What a great song! A few weeks ago, my professor for an online course asked the class to take a look at its lyrics and respond to it. No one took him up on his request except me, so I'm not sure if my response is what he's looking for. Nevertheless, the English major in me took over when I finally got a chance to look at the lyrics. I have no idea if I'm close to the mark, but I just had a great time analyzing these lyrics! I got something like this out of it:
Verse #1:Hello darkness, my old friend / I've come to talk with you again / Because a vision softly creeping / Left its seeds while I was sleeping / And the vision that was planted in my brain / Still remains / Within the sound of silence.
In the first verse, the speaker talks of darkness, his old friend. This darkness is the result of a world saturated in empty, mindless "crap" that is produced today. Since Paul Simon is a musician, I assume he's talking about contemporary music (of the 1960s perhaps). The darkness isn't an absence of all light, so to speak; rather, it's an absence of the light that results from music of substance -- quality music. Darkness is his old friend because it's been around a while for him; he feels an association with it. The paradox of the sound of silence is similar to the darkness metaphor. A light that cannot be seen, a song that cannot be heard.
Verse #2:In restless dreams I walked alone / Narrow streets of cobblestone / 'Neath the halo of a street lamp / I turn my collar to the cold and damp / When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light / That split the night / And touched the sound of silence.
The next verse talks about the speaker walking alone in his dreams, the birthplace of so many creative ideas. There's a contrast between the halo of the street light (which guides the way on a journey) and the flash of a neon light (which guides someone into a terminus -- a bar, store, etc.). In the darkness, the flashing neon light gives comfort because one can assume shelter or safety lies within. A street light offers a way to go, but no terminus in sight. So, which is more important -- the journey or the destination? This metaphor takes the idea of light and further defines it as different types of light. The speaker sees an absence of a guiding light, yet there is probably a plethora of neon lights that lure people in and halts their journeys. The music that the speaker is talking about is more like the neon lights.
Verse #3:And in the naked light I saw / Ten thousand people maybe more / People talking without speaking / People hearing without listening / People writing songs that voices never shared / No one dared / Disturb the sound of silence.
The next verse brings in the image of the multitudes of people out there -- people who talk without speaking / listen without hearing and people who are too afraid to voice their songs. The first group puts forth a paradox that make sense in today's world -- look at some of the pop songs out there (*cough-*cough, Justin Bieber -- *cough). People pretending to take in the words of others, but there are two problems. One, the words of others are empty. Two, the people listening care only about themselves. The second group puts forth the idea of people being too afraid to say what they really feel. They're afraid for some reason or another. Whatever the case, these people are hesitant to disturb the peace and speak out.
Verse #4:"Fools," said I, "you do not know / Silence like a cancer grows / Hear my words that I might teach you / Take my arms that I might reach you" / But my words like silent raindrops fell / And echoed in the wells of silence.
Verse four establishes a crazy metaphor -- a powerful one. I can't figure it out, however. Is the speaker saying that the silence is like a cancer and it will kill humanity? Or, is he saying that the silence spreads quickly like a cancer and that's the extent of the analogy? But this verse is the first time the speaker directly addresses someone. His words, however, fall like silent raindrops. This is a recurrence of the silence metaphor, but also the addition of the rain metaphor. Rain is symbolic of healing, nourishment, and cleansing... which is just what the people need, but they cannot accept because they do not see that they need it.
Verse #5:And the people bowed and prayed / To the neon god they made / And the sign flashed out its warning / In the words that it was forming / And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls / And tenement halls / And whispered in the sound of silence.
The final verse reflects the importance that people have put on the neon lights -- the terminus, the objective of happiness -- they're like neon gods. In its flashing light (which is how the neon light attracts attention) it is also being ironic. It says one thing to the masses: "Come on in, you'll be happy, it'll feel good," but to the other people who truly listen, it says another thing, a warning: "I'm just a simple, pretty flashing light, nothing more." It tells the listener, the one who would find happiness on the journey, that the true words of wisdom are where you least expect to see them: the graffiti on the walls of the subway station (another metaphor for the journey) and on the halls of the tenements (the passages that lead to the homes of the meek). How often do we listen to the poor and uneducated for wisdom? How often do we look for deep messages in the simplest of writings?
With the convergence of all of the different media (internet, television, radio, print, etc.), there's more and more "crap" (sorry for the lack of more intelligent-sounding word... but when it comes down to it, "crap" is the best word to describe crap) placed in front of us. Where do we look for quality messages? More importantly, where do we find it? People are afraid to put their ideas out there for lots of reasons. They don't want to offend anyone else. They don't want to be attacked. They don't want to be marginalized or categorized. They don't want to reveal themselves in a world full of diverse thoughts. They don't want to compromise their insecurities.
Whether this was Paul Simon's message or not, I don't care. It's a good song, I found some meaning behind it, and life goes on.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Day 5 -- One Day at a Time
We both woke up this morning feeling pretty good. This chair I'm sleeping on isn't the best, but I get a decent night's sleep. I woke up sleepy and with a stuffy nose, but all the little things I might complain about are so petty. I'm not going to waste my breath. I'm not the one on bed-rest 24-hours-a-day.
This is day five in the hospital, and our little girl is now 24 weeks and 2 days along. One more day in the womb is worth one week in NICU, they say.
I thought that I had things together pretty well until yesterday. Mom and dad sent flowers, which was such a kind gesture for them. They still haven't been here to visit, but that's only because I asked them not to come. If I had anything to say about it, I'd hold off on having visitors until she's off the monitors and able to sit up better. They want to come in, though. Also, Emily's work sent cupcakes and a card signed by lots of her co-workers. I saw a bunch of names on the card that I recognized. People she's talked about often the last few years. Both the flowers and the cupcakes made me tear up a little, but not until I was by myself. This is probably my big downfall, trying to keep my emotions in check, not letting on if I get upset.
We had a couple of visitors stop by yesterday, too. Emily's college friend Jessica brought in her two adorable kids. Jessica, who's visiting from the Chicago area, had a great conversation with Emily, distracting her and keeping her mind off of things. Em had received a blood transfusion yesterday morning and the doctor had put her back on the magnesium. She was so groggy and out of it, and when she was awake, she needed something to occupy her mind. Sandy Spector also came by the room around lunchtime, giving us another great conversation.
Emily made a comment earlier today that made me think about my own day-to-day habits. She said something along the lines of never taking a free moment for granted ever again. To me, it got me thinking about all the times when Brody has come up to me while I'm reading my school books, watching television, or doing something else at the moment. He wants me to play trains with him or put together his puzzles or read his books to him. I'm good about dropping everything and enjoying some quality time with my boy -- most of the time -- but it just makes me realize even more how little time we have before he grows beyond this phase. Emily may have been meaning something about getting up and cleaning house or doing some odd chores with her comment, but this is where my train of thought went. She's always been great about being a mother and doing what's best for Brody. The secret is that I think she does better at her parenting role than I do with mine.
It's unfortunate that it's this hospital stay that has made us realize this kind of stuff, but if there needs to be a positive, this is a good one. I need to keep note of what little things I realize each day -- take time to jot something down every day. If I compile a list, one day at a time, and make sure I revisit that list down the road, who knows how much better off I'll be, and who knows how much better life will be for my family.
This is day five in the hospital, and our little girl is now 24 weeks and 2 days along. One more day in the womb is worth one week in NICU, they say.
 |
| The flowers mom and dad sent us. |
We had a couple of visitors stop by yesterday, too. Emily's college friend Jessica brought in her two adorable kids. Jessica, who's visiting from the Chicago area, had a great conversation with Emily, distracting her and keeping her mind off of things. Em had received a blood transfusion yesterday morning and the doctor had put her back on the magnesium. She was so groggy and out of it, and when she was awake, she needed something to occupy her mind. Sandy Spector also came by the room around lunchtime, giving us another great conversation.
Emily made a comment earlier today that made me think about my own day-to-day habits. She said something along the lines of never taking a free moment for granted ever again. To me, it got me thinking about all the times when Brody has come up to me while I'm reading my school books, watching television, or doing something else at the moment. He wants me to play trains with him or put together his puzzles or read his books to him. I'm good about dropping everything and enjoying some quality time with my boy -- most of the time -- but it just makes me realize even more how little time we have before he grows beyond this phase. Emily may have been meaning something about getting up and cleaning house or doing some odd chores with her comment, but this is where my train of thought went. She's always been great about being a mother and doing what's best for Brody. The secret is that I think she does better at her parenting role than I do with mine.
