Entry 7: Mole-ing

Some levels underground

Awake and unwound

Tired travelers with baggage

And complaints abound

Their anger is sound

For this lateness unfound

Stuck in the basement of Port Authority

This is so typical of Greyhound

Entry 6: When I Went to College and What I Saw There

Around back

Out of sight

With smug confidence

Along with others

Without guilt

Under my nose

Beyond city limits

Inside closed doors

Over my head

After taxes

Entry 5: Primordial Night Jazz

Greetings out there, all you crazy cats and cool kids.

Tonight we are broadcasting live and in your neighborhood,

your alley way, and your back porch.

Step outside and turn the record off.

Open your ears to the live sounds,

this is primordial night jazz.

Tune in to the story, and out from the fuss.

The music is here, and it comes in all shapes and sizes –

From wind whispered grass to gulching gulleys

From silent owl eyes to cricket chirps,

an up and coming sound with might to instruct

from the in a wound up world, how to deconstruct.

Entry 4: Classroom Biodiversity

The nature of knowledge is fleeting.

We attempt, in sharing, teaching, and beating,

To ensure perpetuity of what we know as the truth.

The chalkboard mocks my fumbling

For I just can’t help forgetting

The things my teachers’ want me to know.

But from Stoichiometry to grammar and spelling,

The lectures and power points are telling

That we’ve lost ourselves in facts and figures.

The time we’ve lost talking

We’ve gained for rote memorizing

But you can only buy so much time before it gets too expensive.

Without the wet water and writhing stream

Poisson’s ratio seems fishy.

An equation with an answer,

Can’t help me find stress.

And without Eve,

Atom will never bond again.

In this monoculture of knowledge

The writing lies fallow,

And my imagination slows to stagnation.

Because no matter how many nature metaphors I can conjure,

I just can’t memorize this material.

Adolfo Xianqu'in, Professor of Lacanha agroforestry in Chiapas Mexico

Entry 3: Soup Mantra

Swamp of love, sea of health.

My bowl of refrigerator overflow,

You are the Phoenix from my ashes.

From a witch’s Cauldron to a grandmother’s kitchen,

We put our faith in the pot, and our souls in the mix.

You are made with love,

Experimentation, and giddy excitement.

You are my magic spell.

Warm me up, inside and out.

Lift me up, outside and around.

You receive me, and I am open.

Entry 2: Morning in the Hemlock Glenn Lean-to

            The tips of my toes brush the leaf-laden forest floor below the Lean-to. Layers of leaves at different stages of decomposition are disrupted by the swaying of my feet. How long has that leaf been lying in that spot below this ledge on this forest floor? I sit on the edge of the Lean-to, gripping well-worn solid wood, and feel like an intruder in a place fine without me.

            A structure as sturdy as a Lean-to is intended to ‘reconnect’ me with a place I’ve never seen, yet still protect me from natural phenomena I know well. My whole life has been protected from the elements, from sunscreen to galoshes, storm windows to space heaters, sun glasses to rear-view mirrors. At last I sit in a place so defenseless, it is without a wall. There’s still a roof and a floor that is raised off of the ground, and of course the three other walls that comfort me with their convention. But the Lean-to is still a farce, a structure built as a novelty for those with an itch for clean air but no intention of staying.

            The bumps and furrows, pit and mound topography, indicate a salvation from human incidence. The delicate ecosystem is merely a glimpse of pseudo-virgin forest, for any direction eventually intersects a road, no matter how much solitude one may feel. Sitting on the moist leafy floor, with smells of life and death and youth, decomposition and growth, I am overwhelmed by my philosophical convictions for critique of my intermittent and half-hearted intentions to reconnect with nature and the complete rush of bliss at a connection to place.

            The Lean-to is a castle, perched on soft, rounded cliff of tremendous height from the earth’s core. The narrow stream bank below provides evidence of the brutal powers of archaic water from glaciers melted eons ago. Audible water replaces the familiar white noise we hear from air conditioning units. Here is a place of vague relatability, with enough mystery to provide infinite curiosities. Is this the difference between nature and not?

            Nature is the unspoken artist, whose pallet is fruitful and brushstrokes are of ultimate consequence. A collage of colored leaves of different shapes, textures, and sizes spill across the hilly plane. Yellow freckled green leaves and red freckled yellow leaves and orange freckled brown leaves, the variety of combinations is endless but never obnoxious, not like the options for cell phones or Nike sneaks. It is the imperfect leaves that catch my eye; one pale, beige with a dark, deathly brown circle off center invokes Rothko-esque imagery. Our art is merely homage to nature.  I still cannot place the difference.

Entry 1: My Afternoon With the Sun

            The warm embrace from her deepest intentions heats me up at least 0.01 degrees F, with her generous arms stretching as far around me as she can, her yellow fingertips touching even my back. This is a proper greeting. As we settle into our places for the afternoon, respective of one another’s predictable shifts and stagnations, we are joined by the Breeze, whose appearance, though equally familiar, is much more forward and fast that the Sun’s. I am in the company of old friends.

            We reconnect in Thornden Park, a busy meeting place for many. Though I have just sat down, I cannot help but be nosy and listen in on the aruement between the Pine and the Wind. They go back and forth in aches and blows, but the Wind is unwavering so dear pine retracts in a crackle of needles. To lose in a heated argument – no matter how petty – is a difficult thing to recover from in the moment of embarrassing aftermath. Lady Pine sways in shame, and I feel for her. If only she knew how glorious she looks, standing tall and independently. But her hunched posture, now, alludes to her self-doubt incited by the unforgiving blows of the Wind. He leaves and she is visibly more comfortable; that’s what you call a bad relationship. Our friend the Sun gets up and says hello to Pine, the two sparkling with laughter together as they reminisce in days before the Wind was so dominant.

            Breeze is nothing like his brother Wind, I am reminded as he caresses my back with swift softness. We carry on our conversation with reverence, a perfect balance of power to fill the fall afternoon. My friends relax me in my tense state of collegiate stress, their silent advice bounces in echoing reverberations against the inner walls of my corpse. I watch the lairs on my arms and legs prickle up in delight as our shared but unspoken words envelop the steeped voids of the amphitheatre. I knew I loved this place, and am so happy my friends were free to meet me here, and grateful there was room despite not having a reservation – it was so last minute!

            A sobering email on my blackberry ends our harmonic respite from daily duties. They too must continue on their routine, but our afternoon together must not be lost in time and cluttered memory – today I received too much good advice for such a thing.