Paintings in the sky

Today's clouds were paintings waiting to be oiled, watercolored, chalked in, and swept away. I often find myself comparing clouds to paintings, and I sometimes wonder if other people do the same. The clouds dramatically billow and curl, sweeping across the sky in huge columns and curls of white against a perfectly blue background. Yet all I can think of is two-dimensional representations of this beautiful scene and the medium with which to create it.

I understand the impulse to capture beauty. I sometimes live through my camera lens, forgetting to experience what my eyes can see, so that I can relive the moment later. I suppose it is human nature to want to capture beautiful things, to own them in some way. I remember climbing onto the roof of our house when I was a teenager to snap photos of a gloriously orange and pink and gold sunset. I ached, even then, knowing that no matter how many pictures I took, I could never truly have that moment back again. I wanted to make it mine, to remember and cherish, but the full experience of the moment couldn't truly be contained in a 4 x 6 inch print.

So today, as I drove through Utah valley and held my breath while the clouds forms incredible shapes and shadows, I quieted the impulse to make it my own. I held that impulse's hand until it became still, and together we watched and enjoyed and wondered at the art being inspired before our eyes.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #8

I feel like this has been the perfect class to take during my final semester at Chatham. I've taken two other eco-critical courses, and in this course I finally got to take what I've learned and apply it in my writing. I think my other classes were more focused on the issues and the literature, and less on the craft, so here I was able to combine my opinions with writing. My attitudes and views toward nature, the natural world, and the environment have changed pretty drastically since I started this master's program. I was very conservative and not at all environmentally-conscious; now, I am very aware of the relationships between natural world and humans, and I'm aware of how those terms are used and by whom. I feel like I have more questions to ask of any nature or environmental literature that I come across, and I can enter into the dialogue of the genre intelligently. I feel like I've read a pretty wide spread and I'll be able to place any future literature I come across in a context. And I have been making small changes in my day-to-day lifestyle that reflect my increased awareness. I recycle everything that I can, I try not to waste water, I'm conscious of my effect on my environment. I am still conservative, but I've found ways to bridge being conservative and taking action.

I have really appreciated this course and the opportunity to write about places and things that matter to me. I truly believe that place is an important aspect of everyone's life and that exploring it is interesting and fruitful. I've also come to believe that writing about nature and place and environment can be done in really beautiful ways, and as we've talked about in our discussion boards, is a way to get information and ideas about the state of the environment to a large group of people.

Though it wasn't always easy to get down to my "place" for the semester, it was a wonderful experience to observe and examine and at least mentally engage with a single place for an extended period of time. I felt like I got to know it in a way I hadn't before, even though it was already very familiar to me. Writing about it every week was a challenge, but it forced me to get creative in my format and descriptions. The weather was also a big challenge in this assignment because the seasons didn't really change until the very end of the semester. And the blog prompts really helped me to see how many different perspectives there are in writing about any one place. I feel like I've developed a new way of thinking and looking at the whole world, and I'm excited to further this and see how it continues to affect my life and writing. Nature and environmental writing is something I would definitely like to pursue and continue to develop as a skill.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #8

Thursday April 15, 2010 6:30 pm

The hints that have been appearing for weeks--melted snow, new growth red branches, green blades of grass peeking upward--are finally starting to strengthen and grow, combining to create the next phase of Spring. I hadn't noticed the pale green haze that seemed to settle on the lower foothills of the mountains until I was driving north beside Mount Cascade, headed to the mouth of the Provo Canyon. As I drove nearer, it was as if I was zooming in on a pixilated scene, the individual points of color separating out, the defined by the brown spaces between them. Most of the mountains were still hazy with purple-brown-gray branches and bushes, but it was as if, overnight, a subtle layer of growth had seeped into the cracks and crevices.

Last week was another day-to-day battle between winter and spring, and when I had hazarded the drive to my "place," it was through a flurry of light snowflakes. Even as the chill wind hurried me away from the outdoors, I noticed the pinpricks of green raising their heads through the wet snow. The ice was melting steadily from the rock cliffs, but the trail to the waterfall still felt empty and forlorn.

Today, however, the sky was blue, the wind warm, the sun still shining, and spring was in full force. Not much of the dry colors had changed, but the altered surroundings made all the difference. My stroll down the trail to Bridal Veil Falls was almost jaunty and bouncing. I had worn a jacket, but I didn't need it. Provo River's sibilant washing rush overtook most other sounds, and I paused to watch clouds of midges hover over the water's swirling surface. The faint red haze I had detected weeks ago was expanding along the river banks, the bushes putting forth their live branches and buds.

I looked for signs of renewed animal life, but I soon realized that their traces were easier to hide now that the snow was gone. Though the snow had forced most animals into hibernation and hiding, the occasional deer tracks in the snow had been comforting reminders that life still existed during the frozen winter months. I was almost lonely without them. Up ahead of me on the right side of the trail, I noticed a tall pine tree whose branches seemed more agitated than the slight breeze necessitated. The trills and flutes of a single bird reached my ears above the noise of the river, and I felt reassured.

For the first time all semester, there were other people at the falls with me. A large family group arrived at the base of the waterfall just ahead of me, their younger boys running to see how high they could climb of the mountain's sides. A group of teenagers on skateboards passed by, a pair of joggers swung past, and the trail was full of bikers. The parking lot was still closed for the winter, but there were about two dozen cars crowded around the entrance to Bridal Veil Park. I was thrilled to be able to fully enjoy the walk and the weather, but I missed the solitude I had found while I battled the cold.