It's unfortunate that it's this hospital stay that has made us realize this kind of stuff, but if there needs to be a positive, this is a good one. I need to keep note of what little things I realize each day -- take time to jot something down every day. If I compile a list, one day at a time, and make sure I revisit that list down the road, who knows how much better off I'll be, and who knows how much better life will be for my family.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Day 4 -- It Doesn't Make It Much Easier
Today is our 4th day at Overland Park Regional Medical Center. We've been here since late Friday night. It still doesn't feel real to me. There have been no real answers coming out from the specialists, and I don't want to leave Emily's side. I'm scared about what might happen while I'm gone. If I'm running an errand around town, no problem. I'm close, but what if I'm home in Louisburg?
All these petty questions keep dominating my mind. What about Brody? He needs his mommy and daddy, and he needs to be with us. He needs his home. Every night for as long as we can remember, we've gone to bed with Brody. We haven't done this since we came to the hospital. What about our home? We left it in disorder. I'd been home all week and still left the place in a mess. What about my school work, my projects for classes, and preparation for the new school year?
I'm doing whatever I can to keep mind off the news we've been getting. They say that no news is good news, but what about vague news? We've heard nothing concrete. Several doctors have been in and out of our room -- Emily's regular OB-GYN, the perinatologist, the doctor from NICU. All I know is that my wife and daughter are okay. There's nothing I know about when she'll have to deliver, or when our baby will decide to come. It's a horrible waiting game, knowing that both of them are okay, but there could still be a storm coming.
I've never been in this kind of situation before. When they told Emily that she'll have to be on bed-rest for the duration of the pregnancy -- at the hospital, no less -- I couldn't grasp what that meant. I just can't imagine what being on bed-rest will be like. She will be doing this for the next few days (worst case) or the next 10 weeks (best case).
With all the health issues and questions of everyone's safety, how could anyone think about the mundane things such as homework, housework, and professional work? For me, and I imagine or anyone, it's a way to distract us from the serious issues before us. I can't help but think about Emily and her job. She went home Friday afternoon, looking forward to hanging out with me and our son that evening. Tasks were left undone because they could wait until the weekend is over. Now someone else has to take care of it. She can't work from the hospital, and she can't get back in to prepare things for whomever will be covering her position.
Our little girl is 24 weeks and 1 day along. When she will decide to come, or when Emily's body decides to deliver, we don't know. Our baby will be so tiny, so weak, so exposed. How long will it be before she's strong enough for us to hold her?
This makes me think about an old friend and his infant son. At 1 month old, the baby developed a type of cancer that had hospitalized him for months. It was so long before my friend could hold his son or take him home. As long as my friend's son was in danger, I had felt guilty talking about my son and the funny things he would do. If I were in his shoes, I wondered if I would have been bitter, asking why this has to happen to us instead of someone else. I didn't want to add to the possibility of him having those feelings.
It's all I can do to keep from having those same feelings right now.
Emily's doctor thinks that this whole thing is a partial placental abruption. Only part of the placenta has detached from the uterine wall; the rest is still attached. It could either tear away more and lead to a very early delivery or it could grow further attached and hold on as long as it can. The doctor thinks that it could have been caused by a defective gene that causes a clotting disorder. Another doctor had mentioned that it could possibly be that the placenta had attached to her scar tissue from the septum surgery. I wish we knew for sure, but the experts can't figure it out.
All I know is that there was too much blood for me to ever forget. Friday night, I've never been that scared in my life. I mean truly scared -- there's the fear I've felt when I was young and afraid of the dark, when I was a teenager and about to get in a fist fight, and anytime when a tornado is in the area. This is different. This is fear for someone I love.
We've made it four days without having to deliver. The doctor said that making it through the first 24 hours was huge, and the same for the next 24 hours. Now it's one day at a time. Another doctor told us that of the people who are in this situation at this point in the pregnancy, 50% of them deliver and 50% go on one more week. Of those people going on one more week, 50% of them deliver and 50% of them go on one more week, and so on. Moving from one day to the next is a good thing. One day at a time, they say. They keep positive, but it doesn't make things easy for us.
We've been getting lots of prayers coming from friends and family. I feel like I haven't prayed enough. I've tried; I've bowed my head and tried to speak to God, but I don't know if my words are the right kind of words. I don't know if I deserve to have my words heard. Emily and our daughter deserve it, though. We have a loving God who will protect us, and I'll never give up on asking for His help.
All these petty questions keep dominating my mind. What about Brody? He needs his mommy and daddy, and he needs to be with us. He needs his home. Every night for as long as we can remember, we've gone to bed with Brody. We haven't done this since we came to the hospital. What about our home? We left it in disorder. I'd been home all week and still left the place in a mess. What about my school work, my projects for classes, and preparation for the new school year?
I'm doing whatever I can to keep mind off the news we've been getting. They say that no news is good news, but what about vague news? We've heard nothing concrete. Several doctors have been in and out of our room -- Emily's regular OB-GYN, the perinatologist, the doctor from NICU. All I know is that my wife and daughter are okay. There's nothing I know about when she'll have to deliver, or when our baby will decide to come. It's a horrible waiting game, knowing that both of them are okay, but there could still be a storm coming.
I've never been in this kind of situation before. When they told Emily that she'll have to be on bed-rest for the duration of the pregnancy -- at the hospital, no less -- I couldn't grasp what that meant. I just can't imagine what being on bed-rest will be like. She will be doing this for the next few days (worst case) or the next 10 weeks (best case).
With all the health issues and questions of everyone's safety, how could anyone think about the mundane things such as homework, housework, and professional work? For me, and I imagine or anyone, it's a way to distract us from the serious issues before us. I can't help but think about Emily and her job. She went home Friday afternoon, looking forward to hanging out with me and our son that evening. Tasks were left undone because they could wait until the weekend is over. Now someone else has to take care of it. She can't work from the hospital, and she can't get back in to prepare things for whomever will be covering her position.
Our little girl is 24 weeks and 1 day along. When she will decide to come, or when Emily's body decides to deliver, we don't know. Our baby will be so tiny, so weak, so exposed. How long will it be before she's strong enough for us to hold her?
This makes me think about an old friend and his infant son. At 1 month old, the baby developed a type of cancer that had hospitalized him for months. It was so long before my friend could hold his son or take him home. As long as my friend's son was in danger, I had felt guilty talking about my son and the funny things he would do. If I were in his shoes, I wondered if I would have been bitter, asking why this has to happen to us instead of someone else. I didn't want to add to the possibility of him having those feelings.
It's all I can do to keep from having those same feelings right now.
Emily's doctor thinks that this whole thing is a partial placental abruption. Only part of the placenta has detached from the uterine wall; the rest is still attached. It could either tear away more and lead to a very early delivery or it could grow further attached and hold on as long as it can. The doctor thinks that it could have been caused by a defective gene that causes a clotting disorder. Another doctor had mentioned that it could possibly be that the placenta had attached to her scar tissue from the septum surgery. I wish we knew for sure, but the experts can't figure it out.
All I know is that there was too much blood for me to ever forget. Friday night, I've never been that scared in my life. I mean truly scared -- there's the fear I've felt when I was young and afraid of the dark, when I was a teenager and about to get in a fist fight, and anytime when a tornado is in the area. This is different. This is fear for someone I love.
We've made it four days without having to deliver. The doctor said that making it through the first 24 hours was huge, and the same for the next 24 hours. Now it's one day at a time. Another doctor told us that of the people who are in this situation at this point in the pregnancy, 50% of them deliver and 50% go on one more week. Of those people going on one more week, 50% of them deliver and 50% of them go on one more week, and so on. Moving from one day to the next is a good thing. One day at a time, they say. They keep positive, but it doesn't make things easy for us.
We've been getting lots of prayers coming from friends and family. I feel like I haven't prayed enough. I've tried; I've bowed my head and tried to speak to God, but I don't know if my words are the right kind of words. I don't know if I deserve to have my words heard. Emily and our daughter deserve it, though. We have a loving God who will protect us, and I'll never give up on asking for His help.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Great Lines from Westerns
A work in progress -- this is just a list of some of my favorite quotes from westerns. I'm a Clint Eastwood buff, but unfortunately I don't have anything with the Duke, John Wayne. Still working on my repertoire of westerns to watch.
