earth and clean honey. Birds still faintly chirp in the background, yet the sound of raindrop tattering against the nearby canopies outcries the random birdsong’s call.
From up here, I can see the soil between weeds begin to darken and bleed rich with moisture. Each blade of grass is highlighted in the feeble sun’s rays hiding behind a sheet of rainclouds luring up above. The grass is long in my yard, and there are patches of blades that curl over and fall like a mini weeping willow. Being outside in the rain, feelings its wetness and hearing its fall, reminds me of camping. Whenever I am camping and it starts to rain, there is nowhere to go but inside a tent. Yet between me and the outside weather is a nylon sheathing, thick enough to keep out too much water, but thin enough that I can still hear the pellets as they tap like fingers against the sides, and still smell the earth beneath my bottom soaking up water in underground passageways. I still feel like I am “in it,” cleansing right along with the earth and its inhabitants.
The water comes down heavy against the gutter that lines my neighbor’s balcony. It sounds like denting metal in a bathtub, unnatural to this tree top height of pitter- patting rain drops and slowly stifling leaves. I cannot forget I am in a city however. The splashing of tires against the rain’s puddles echoes through the trees and into my balcony. I cannot see the obnoxious automobiles, yet I hear their turns and swivels.
Most of my fellow dwellers are hiding in their dens. The three groundhogs that live beside my balcony in a large vacant field are nowhere to be seen. When rain begins to pour, I’ve seen them scurry into their holes filling their entrances with the bush of their floppy tail. The bird’s nest that sits above my shoulder at the corner of the building’s roof is completely silent, except for the splatter of raindrops meandering through its woven fibers, falling from below on to the metal covered roof. My spider webs are all gone, blown away by the rain’s shifting winds, glistens of wet string falling graciously to the cemented walk below. And, although my fellow creatures who are usually here as my companions are gone, I do not feel lonely simply staring into the trees.
The honey locust looks like a dripping wet grandfather, its wrinkles and crevices collecting water and debris, its hunched-over trunk and branches darkening in the steady pour. It is cloudy and overcast, but the green is still lush. Green like limecicles and moist like their sweat, just after you open one up into room temperature. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice four birds leaping from branch to branch in the drooping pine that sits to my left. They seem to be talking to one another, trying to figure out what to do on this rainy rainy day.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Weed By Any Other Name: The Virtues of a Messy Lawn, or Learning to Love the Plants We Don’t Plant
I was walking my lab puppy, Bill, to Frick Park this morning when I realized the amount of plants I was staring out, wondering if they were morning glory, ragweed, or even a plant outside the weed family. I was extremely interested in which lawns seemed to be manicured, which ones had some corners of weeds or fences lined in crabgrass. After reading Nancy Gift’s A Weed By Any Other Name, I find myself genuinely interested in the plants that fill the backyard of my apartment building. Yesterday I was sitting out in the sun and I looked down to see what I thought could be prostrate spurge and joyed in the presence of morning glories lining the fence beside me. It made me feel good to know I was surrounded by some weeds, a sign that the land is healthy enough for insects and animals, and balanced enough to display diverse weeds.
The first thing I noticed when reading Gift's book was her organizational structure. Although an avid nature reader, I have only read a few books that are broken down by seasons. What I appreciate about Gift’s choice, however, is how within each season she breaks down the chapters by specific weeds that correlate with each season, a kind of year-long time line I could follow, while picturing the changing plants in my head, and seeing their cycles first-hand. (Looking back, I think I would have really loved an image, just a black and white sketch of each weed below its name so that I could classify them on my own when I stepped outside.) I particularly enjoyed how she ends each section, often on a very reflective and meaningful note that gave me glimpses into her emotions connected with weeds: “When I see our own morning glories each fall, I feel grateful to this plant, which volunteers its blooms as bright jewels on the cool mornings of the waning garden”(120).
The book is filled with a lot of scientific information, some I was immersed in while some I had a hard time understanding, as someone who has not studied weeds before. Although I found myself questioning certain processes or functions, I felt I gained an overall knowledge of weeds that I had not known before. I learned that “grafting” is a transplant of plant organs in order to mesh a healthy stem with a not so healthy or weak stem. I learned that dandelions could be used to make wine, although a long and tedious process. I learned that many weeds can be a red flag for severe soil problems down below, and I learned that moss grows at an incredibly slow rate. Most of all, though, I felt Gift’s biggest accomplishment was in combining years of plant studies with the life she led in an honest and refreshing tone. She admits hypocrisy when she douses poison ivy in Roundtop, and expresses her true feelings about disliking certain weeds. She reveals secrets of the world of weeds that would make any human being think twice about the next time they step into their own back yard.
As someone who has never had a problem with weeds, who has grown up playing in woods and poison ivy, I needed less convincing that “weeds aren’t the enemy” and more of an understanding of the role we(humans) have in their life cycle. And, Gift gave me that. I also believe she gives those not-so-open-minded homeowners a new light through which to see their gardens and their fields, a light that could bring organic warmth to the suburban yards "number one enemy."
The first thing I noticed when reading Gift's book was her organizational structure. Although an avid nature reader, I have only read a few books that are broken down by seasons. What I appreciate about Gift’s choice, however, is how within each season she breaks down the chapters by specific weeds that correlate with each season, a kind of year-long time line I could follow, while picturing the changing plants in my head, and seeing their cycles first-hand. (Looking back, I think I would have really loved an image, just a black and white sketch of each weed below its name so that I could classify them on my own when I stepped outside.) I particularly enjoyed how she ends each section, often on a very reflective and meaningful note that gave me glimpses into her emotions connected with weeds: “When I see our own morning glories each fall, I feel grateful to this plant, which volunteers its blooms as bright jewels on the cool mornings of the waning garden”(120).