I stood looking up at Bridal Veil Falls, admiring how it finally resembled the full bridal veil that I was familiar with, the mass of icicles only a dark stain on the rocks. There was still a large mass of packed snow at the bottom of the second cataract, but from this distance it looked dirty and worn, ready to admit defeat and slink quietly away. The wind came off the falls strongly and a gentle sheet of mist-laden air caressed my face. I closed my eyes, ignoring the laughing, chatting groups of people around me, and concentrated on my senses. The sun warmed my skin, seeped into my hair. The smell of cool water made me imagine a dark cave somewhere in the mountains where the water came from. I could hear the tumble and fall of the waterfall, soft compared to the chattering of the Provo River behind me. When I opened my eyes, I saw the dark rocks, the tan and brown branches, the green grass, the blue sky, the glinting falling water, and bright patterns of light on the shallow pond at the bottom of the falls. Spring was all around me; I couldn't practically taste it.

Nature Blog - Prompt Entry #7

I grew up knowing most of the wide variety of plants in the front yard of our house. I don't know how many were there when we moved in, and how many were the careful cultivation of my father, but I learned to recognize their smells, their textures, their colors, and their life cycles. I knew that the deep pink peonies would crack open their buds, revealing a crescent moon of color, before bursting open overnight and always in time for Mother's Day. I watched as our rose bush bloomed from late June to early November some years, inches of snow freezing the pale pink petals. We had chives, thin stems topped by spiky purple balls that looked like a Dr. Seuss creation. And we had a sage plant next to the front porch, pale green leaves, textured and bumpy, looking fuzzy from a distance but rough to the touch.

This sage plant grew exponentially every year, sending up stalks of lavender flowers, star-shaped at their opening and rounding to a bell-like curve at the stem. During the summer months, huge furry bumblebees hovered around the flowers, dipping lazily and flying heavily away in a drunken circle. Sometimes I picked the long stalks to fill an empty quart jar, but usually I pulled just at the leaves. Rubbing my fingers along the rough leaves, I lifted my hand and let the minty fragrance fill my nose and mouth. I plucked the oblong green leaves and chafed my thumb along the patterned top, feeling the spine of the leaf held in my other fingers.

My dad often gathered short branches of the sage plant and tied them together with brown twine to hang up in our kitchen. I thought the small bundle looked pretty, but I was always disappointed at how quickly the dried leaves lost their smell. I loved to pluck a single leaf and carry it with me, putting it on my nightstand, but within a few minutes the delicious fragrance was already fading away, the weight of the leaf melting. It was a smell that always reminded me of home, though, and when my parents moved from Orem to Draper when I was 18, they took part of that sage bush with them and replanted it next to our new house's porch stairs. I was very glad they did; it wouldn't have truly been home without it.

When I was 22, I moved across the country to the beautifully green city of Pittsburgh. I had never been anywhere so lusciously rich with plants and trees, and I was thrilled to watch the leaves turn brilliant colors through the fall months. I was homesick, though, especially during the first few weeks. I missed a lot of things, especially having familiar things around me to anchor me.

One afternoon, I was walked home from the grocery story, two heavy bags of groceries in each hand, trying to hurry to my front door before something--either my arms or the bags--gave out. As I rounded the last corner and started up my block, a familiar pale green caught my eye. I paused, my attention completely caught by the sage plant growing prolifically in my neighbor's yard. It wasn't tall, like our sage plant had been. Instead it grow out, branches combing the ground like vines, but as soon as I reached out and fingered a textured leaf, grocery bags forgotten, I knew that it was my sage, a small piece of home in the middle of Shadyside.

I must have been there for a full five minute, sniffing, touching, breathing, and picking leaves to take back to my house. I was still in awe at my miraculous find when I put my groceries away and went to the top floor to put my leaves on my nightstand. But as I placed them in a careful pile, I could tell that their fresh smell had already dissipated, and I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me.

I knew, though, that I could always go back for more, that when I needed something from the West, I could bury my face and hands in the smell that triggered memories of my childhood, of my home. I couldn't take the fragrance with me, no; but home couldn't come with me, either. It would still be there when I went back, and then I could go back out, armed with dried sage green leaves like a talisman against forgetting where I came from.

Nature Blog - Place Entry #7

Friday April 2, 2010 6:15 pm

(Attempts at poetry...)

Spring/Winter

Monday arrived

and without warning

rained sunshine on my head

warming the earth

until I could feel

Spring.

Tuesday followed

and the earth disappeared

mountains

hills

trees

sky

in a cloud of dust

masquerading as mist.

Wednesday brought a gasp

of delight

and horror:

snow!?

Voluptuous flakes,

swinging wide,

landing lightly,

melting with the faintest trace of

Winter.

Thursday's mountains

were crystallized

and sprinkled

lightly with

powdered

sugar or

dust.

Friday was today

and the views were spectacular.

Every angle was a postcard

of snow-covered mountain peaks

and dramatic clouds

that filled and billowed until

the sky was moving.

Like pencil drawings that the artist

had attempted to erase,

their edges blurred and smudged

across the sky of paper,

rubbing until they ripped through

and dark blue spread

across the light. I meet my waterfall

in the darkened sun

and find it

changed.

Frosted

at the tips

but roaring

and rushing

and surging

and pitching forward

until it pools under snow.

It is new and yet so familiar.

Spring.