"How can you trust a man who wears both a belt and suspenders? The man can't even trust his own pants." (Frank in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"You know, Jill, you remind me of my mother. She was the biggest whore in Alameda and the finest woman that ever lived. Whoever my father was, for an hour or for a month - he must have been a happy man." (Cheyenne in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"I'm your huckleberry." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?" (Wyatt Earp in Tombstone)
"You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig." (Blondie in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"I like big fat men like you. When they fall they make more noise. And sometimes they don't get up." (Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"It ain't easy having pals." (Charley Bowdre in Young Guns)
"Reap the whirlwind, Brady. Reap it." (Billy the Kid in Young Guns)
BILLY: "Who are them?"
JOHN TUNSTALL: "'They,' William. 'Who are they?' Those are the boys of the dregs!" (Young Guns)
LITTLE BILL DAGGETT: "Well, sir, you are a cowardly son of a bitch! You just shot an unarmed man!"
WILL MUNNY: "Well, he should have armed himself if he's going to decorate his saloon with my friend." (The Unforgiven)
"Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?" (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
JAMIE: "I wish we had time to bury them fellas."
JOSEY WALES: "To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
SENATOR: "The war's over. Our side won the war. Now we must busy ourselves winning the peace. And Fletcher, there's an old saying: To the victors belong the spoils."
FLETCHER: "There's another old saying, Senator: Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "You're wanted, Wales."
JOSEY WALES: "Reckon I'm right popular. You a bounty hunter?"
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "A man's got to do something for a living these days."
JOSEY WALES: "Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"Yeah, well, I always heard there were three kinds of suns in Kansas, sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches." (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"How can you trust a man who wears both a belt and suspenders? The man can't even trust his own pants." (Frank in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"You know, Jill, you remind me of my mother. She was the biggest whore in Alameda and the finest woman that ever lived. Whoever my father was, for an hour or for a month - he must have been a happy man." (Cheyenne in Once Upon a Time in the West)
"Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"I'm your huckleberry." (Doc Holliday in Tombstone)
"You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?" (Wyatt Earp in Tombstone)
"You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig." (Blondie in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"I like big fat men like you. When they fall they make more noise. And sometimes they don't get up." (Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)
"It ain't easy having pals." (Charley Bowdre in Young Guns)
"Reap the whirlwind, Brady. Reap it." (Billy the Kid in Young Guns)
BILLY: "Who are them?"
JOHN TUNSTALL: "'They,' William. 'Who are they?' Those are the boys of the dregs!" (Young Guns)
LITTLE BILL DAGGETT: "Well, sir, you are a cowardly son of a bitch! You just shot an unarmed man!"
WILL MUNNY: "Well, he should have armed himself if he's going to decorate his saloon with my friend." (The Unforgiven)
"Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?" (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
JAMIE: "I wish we had time to bury them fellas."
JOSEY WALES: "To hell with them fellas. Buzzards gotta eat, same as worms." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
SENATOR: "The war's over. Our side won the war. Now we must busy ourselves winning the peace. And Fletcher, there's an old saying: To the victors belong the spoils."
FLETCHER: "There's another old saying, Senator: Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "You're wanted, Wales."
JOSEY WALES: "Reckon I'm right popular. You a bounty hunter?"
BOUNTY HUNTER #1: "A man's got to do something for a living these days."
JOSEY WALES: "Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." (The Outlaw Josey Wales)
"Yeah, well, I always heard there were three kinds of suns in Kansas, sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches." (Josey Wales in The Outlaw Josey Wales)
Thursday, April 21, 2011
My Own "Bucket List"
Anyone out there have a "bucket list"? I never knew what one was until I heard about the film of the same name that came out a few years ago -- the one with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. It got me thinking, and I've never really considered what I would want to do before I "kick the bucket." I realize now that there would a good many things, but it's difficult for me to imagine there being so little time.
In a recent issue of Field & Stream magazine, I read about their "Bucket List" of 75 thrills and moments a sportsman should most like to experience in the outdoors. Before I even read the first item, I was positive that I would be able to check off several items. Mid-way through the list, I really was feeling like an amateur or tourist... a weekend outdoors warrior. After reading the final items on the list, I then felt like I had just shown up to fish with Tom Skerritt and Norman Maclean, only I had brought a basic spinning outfit and a Maxwell Bros. can filled with earthworms. The grand total of items I could check off: 1.
I have planted a tree before. A maple we purchased for twenty bucks at the Maple Leaf Festival in Baldwin, KS. It didn't make it past the second year, but it survived long enough to count.
The list did contain a handful of items I knew I would never do. For instance, I don't ever want to noodle a catfish. There really isn't any appeal for me to want to stick my arm down the throat of a catfish. I don't really want to get within 100 yards of a grizzly bear, either. I think I may have gotten close to one when I was a kid and on vacation in Wyoming, but I was young enough to have forgotten the details. I have been close to a black bear, though, and that was enough for me.
The "grizzly bear" item reminds me of a funny story. Two years ago, I was in Jackson, Wyoming, for the American Wilderness Leadership School. The sponsors sent out a letter telling us what all we need to bring for our stay in the wilderness, and one item listed was "bear spray." I had no idea what it was.
Shortly after arriving at the AWLS Lodge, we learned from one of the instructors the proper use of the "bear spray" and we also heard about the silly people who that that if they sprayed themselves with it, then it would repel bears the same way that Off! repels mosquitoes. I wonder how many tourists had to die before they realized that "bear spray" is more like mace or pepper spray.
Anyway, back to the list, which enumerated a handful of things that I've almost done:
--Catch a trout on a fly you've tied. I've caught a catfish on an ugly pattern (a chartreuse woolly bugger). No idea why that dumb fish took the fly, but it was the first fish I'd ever caught on a fly rod, and it was the first I'd ever caught on a self-tied fly. Still working on that trout, however.
--Teach yourself how to navigate with a map and compass. I know how to read a terrain map, thanks to all those hiking trips with my dad, and a couple summers ago I learned how to use a compass the right way. Never any field application, though.
--Read every book that Ernest Hemingway ever wrote. not quite halfway, but I'm working on it. Some of my students have been keen to identify my "man-crush" on Hemingway.
--Watch every movie that Clint Eastwood ever starred in. Close, but not quite. Still a huge fan of the Sergio Leone “Man With No Name” trilogy.
--Backpack into the mountains alone and hunt. I haven't gone out into the wilderness to hunt, but I have done some good hiking trips. More on that later.
--Sneak up on a deer and touch it.
The item about sneaking up on a deer is probably the one that I've come closest to achieving. It's not that I've almost succeeded in sneaking up on a deer; rather, it's more like I've walked right up to one and, instead of me touching it, the crazy thing bit me!
My dad and I had been hiking across Virginia for a couple weeks and were taking a nice easy pace through the Shenandoah Mountains. There was no exaggeration to the rumors that summer about the deer being so domesticated that they would walk right up to any tourist and eat out of their hands. Dad and I had stopped and were trying to “yellow blazing.” No luck. As we waited, the deer began to quietly make their way into the clearing where we were standing by the road. Out of sheer boredom, I grabbed a handful of Cheerios and walked toward one of the various deer. I stopped about two yards from it and held out my hand. The very picture of timidity, the deer inched its way across the short distance between us. I couldn’t believe that hadn’t dashed away when I first moved toward it.
It greedily eyed the handful of cheerios, and a feeling of anxiety coursed through me as I stood there, so close to actually touching a deer. I ignored everything else around us; I simply stood as still as I possibly could and waited as the creature betrayed its instincts and came closer. Its dappled coat, coal black eyes, and the moisture around its nostrils were as real as can be. It reached forward, extending its neck and opening its mouth, and then I felt the odd sensation of it suckling at my fingertips!
The weird suction quickly changed to a feeling of shock as I realized it was nibbling on my fingers. Suddenly, it lost all coyness and all-out bit me! I jerked my hand back and the spell was broken as the deer dashed back into the woods. Its companions followed right behind it. I realized that it had surely been spooked by my sudden retrieval of my hand; soon it might feel the disappointment at not actually receiving anything readily edible. I shook my sore finger as my dad laughed, the deer having fled deep into the forest.