The book is filled with a lot of scientific information, some I was immersed in while some I had a hard time understanding, as someone who has not studied weeds before. Although I found myself questioning certain processes or functions, I felt I gained an overall knowledge of weeds that I had not known before. I learned that “grafting” is a transplant of plant organs in order to mesh a healthy stem with a not so healthy or weak stem. I learned that dandelions could be used to make wine, although a long and tedious process. I learned that many weeds can be a red flag for severe soil problems down below, and I learned that moss grows at an incredibly slow rate. Most of all, though, I felt Gift’s biggest accomplishment was in combining years of plant studies with the life she led in an honest and refreshing tone. She admits hypocrisy when she douses poison ivy in Roundtop, and expresses her true feelings about disliking certain weeds. She reveals secrets of the world of weeds that would make any human being think twice about the next time they step into their own back yard.
As someone who has never had a problem with weeds, who has grown up playing in woods and poison ivy, I needed less convincing that “weeds aren’t the enemy” and more of an understanding of the role we(humans) have in their life cycle. And, Gift gave me that. I also believe she gives those not-so-open-minded homeowners a new light through which to see their gardens and their fields, a light that could bring organic warmth to the suburban yards "number one enemy."
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Nature Blog #1: Birds and Balconies
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
2:45pm
The wind picks up a steady confident speed as I sit here on the balcony of my apartment. This is a place I always come to sit and relax, taking in whatever sights and sounds surround me and my steel-framed railing. I chose this spot because I am high up. On the third floor of an old brick building, my balcony stretches out into the trees bodies, feet from touching their branches, moments from hearing their whispers. I like that I can see what the birds see; everything looks different from up here, and although I cannot feel the soft soiled ground beneath my toes, I can see things I never would when walking amongst the grasses.
The green is pervasive. Even though it is just a backyard, and even though I am yards away from Penn Ave and Washington Blvd, I feel enclosed in a world of leaves and pine needles, nestled in the armpits of sturdy boughs. I can see the tips of leaves that fall from the highest point of the tree, detailed with yellow rims and tan freckles, details I could never see from far down below. And for some reason I feel the bird calls and cricket songs are amplified as though the trees openings are its speakers, and I am sitting right next to them.
An assortment of small plants sits in front of me. Plants that I bought toward the end of the summer, hoping they would hold on a few more weeks so that I might enjoy their presence. I love plants. If I didn’t have a lab puppy, my apartment would be swarming with plants. I bought these few in hopes that they would fulfill the lacking of green in my home, a green I want to hang from ceilings and fill up corners. The black-eyed susan is starting to die; the once lush green leaves now wilting to a purplish tint, fuzzy hairs surround the edges. An anise hyssop stands tall next to my shoulder and although its tiny purple flowers are darkening into a stone cold gray, its leaves possess the green of mint, holding on to the warm days of September.
The crickets cry all day long up here, blending in with traffic noise so well that sometimes I cannot tell the two apart. I find this place so dense because of its merging between nature and city. What looks like an ant with wings crawls next to my laptop, pulsating its thorax back and forth on the card table as a helicopter flies overhead passing through the fluttering green of the trees swaying branches. Where a slug meets sidewalk down below, I see its iridescent trail of slime in the afternoon sun, making its way down over a bleak cloud. I want to sit here this semester and find that place between serene nature and stimulating city, that place that makes up my environment, that maintains the green of mountaintops yet lives in the urban sprawl of life. A car rears its engine as the sun breaks through the canopy and casts a warmth on my face.
2:45pm
The wind picks up a steady confident speed as I sit here on the balcony of my apartment. This is a place I always come to sit and relax, taking in whatever sights and sounds surround me and my steel-framed railing. I chose this spot because I am high up. On the third floor of an old brick building, my balcony stretches out into the trees bodies, feet from touching their branches, moments from hearing their whispers. I like that I can see what the birds see; everything looks different from up here, and although I cannot feel the soft soiled ground beneath my toes, I can see things I never would when walking amongst the grasses.
The green is pervasive. Even though it is just a backyard, and even though I am yards away from Penn Ave and Washington Blvd, I feel enclosed in a world of leaves and pine needles, nestled in the armpits of sturdy boughs. I can see the tips of leaves that fall from the highest point of the tree, detailed with yellow rims and tan freckles, details I could never see from far down below. And for some reason I feel the bird calls and cricket songs are amplified as though the trees openings are its speakers, and I am sitting right next to them.
An assortment of small plants sits in front of me. Plants that I bought toward the end of the summer, hoping they would hold on a few more weeks so that I might enjoy their presence. I love plants. If I didn’t have a lab puppy, my apartment would be swarming with plants. I bought these few in hopes that they would fulfill the lacking of green in my home, a green I want to hang from ceilings and fill up corners. The black-eyed susan is starting to die; the once lush green leaves now wilting to a purplish tint, fuzzy hairs surround the edges. An anise hyssop stands tall next to my shoulder and although its tiny purple flowers are darkening into a stone cold gray, its leaves possess the green of mint, holding on to the warm days of September.
The crickets cry all day long up here, blending in with traffic noise so well that sometimes I cannot tell the two apart. I find this place so dense because of its merging between nature and city. What looks like an ant with wings crawls next to my laptop, pulsating its thorax back and forth on the card table as a helicopter flies overhead passing through the fluttering green of the trees swaying branches. Where a slug meets sidewalk down below, I see its iridescent trail of slime in the afternoon sun, making its way down over a bleak cloud. I want to sit here this semester and find that place between serene nature and stimulating city, that place that makes up my environment, that maintains the green of mountaintops yet lives in the urban sprawl of life. A car rears its engine as the sun breaks through the canopy and casts a warmth on my face.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