I’ve never met anyone else who has been bitten by a deer. The thought came to me that I’ve done so few of the things on the Field and Stream bucket list that I kind of look like a pansy to any seasoned outdoorsman. I’m stubborn as can be and I don’t like to feel inferior, so my solution is to add that experience (and a few others) to my own "bucket list." So, here are the things I've done, but most wouldn't think to add to their own bucket list:
--Spend twenty minutes playing "peek-a-boo" with a raccoon
--Climb a 30-foot tree with the sole purpose of falling out of it
--Go on a Spring Break hiking trip in the Appalachians in the middle of March (warm weather and shorts during the day, waking up to a foot of snow the next morning)
--Come as close to shooting off your own toe without actually shooting it off (doesn’t count if you do it on purpose)
--Make your way across a 100-yard stretch of a hedgerow without ever touching the ground (think Tarzan)
--Go on a midnight hike a mile uphill to watch the moon rise over a valley in Virginia
With the things I would never do (catfish noodling), the things I've almost done (read Hemingway’s novels), and the things on my own list (impressive, isn’t it?), that leaves one more category: the items that I hope to someday accomplish:
--Explore and live in a canoe for a week
--Hunt where I can see the Northern Lights
--Drink a beer that's been chilled in a trout stream
--Land a 10-pound bass
--Break in a fishing hat from scratch
--Float the Grand Canyon
--Build a bamboo fly rod
--Skip work and let my son skip school to go deer hunting
--Release a trophy fish
--Get published in Field & Stream
I'm not the epitome of the extreme sportsman, but I have to say that the outdoors is something I absolutely love. A few years down the road, I could grab that same bucket list and check off everything I've done, and I could work out a plan to complete as many as possible before I do kick the bucket, but when it comes down to it, that would defeat the purpose.
I used to like listening to a Walkman (remember those?) as I hiked, and then I started counting steps to keep my mind occupied. The music helped the time pass quickly and the counting helped me keep track of the distance traveled. At some point, my dad and I had a good chat about the nature of hiking and he recommended I just walk, letting my feet carry my body to wherever we may end up and allowing my mind to wander wherever it may go. The music and counting were limiting to me. He was right. Keeping tabs of my outdoors adventures using a bucket list would limit me in the same way. I just like to go with the flow, not like a man-made draining ditch, but the free streams winding down the mountainside.
In a recent issue of Field & Stream magazine, I read about their "Bucket List" of 75 thrills and moments a sportsman should most like to experience in the outdoors. Before I even read the first item, I was positive that I would be able to check off several items. Mid-way through the list, I really was feeling like an amateur or tourist... a weekend outdoors warrior. After reading the final items on the list, I then felt like I had just shown up to fish with Tom Skerritt and Norman Maclean, only I had brought a basic spinning outfit and a Maxwell Bros. can filled with earthworms. The grand total of items I could check off: 1.
I have planted a tree before. A maple we purchased for twenty bucks at the Maple Leaf Festival in Baldwin, KS. It didn't make it past the second year, but it survived long enough to count.
The list did contain a handful of items I knew I would never do. For instance, I don't ever want to noodle a catfish. There really isn't any appeal for me to want to stick my arm down the throat of a catfish. I don't really want to get within 100 yards of a grizzly bear, either. I think I may have gotten close to one when I was a kid and on vacation in Wyoming, but I was young enough to have forgotten the details. I have been close to a black bear, though, and that was enough for me.
The "grizzly bear" item reminds me of a funny story. Two years ago, I was in Jackson, Wyoming, for the American Wilderness Leadership School. The sponsors sent out a letter telling us what all we need to bring for our stay in the wilderness, and one item listed was "bear spray." I had no idea what it was.
Shortly after arriving at the AWLS Lodge, we learned from one of the instructors the proper use of the "bear spray" and we also heard about the silly people who that that if they sprayed themselves with it, then it would repel bears the same way that Off! repels mosquitoes. I wonder how many tourists had to die before they realized that "bear spray" is more like mace or pepper spray.
Anyway, back to the list, which enumerated a handful of things that I've almost done:
--Catch a trout on a fly you've tied. I've caught a catfish on an ugly pattern (a chartreuse woolly bugger). No idea why that dumb fish took the fly, but it was the first fish I'd ever caught on a fly rod, and it was the first I'd ever caught on a self-tied fly. Still working on that trout, however.
--Teach yourself how to navigate with a map and compass. I know how to read a terrain map, thanks to all those hiking trips with my dad, and a couple summers ago I learned how to use a compass the right way. Never any field application, though.
--Read every book that Ernest Hemingway ever wrote. not quite halfway, but I'm working on it. Some of my students have been keen to identify my "man-crush" on Hemingway.
--Watch every movie that Clint Eastwood ever starred in. Close, but not quite. Still a huge fan of the Sergio Leone “Man With No Name” trilogy.
--Backpack into the mountains alone and hunt. I haven't gone out into the wilderness to hunt, but I have done some good hiking trips. More on that later.
--Sneak up on a deer and touch it.
The item about sneaking up on a deer is probably the one that I've come closest to achieving. It's not that I've almost succeeded in sneaking up on a deer; rather, it's more like I've walked right up to one and, instead of me touching it, the crazy thing bit me!
My dad and I had been hiking across Virginia for a couple weeks and were taking a nice easy pace through the Shenandoah Mountains. There was no exaggeration to the rumors that summer about the deer being so domesticated that they would walk right up to any tourist and eat out of their hands. Dad and I had stopped and were trying to “yellow blazing.” No luck. As we waited, the deer began to quietly make their way into the clearing where we were standing by the road. Out of sheer boredom, I grabbed a handful of Cheerios and walked toward one of the various deer. I stopped about two yards from it and held out my hand. The very picture of timidity, the deer inched its way across the short distance between us. I couldn’t believe that hadn’t dashed away when I first moved toward it.
It greedily eyed the handful of cheerios, and a feeling of anxiety coursed through me as I stood there, so close to actually touching a deer. I ignored everything else around us; I simply stood as still as I possibly could and waited as the creature betrayed its instincts and came closer. Its dappled coat, coal black eyes, and the moisture around its nostrils were as real as can be. It reached forward, extending its neck and opening its mouth, and then I felt the odd sensation of it suckling at my fingertips!
The weird suction quickly changed to a feeling of shock as I realized it was nibbling on my fingers. Suddenly, it lost all coyness and all-out bit me! I jerked my hand back and the spell was broken as the deer dashed back into the woods. Its companions followed right behind it. I realized that it had surely been spooked by my sudden retrieval of my hand; soon it might feel the disappointment at not actually receiving anything readily edible. I shook my sore finger as my dad laughed, the deer having fled deep into the forest.
I’ve never met anyone else who has been bitten by a deer. The thought came to me that I’ve done so few of the things on the Field and Stream bucket list that I kind of look like a pansy to any seasoned outdoorsman. I’m stubborn as can be and I don’t like to feel inferior, so my solution is to add that experience (and a few others) to my own "bucket list." So, here are the things I've done, but most wouldn't think to add to their own bucket list:
--Spend twenty minutes playing "peek-a-boo" with a raccoon
--Climb a 30-foot tree with the sole purpose of falling out of it
--Go on a Spring Break hiking trip in the Appalachians in the middle of March (warm weather and shorts during the day, waking up to a foot of snow the next morning)
--Come as close to shooting off your own toe without actually shooting it off (doesn’t count if you do it on purpose)
--Make your way across a 100-yard stretch of a hedgerow without ever touching the ground (think Tarzan)
--Go on a midnight hike a mile uphill to watch the moon rise over a valley in Virginia
With the things I would never do (catfish noodling), the things I've almost done (read Hemingway’s novels), and the things on my own list (impressive, isn’t it?), that leaves one more category: the items that I hope to someday accomplish:
--Explore and live in a canoe for a week
--Hunt where I can see the Northern Lights
--Drink a beer that's been chilled in a trout stream
--Land a 10-pound bass
--Break in a fishing hat from scratch
--Float the Grand Canyon
--Build a bamboo fly rod
--Skip work and let my son skip school to go deer hunting
--Release a trophy fish
--Get published in Field & Stream
I'm not the epitome of the extreme sportsman, but I have to say that the outdoors is something I absolutely love. A few years down the road, I could grab that same bucket list and check off everything I've done, and I could work out a plan to complete as many as possible before I do kick the bucket, but when it comes down to it, that would defeat the purpose.
I used to like listening to a Walkman (remember those?) as I hiked, and then I started counting steps to keep my mind occupied. The music helped the time pass quickly and the counting helped me keep track of the distance traveled. At some point, my dad and I had a good chat about the nature of hiking and he recommended I just walk, letting my feet carry my body to wherever we may end up and allowing my mind to wander wherever it may go. The music and counting were limiting to me. He was right. Keeping tabs of my outdoors adventures using a bucket list would limit me in the same way. I just like to go with the flow, not like a man-made draining ditch, but the free streams winding down the mountainside.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A Walk in the Woods
What ailment can bring down a writer worse than a case of writer’s block? It has been several years since I had last experienced any sort of productivity with my writing, and even though I have been exposed to countless exercises, motivational opportunities, and memorable experiences worth writing down, something had always kept me from “getting back into the swing of things.” I entered my writing project class one day and our group was greeted with a chance to escape the dreary room and to explore the campus, looking for inspiration and attention to detail. We were free to drive anywhere or walk anywhere we chose; we could even make a journey down the nature trails that wound throughout the campus. I jumped at this chance to experience an unexpected hike, although I chose to share my time with no one else.
Despite my inherent love for the natural world and almost anything outdoors, I viewed the morning’s activities with mixed emotions. If I had known beforehand that I would be having the pleasure of tramping through the woods, surely I would have thought twice about wearing flip-flops, a nice collared shirt, and a couple sprays of cologne. Although I was not dressed appropriately for a morning hike, it was an extraordinary surprise for me and it gave rise to myriad memories from my boyhood, so many that I could not possibly hope to address them all here. The trails, which were maintained by the Missouri Department of Conservation and wound through the 745-acre campus of Missouri Western State College, seemed to be a safe destination for me to have chosen on my own escape.
I first arrived at the Regional Department of Conservation office and was both impressed and astonished at what I saw. The brown building was surrounded by numerous flowers whose colors and bouquets tantalized my senses. However, my first steps along the way fell upon concrete slabs and I found myself wondering if those people who regularly maintained the trails had paved the entire way with concrete. The cement marked the exact path. It took the freedom out of the equation by telling whoever walked along it where they should go or toward which direction to wander. It took away from the sense of adventure and I absolutely despised its presence in my nature walk. I soon espied a break in the trees where a single post that bore a painted number one on it marked the beginning of a new path covered with bark and wood chippings. Now even though the bark-covered trail repulsed me less than the concrete did, I had to speculate as to how one could justly expect to find an adequate venture into the woods to absorb as much as the earth had to offer while all the while tramping upon man-made wood chips, an item suitable for a garden or other landscaping feats, but not for a journey through a wood. It was bad enough that the serenity was marred by the steady roar of traffic. Some intruding highway passed nearby and the sounds of cars whizzing by at top speeds nearly caused me to throw my notebook down and scream at the top of my lungs. This near-madness came even closer to fruition when I heard the thumping of bass notes and the rattle of some poorly installed car-speaker system. In my head I screamed, Turn down the bass, asshole! but in reality I simply continued my walk without giving in to my anger.
I was only able to resume my peaceful walk once I had consciously shut out the noise of the cars. Perhaps that was all that I could do, to simply ignore it like some playground bully that is constantly in your face, calling you names, making fun of your clothes, or threatening to beat you up. This disturbance must just be a fact of this life and one that we need to accept. The footpath’s coverings of wood chips did not last long, thankfully. I could scarcely imagine the expense of time, money, and resources that it would take to have properly and completely covered an entire system of trails like that. It would be an exercise in futility for one to do so and to think that rain would not wash it all away!
Although my mind focused too closely and cynically on the dreary artificiality of the trails, they quickly became quite beautiful as I furthered my walk into the forest. Robert Frost and his yellow wood came to mind when I approached a split in the road, one arm leading down toward lesser regions and one leading upward. I had a decision to make at this fork in the road that was marked by a post with the number two painted on it: which road should I take? Either one of them could have been seen as a well-traveled road, so I doubted that the logic of America’s poet would suit me much at that point. So, laying Frost aside and relying on simpler criteria, I decided to take the one that led straight downhill. Again, this way reminded me of past hikes with my father and the various ecological engineering feats failed to escape my observing eyes. I marveled at the sight of expertly placed logs along the lower sides of the trails; logs that seemed to belong there, and because they seemed so appropriately placed and useful, their presence hardly distracted me at all. They were covered with leaves and smaller twigs, and it was without question that they blended in with the nature as though they were any commonplace fallen limb or small tree trunk. Along the way, scattered railroad ties were imbedded across the trail and though they were so obviously man-made and placed, they served a purpose by preventing soil from washing out down the hill.
My mind, caught by surprise at this amazing series of trails in the middle of America’s heartland, a region notorious for its flatness, instinctively employed the memories of my youth and my underused imagination to craft a flurry of ideas. These ideas darted around like tiny hummingbirds; they were ideas on future writings and reminders of past attempts at getting notions down on paper, and my head swooned with the creative energy dashing back and forth and bouncing off of the walls of my mind. I was scarcely able to remember that I was hiking a trail in Missouri, and I felt myself transported to the gently and powerfully rolling mountains of the Shenandoahs or the easing lowlands of the Green Mountains. With all of these memories so readily popping back into the forefront of my consciousness, how could I ever have endured any sort of writer’s block? How could I have allowed myself to not break free of the entanglement of my mundane world?
I followed the trail ahead of me, a trail that wound back and forth and I hadn’t the utmost clue as to where it would lead. I could see a small rivulet making its way through the trees, yet it no longer bore any water along its way; the summer had already entered the driest times and the moss and the mud of the creek beds had withered into crumbly, hard soil. A small bridge, another mark of mankind, crossed over the empty rivulet and as I stepped onto the wooden planks, I knew that my footsteps’ echo would scare away whatever else crouched nearby.
I continued my walk beyond the bridge, an element of the trail that without water over which it should span now looked more ornamental than useful. Tap-tap-tap. I heard from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like the clatter of an unknown person hammering away at some project. Tap-tap-tap. The resounding noise was getting nearer and nearer, and all the while it was quickening. Tap-tap-tap. It was now too quick, the taps too close together to be someone hammering. It was too rhythmical and the taps now sounded more like clicks, perhaps of some bird or beetle. They progressed in a crescendo from a low peeling drum roll into a swift shaking of maracas, yet it abruptly tapered off and all became silent again.
All was silent, that is, save for the chirping of birds and the low roar of traffic and the intruding noise of my footsteps. The distinctive smell of a nearby pond wafted toward my nose; the stagnant water’s odor unmistakable. Some might call it pungent, like a whiff of scum and dead leaves and other bits of filth that one might find in a gutter. Yet, it doesn’t stink to me, nor does it turn me back toward the fragrant flowers and trees toward the top of the hill. The pond was just what I wanted to see, an ideal spot of placidity and ease. My pace quickened with the eagerness of a schoolboy going to recess, not allowed to run yet undeniably walking with ferocity in his gait. As I all but raced down the trail, the sudden flapping of great wings startled me. A deep cry pierced the calm morning air, and the rustling of tree limbs caught my attention. Looking skyward, I was able to see a hawk or a falcon or some other bird of prey soaring away. It was too far gone and too close to the sun for me to have been able to tell for sure what it was, but I knew that its surprise was greater than my own.
I paused for a moment, reflecting upon my first true encounter with wildlife that morning. What beauty it appeared to my eyes I doubt I could effectively describe here. All I can say is that just seeing the great bird escaping from the confines of the trees, the boundaries that keep us all mundane, was enough to make me forget about the petty worries that waited for me back in civilization. My eyes burned as I tried to follow the bird’s path, but the sun shone too brightly and the bird flew too cleverly. When I recovered, the bird was nowhere to be seen, and it had left me alone in the woods with the playful chirping of birds that, although they were lesser-bodied, were just as magnificent in beauty.
I resumed my trek down the unfamiliar path and could only think of the bird and of my disappointment at not getting a better glimpse of it. Yet, as I emerged upon the pond, my eyes must have gleamed with delight. All about the pond I glimpsed such simple elements of the natural world as spider webs, bits of poison ivy, ant hills, and lily pads. A wooden post with the number three painted upon its head rose out of the ground at the clearing where the path passed the pond at its closest point. A cicada’s shell remained attached to the post, its abandoned claws still dug into the wood, perhaps for eternity or at least as long as it could withstand the rain, the wind, or the threat of humanity. Also, there was something about the spider webs that I couldn’t help but to compare with all those other webs I had seen while hiking with my father in the Appalachian Mountains. I wished that the webs had glistened in the morning sun, covered with dew and gleaming as though they were made of silver, their sparkle serving not only as a warning to those weary travelers who might walk into them, but also as a symbol of how nature’s beauty can be found anywhere, especially on an unexpected morning hike. Yet the morning dew did not come that day and there was no warning for the weary traveler. Cobwebs, as dry as the soil beneath my feet, caught on my notebook, in my mouth, and in my hair.
As I swatted away the bits of web from my face and dusted them off my body, I could see the pond glistening in the morning sun and I could see how low the water level really was. Not only had the creek beds run dry, but the area surrounding the pond and the pond itself had also assumed an arid atmosphere. I could see to what heights the pond had formerly reached due to the plentiful rains of the springtime. Then, the level had been quite high, as I could discern from the sparse growth of plants at the pond’s edge. This was a pond that occupied a small crater there in the Missouri woods. All about its perimeter I could see dabbled rings of water ripples; not the ever-growing ones that come from the jumping of a fish or the disturbing impact of a thrown rock, but single rings. And as I noticed more and more rings appearing, rings that suggested a light sprinkle, I could also discern the myriad bugs that darted over the water’s surface, and more specifically, the water bugs that glided along as though they skated on ice.
This outer ring of the pond surrounded a massive growth of water lilies in the middle. All about this ring were little shoots and stalks of water flora. I had observed the outer parts first, yet as the lilies caught my eye, I sought a new angle from which I could view them. A frog cried out, a screech in alarm as I neared the shallows of the pond. He leapt back into the depths of the pond as though he was alerting other denizens of the pond to my presence. He truly was a worthy sentinel to the security of the pond. His scream sounded as shrill and alarming as a child’s harsh yell or squeal. I could see where he had sought security, the spot from which he could remain in the water and at the same time keep his eyes upon me. His head peeked out above the surface, his two great big eyes glancing at me. We sat there in absolute silence as he watched me and I watched him.
Once again, the peace, my beloved calmness and commune with nature, was interrupted by human presence. My attention diverted from my friend the frog-sentinel, and I noticed how the air gradually filled with the voice of some tour guide, some poor fool trying in vain to show a group of school children around the forest. He talked much too loudly for the forest. Perhaps he thought that his volume was necessary so that the kids could hear him over the roar of passing cars, the songs of birds, and the whispers of those other children uninterested in matters of natural beauty. Shut up, man—let them listen! Let the children suck it all in, absorb the very feeling of what the woods is supposed to provide. Let the flies buzz and land and bite and let them not swat at them. Let them hear it all, feel it all, see it all, and breathe it all. Feel for themselves what life is, for how can one learn that lesson by hearing a canned and rehearsed speech and not by mere experience?
The guide’s voice soon faded away as they took a path different from the one I had chosen, and I turned my attention back to the pond. Why do all the lily pads gather toward the middle, I asked myself. They did not favor one side or the other and I found myself wondering if they ever moved with the rising sun or the blowing wind. The great gathering of lily pads gave the impression of being alive, a great green city that thrived and prospered in the middle of the pond. The tallest pads lay more toward the center, although not exactly in the geographic center. Rather, they were spread out, much like today’s great cities, with great bunches sprouted up throughout. They reached skyward as the immense buildings of some futuristic metropolis. Do they always reach up toward the blue sky? No, as toward the perimeter, the outer cluster of pads lay flat, much different from the innermost ones that cupped upwards. Some of these outer ones lay partly submerged, while others were barely afloat. And all around these lilies flew a steady traffic that consisted of annoying mosquitoes, graceful and swift dragonflies, and other buzzing insects darting through the air and flitting from pad one to another.
With all that I am able to note with this remarkable city of green, something lacked. The vista set before me, despite all of the little flittings-about of the pond’s inhabitants, began to look more and more two-dimensional. The longer I sat by the pond, the more of a static image I had in my head. As I had often been instructed as a student, I remembered that a thing’s true beauty can never be appreciated from only a single perspective I stepped over the dried embankment, seeking that new angle from which I could view this city, I noticed how the dirt was covered by long slivers of yellow leaves. The ground abounded with these leaves, which fell even as I moved along the bank. From this new angle I was surprised to see a new aspect of the lily pads, the great pond city, one that I had not seen before. Great white lily blossoms flourished throughout the green and mossy dark water of the pond, white petals that bloomed and absorbed the morning sun’s rays the way the children on their nature walk should have been absorbing the life of the forest.
To invoke an old cliché, one that I truthfully cannot avoid here, I felt as though time had arrived at a standstill the whole while I was at that pond. My little walk through the trees and to the pond, which had begun as a classroom exercise, was nearly over. As I had entered the woods, I was a student seeking solace, a calm place in which I could find a rare muse, one who could take away the mundanity in my life. I had entered the woods in my sandals and nice collared shirt, while my cologne had attracted gnats, ants, and flies as I went. My feet tramped heavily as my hopes and demands impelled me further into the wood. I cursed the trail’s civilization with much disdain, wondering how I could ever be able to find any sort of commune on an adventure that began with concrete and wood chips.
I slowly came to a realization as I went. My pace quickened as the trail angled downhill, yet I was brought to a stop with the simple thrashing wings of a hawk. Even still, as I came to the pond, I still couldn’t begin to decide as to where I should begin with my musings. I had taken off my nice shirt and placed it on the dirt for me to sit on. I kicked off my sandals while I walked around that pond, and that is where everything finally came together.
Despite my inherent love for the natural world and almost anything outdoors, I viewed the morning’s activities with mixed emotions. If I had known beforehand that I would be having the pleasure of tramping through the woods, surely I would have thought twice about wearing flip-flops, a nice collared shirt, and a couple sprays of cologne. Although I was not dressed appropriately for a morning hike, it was an extraordinary surprise for me and it gave rise to myriad memories from my boyhood, so many that I could not possibly hope to address them all here. The trails, which were maintained by the Missouri Department of Conservation and wound through the 745-acre campus of Missouri Western State College, seemed to be a safe destination for me to have chosen on my own escape.
I first arrived at the Regional Department of Conservation office and was both impressed and astonished at what I saw. The brown building was surrounded by numerous flowers whose colors and bouquets tantalized my senses. However, my first steps along the way fell upon concrete slabs and I found myself wondering if those people who regularly maintained the trails had paved the entire way with concrete. The cement marked the exact path. It took the freedom out of the equation by telling whoever walked along it where they should go or toward which direction to wander. It took away from the sense of adventure and I absolutely despised its presence in my nature walk. I soon espied a break in the trees where a single post that bore a painted number one on it marked the beginning of a new path covered with bark and wood chippings. Now even though the bark-covered trail repulsed me less than the concrete did, I had to speculate as to how one could justly expect to find an adequate venture into the woods to absorb as much as the earth had to offer while all the while tramping upon man-made wood chips, an item suitable for a garden or other landscaping feats, but not for a journey through a wood. It was bad enough that the serenity was marred by the steady roar of traffic. Some intruding highway passed nearby and the sounds of cars whizzing by at top speeds nearly caused me to throw my notebook down and scream at the top of my lungs. This near-madness came even closer to fruition when I heard the thumping of bass notes and the rattle of some poorly installed car-speaker system. In my head I screamed, Turn down the bass, asshole! but in reality I simply continued my walk without giving in to my anger.
I was only able to resume my peaceful walk once I had consciously shut out the noise of the cars. Perhaps that was all that I could do, to simply ignore it like some playground bully that is constantly in your face, calling you names, making fun of your clothes, or threatening to beat you up. This disturbance must just be a fact of this life and one that we need to accept. The footpath’s coverings of wood chips did not last long, thankfully. I could scarcely imagine the expense of time, money, and resources that it would take to have properly and completely covered an entire system of trails like that. It would be an exercise in futility for one to do so and to think that rain would not wash it all away!
Although my mind focused too closely and cynically on the dreary artificiality of the trails, they quickly became quite beautiful as I furthered my walk into the forest. Robert Frost and his yellow wood came to mind when I approached a split in the road, one arm leading down toward lesser regions and one leading upward. I had a decision to make at this fork in the road that was marked by a post with the number two painted on it: which road should I take? Either one of them could have been seen as a well-traveled road, so I doubted that the logic of America’s poet would suit me much at that point. So, laying Frost aside and relying on simpler criteria, I decided to take the one that led straight downhill. Again, this way reminded me of past hikes with my father and the various ecological engineering feats failed to escape my observing eyes. I marveled at the sight of expertly placed logs along the lower sides of the trails; logs that seemed to belong there, and because they seemed so appropriately placed and useful, their presence hardly distracted me at all. They were covered with leaves and smaller twigs, and it was without question that they blended in with the nature as though they were any commonplace fallen limb or small tree trunk. Along the way, scattered railroad ties were imbedded across the trail and though they were so obviously man-made and placed, they served a purpose by preventing soil from washing out down the hill.
My mind, caught by surprise at this amazing series of trails in the middle of America’s heartland, a region notorious for its flatness, instinctively employed the memories of my youth and my underused imagination to craft a flurry of ideas. These ideas darted around like tiny hummingbirds; they were ideas on future writings and reminders of past attempts at getting notions down on paper, and my head swooned with the creative energy dashing back and forth and bouncing off of the walls of my mind. I was scarcely able to remember that I was hiking a trail in Missouri, and I felt myself transported to the gently and powerfully rolling mountains of the Shenandoahs or the easing lowlands of the Green Mountains. With all of these memories so readily popping back into the forefront of my consciousness, how could I ever have endured any sort of writer’s block? How could I have allowed myself to not break free of the entanglement of my mundane world?
I followed the trail ahead of me, a trail that wound back and forth and I hadn’t the utmost clue as to where it would lead. I could see a small rivulet making its way through the trees, yet it no longer bore any water along its way; the summer had already entered the driest times and the moss and the mud of the creek beds had withered into crumbly, hard soil. A small bridge, another mark of mankind, crossed over the empty rivulet and as I stepped onto the wooden planks, I knew that my footsteps’ echo would scare away whatever else crouched nearby.
I continued my walk beyond the bridge, an element of the trail that without water over which it should span now looked more ornamental than useful. Tap-tap-tap. I heard from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like the clatter of an unknown person hammering away at some project. Tap-tap-tap. The resounding noise was getting nearer and nearer, and all the while it was quickening. Tap-tap-tap. It was now too quick, the taps too close together to be someone hammering. It was too rhythmical and the taps now sounded more like clicks, perhaps of some bird or beetle. They progressed in a crescendo from a low peeling drum roll into a swift shaking of maracas, yet it abruptly tapered off and all became silent again.
All was silent, that is, save for the chirping of birds and the low roar of traffic and the intruding noise of my footsteps. The distinctive smell of a nearby pond wafted toward my nose; the stagnant water’s odor unmistakable. Some might call it pungent, like a whiff of scum and dead leaves and other bits of filth that one might find in a gutter. Yet, it doesn’t stink to me, nor does it turn me back toward the fragrant flowers and trees toward the top of the hill. The pond was just what I wanted to see, an ideal spot of placidity and ease. My pace quickened with the eagerness of a schoolboy going to recess, not allowed to run yet undeniably walking with ferocity in his gait. As I all but raced down the trail, the sudden flapping of great wings startled me. A deep cry pierced the calm morning air, and the rustling of tree limbs caught my attention. Looking skyward, I was able to see a hawk or a falcon or some other bird of prey soaring away. It was too far gone and too close to the sun for me to have been able to tell for sure what it was, but I knew that its surprise was greater than my own.
I paused for a moment, reflecting upon my first true encounter with wildlife that morning. What beauty it appeared to my eyes I doubt I could effectively describe here. All I can say is that just seeing the great bird escaping from the confines of the trees, the boundaries that keep us all mundane, was enough to make me forget about the petty worries that waited for me back in civilization. My eyes burned as I tried to follow the bird’s path, but the sun shone too brightly and the bird flew too cleverly. When I recovered, the bird was nowhere to be seen, and it had left me alone in the woods with the playful chirping of birds that, although they were lesser-bodied, were just as magnificent in beauty.
I resumed my trek down the unfamiliar path and could only think of the bird and of my disappointment at not getting a better glimpse of it. Yet, as I emerged upon the pond, my eyes must have gleamed with delight. All about the pond I glimpsed such simple elements of the natural world as spider webs, bits of poison ivy, ant hills, and lily pads. A wooden post with the number three painted upon its head rose out of the ground at the clearing where the path passed the pond at its closest point. A cicada’s shell remained attached to the post, its abandoned claws still dug into the wood, perhaps for eternity or at least as long as it could withstand the rain, the wind, or the threat of humanity. Also, there was something about the spider webs that I couldn’t help but to compare with all those other webs I had seen while hiking with my father in the Appalachian Mountains. I wished that the webs had glistened in the morning sun, covered with dew and gleaming as though they were made of silver, their sparkle serving not only as a warning to those weary travelers who might walk into them, but also as a symbol of how nature’s beauty can be found anywhere, especially on an unexpected morning hike. Yet the morning dew did not come that day and there was no warning for the weary traveler. Cobwebs, as dry as the soil beneath my feet, caught on my notebook, in my mouth, and in my hair.
As I swatted away the bits of web from my face and dusted them off my body, I could see the pond glistening in the morning sun and I could see how low the water level really was. Not only had the creek beds run dry, but the area surrounding the pond and the pond itself had also assumed an arid atmosphere. I could see to what heights the pond had formerly reached due to the plentiful rains of the springtime. Then, the level had been quite high, as I could discern from the sparse growth of plants at the pond’s edge. This was a pond that occupied a small crater there in the Missouri woods. All about its perimeter I could see dabbled rings of water ripples; not the ever-growing ones that come from the jumping of a fish or the disturbing impact of a thrown rock, but single rings. And as I noticed more and more rings appearing, rings that suggested a light sprinkle, I could also discern the myriad bugs that darted over the water’s surface, and more specifically, the water bugs that glided along as though they skated on ice.
This outer ring of the pond surrounded a massive growth of water lilies in the middle. All about this ring were little shoots and stalks of water flora. I had observed the outer parts first, yet as the lilies caught my eye, I sought a new angle from which I could view them. A frog cried out, a screech in alarm as I neared the shallows of the pond. He leapt back into the depths of the pond as though he was alerting other denizens of the pond to my presence. He truly was a worthy sentinel to the security of the pond. His scream sounded as shrill and alarming as a child’s harsh yell or squeal. I could see where he had sought security, the spot from which he could remain in the water and at the same time keep his eyes upon me. His head peeked out above the surface, his two great big eyes glancing at me. We sat there in absolute silence as he watched me and I watched him.
Once again, the peace, my beloved calmness and commune with nature, was interrupted by human presence. My attention diverted from my friend the frog-sentinel, and I noticed how the air gradually filled with the voice of some tour guide, some poor fool trying in vain to show a group of school children around the forest. He talked much too loudly for the forest. Perhaps he thought that his volume was necessary so that the kids could hear him over the roar of passing cars, the songs of birds, and the whispers of those other children uninterested in matters of natural beauty. Shut up, man—let them listen! Let the children suck it all in, absorb the very feeling of what the woods is supposed to provide. Let the flies buzz and land and bite and let them not swat at them. Let them hear it all, feel it all, see it all, and breathe it all. Feel for themselves what life is, for how can one learn that lesson by hearing a canned and rehearsed speech and not by mere experience?
The guide’s voice soon faded away as they took a path different from the one I had chosen, and I turned my attention back to the pond. Why do all the lily pads gather toward the middle, I asked myself. They did not favor one side or the other and I found myself wondering if they ever moved with the rising sun or the blowing wind. The great gathering of lily pads gave the impression of being alive, a great green city that thrived and prospered in the middle of the pond. The tallest pads lay more toward the center, although not exactly in the geographic center. Rather, they were spread out, much like today’s great cities, with great bunches sprouted up throughout. They reached skyward as the immense buildings of some futuristic metropolis. Do they always reach up toward the blue sky? No, as toward the perimeter, the outer cluster of pads lay flat, much different from the innermost ones that cupped upwards. Some of these outer ones lay partly submerged, while others were barely afloat. And all around these lilies flew a steady traffic that consisted of annoying mosquitoes, graceful and swift dragonflies, and other buzzing insects darting through the air and flitting from pad one to another.
With all that I am able to note with this remarkable city of green, something lacked. The vista set before me, despite all of the little flittings-about of the pond’s inhabitants, began to look more and more two-dimensional. The longer I sat by the pond, the more of a static image I had in my head. As I had often been instructed as a student, I remembered that a thing’s true beauty can never be appreciated from only a single perspective I stepped over the dried embankment, seeking that new angle from which I could view this city, I noticed how the dirt was covered by long slivers of yellow leaves. The ground abounded with these leaves, which fell even as I moved along the bank. From this new angle I was surprised to see a new aspect of the lily pads, the great pond city, one that I had not seen before. Great white lily blossoms flourished throughout the green and mossy dark water of the pond, white petals that bloomed and absorbed the morning sun’s rays the way the children on their nature walk should have been absorbing the life of the forest.
To invoke an old cliché, one that I truthfully cannot avoid here, I felt as though time had arrived at a standstill the whole while I was at that pond. My little walk through the trees and to the pond, which had begun as a classroom exercise, was nearly over. As I had entered the woods, I was a student seeking solace, a calm place in which I could find a rare muse, one who could take away the mundanity in my life. I had entered the woods in my sandals and nice collared shirt, while my cologne had attracted gnats, ants, and flies as I went. My feet tramped heavily as my hopes and demands impelled me further into the wood. I cursed the trail’s civilization with much disdain, wondering how I could ever be able to find any sort of commune on an adventure that began with concrete and wood chips.
I slowly came to a realization as I went. My pace quickened as the trail angled downhill, yet I was brought to a stop with the simple thrashing wings of a hawk. Even still, as I came to the pond, I still couldn’t begin to decide as to where I should begin with my musings. I had taken off my nice shirt and placed it on the dirt for me to sit on. I kicked off my sandals while I walked around that pond, and that is where everything finally came together.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Top-5 Favorite Films
1--Vanilla Sky: The premise of this film is just fascinating to me. Always found it intriguing. The ambiguity of the end of the film makes me want to watch it more and more, just to analyze it some more.
2--Dead Poets Society: "O Captain, My Captain," "Carpe Diem," "If we shadows have offended..." No other film has influenced me as a teacher as this one has!
3--American Beauty: Great flick with lots of wry humor. It's got a modernist twist to it, kind of reminiscent of Arthur Miller mixed with some F. Scott Fitzgerald.
4--Big Fish: Not sure why, but this is another fantastic teaser for the brain. It's full of symbolism and motifs, and the father-son theme is definitely a draw for me.
5--The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: The epitome of the epic western. The soundtrack, the themes, the characterization... all pure genius.
Runners-Up:
--Tombstone
--With Honors
--Almost Famous
--A River Runs Through It
--Once Upon a Time in the West
--Godfather Trilogy (even Part III)
--Matrix (only the first one)
2--Dead Poets Society: "O Captain, My Captain," "Carpe Diem," "If we shadows have offended..." No other film has influenced me as a teacher as this one has!
3--American Beauty: Great flick with lots of wry humor. It's got a modernist twist to it, kind of reminiscent of Arthur Miller mixed with some F. Scott Fitzgerald.
4--Big Fish: Not sure why, but this is another fantastic teaser for the brain. It's full of symbolism and motifs, and the father-son theme is definitely a draw for me.
5--The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: The epitome of the epic western. The soundtrack, the themes, the characterization... all pure genius.
Runners-Up:
--Tombstone
--With Honors
--Almost Famous
--A River Runs Through It
--Once Upon a Time in the West
--Godfather Trilogy (even Part III)
--Matrix (only the first one)
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Writing for the Sake of Writing
You know, I really have no clue who will be reading this blog, or if anyone will really be reading it.
It's been months since I've had anything posted here. Sometimes I feel like I'm letting someone down by not writing as much. When I think about it, I guess the one who should be disappointed in my lack of writing should be me. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. Writing never was something I used to like sharing.
So I've been busy. I'm just coming off a long wrestling season full of late nights, early mornings, and little free time. On top of that, I've have a bear of a year dealing with grading issues. When I do have free time, the only thing I want to do is have fun with my family -- definitely not isolate myself so I can write. I've got a wife who is absolutely amazing with how much she supports me and a son who is developing faster than I can keep up with him. My wife and son have so many other qualities that I can't even come close to describing them here, but that's a blog entry for another day.
All in all, I guess that this blog is not for anyone else other than myself. If I knew that I had a solid following, I'm sure I would have made time to write. If I had that pressure, I would follow through with my obligation to post regularly.
I like to write, but most of the things running through my mind these days aren't things I should be writing and posting online. Things that might offend others (politics), get me in trouble at work (professional frustrations), or reveal a little too much about how sensitive I may or may not be (getting ready for a major change).
I tried looking up some ideas for blogs on the web, but nothing really sounded that interesting. So I thought, "Why not write about not writing?"
When I write, I feel like I try too hard to sound like "a writer," which gives my notes a forced, artificial sound. I can't stand reading high school or college journalists try to sound like Dave Barry or some other witty and talented pro writer. Hell, so many of the newspaper columnists sound just like that, too. I get started on a piece and then I get sidetracked, asking myself, "What would this idea sound like to so-and-so?"
I've got 40-some notes saved on my Blackberry, but none of them are really worth posting now. Maybe some day I'll post them, but most of them have either passed their time (reactions to current events) or have completely derailed. They're good to keep around, though. Sometime down the road, maybe I'll be able to salvage some ideas for new writings. I have a half-dozen notebooks at home that are full of writings from my college years up to today. It's pretty cool to look back at them and just read the random things I wrote then.
So what will I think when I look back on this entry? Was it just a filler? Was it a rambling batch of nonsense? Does it have anything worth salvaging? We shall see, down the road.
It's been months since I've had anything posted here. Sometimes I feel like I'm letting someone down by not writing as much. When I think about it, I guess the one who should be disappointed in my lack of writing should be me. I doubt if anyone else has noticed. Writing never was something I used to like sharing.
So I've been busy. I'm just coming off a long wrestling season full of late nights, early mornings, and little free time. On top of that, I've have a bear of a year dealing with grading issues. When I do have free time, the only thing I want to do is have fun with my family -- definitely not isolate myself so I can write. I've got a wife who is absolutely amazing with how much she supports me and a son who is developing faster than I can keep up with him. My wife and son have so many other qualities that I can't even come close to describing them here, but that's a blog entry for another day.
All in all, I guess that this blog is not for anyone else other than myself. If I knew that I had a solid following, I'm sure I would have made time to write. If I had that pressure, I would follow through with my obligation to post regularly.
I like to write, but most of the things running through my mind these days aren't things I should be writing and posting online. Things that might offend others (politics), get me in trouble at work (professional frustrations), or reveal a little too much about how sensitive I may or may not be (getting ready for a major change).
I tried looking up some ideas for blogs on the web, but nothing really sounded that interesting. So I thought, "Why not write about not writing?"
When I write, I feel like I try too hard to sound like "a writer," which gives my notes a forced, artificial sound. I can't stand reading high school or college journalists try to sound like Dave Barry or some other witty and talented pro writer. Hell, so many of the newspaper columnists sound just like that, too. I get started on a piece and then I get sidetracked, asking myself, "What would this idea sound like to so-and-so?"
I've got 40-some notes saved on my Blackberry, but none of them are really worth posting now. Maybe some day I'll post them, but most of them have either passed their time (reactions to current events) or have completely derailed. They're good to keep around, though. Sometime down the road, maybe I'll be able to salvage some ideas for new writings. I have a half-dozen notebooks at home that are full of writings from my college years up to today. It's pretty cool to look back at them and just read the random things I wrote then.
So what will I think when I look back on this entry? Was it just a filler? Was it a rambling batch of nonsense? Does it have anything worth salvaging? We shall see, down the road.
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