My experience in this Nature and Environmental Writing class has been life-changing, to say the least. It has certainly been one of the best classes I've ever taken. It has not changed much about my relationship to nature, merely the ways in which I go about expressing it, approaching it. But it has certainly been profound.
I have loved this blog. I have loved the excuse to get out of my apartment and really experience-- in-depth-- a part of the city which I might otherwise have cast aside. I have loved the opportunity to create a new home for myself, something I was unable to do in the past two years until now, when this blog helped me give fully to that commitment. I have loved the words and emotions this blog has generated from within me.
I have learned a lot about myself and my relationship with nature. For one, I realized that childlike intensity is still inside my heart and mind. I can bring it forth, delve into that mindset, with the right environment. I have realized that I got burnt-out on nature. I liken it to working in a doughnut shop. The longer you work there, the more likely you are to start hating doughnuts (hard as that may be to process!). I have worked outside for most of my adult life, and I just stopped seeing it, experiencing it, relishing in it, at least completely consciously. While I always enjoyed it, I rarely focused on that. This class has given me a chance to express a lot which has been supressed within me.
I have also learned that, yes, I am a nature writer. I remember receiving word that I had been accepted to Chatham's MFA program. I wondered, for a brief, insecure moment, how ithad happened. How did I get into a program which focuses on place-based, nature and environmental writing? I brushed it aside, but never really answered that for myself until this semester, what with putting together my thesis and taking this class. Now I know. I am a nature writer!
I have also learned how to approach nature, a place, on the terms of a writer. I have had the luxury of getting to know an unfamiliar place, of discovering its quirks as it has allowed me. Now, I remember the quirks of South Carolina. I want to go home, to see it from a fresh perspective. I want to see and know every place in the world in the same way I've been able to see and know Homewood Cemetery here.
I have also learned that my colleagues (including you, Mel!) are incredible. Their writing and discussion comments have been inspiring. They have pushed me to see differently than what I might see myself. They have pushed me to reconsider and rethink my own views, whether to reinforce them or to alter them. They have listened to me and allowed me to open up, supported me and nurtured me, allowed me to grow in all the ways I most needed at this important juncture of academia and Life.
And finally, I have learned that this is indeed what I love. This discussion, this writing, these readings have been some of the best I've had in graduate school. As if I needed it, my passion has been solidified.
I am not sure if I will keep this blog going. I would like to, as it has been invaluable. But I know myself, and I may not be able to keep up. If I do, I might move it to a different platform, and I will certainly open it up to more than just these few perspectives, ideas, and issues. It will encompass all of me.
Frankly, this is the class of the semester which makes me mourn my graduation. I'm going to miss it so much. I have loved it beyond these pitiful words. Thank you all for everything you have done for me and brought forth from me. I will truly never forget!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Cemetery Cycle - Place Prompt #7
**Author's Note: Pictures will be added to this post at a later date. For now, enjoy the words.**
Let's do away with the formalities, shall we? None of that date here, time there, weather and temp this and that. We are old friends now, and instead of shaking hands, we hug and kiss cheeks.
Life is a series of patterns. The general way of things happens. Things flow forward, seemingly straight and horizontal. One day, the general way ends up back where it once began. Things repeat their flow, even with a bit of a skew, even with a lot of skew. They are still the same things as before. The cycle is circular. Sometimes I wonder why we cannot feel it when we slide down the far side.
Today the cycle is complete. It is not my last time here, but rather it is the beginning of a new relationship outside of this blog required for a grade in one of the last academic classes I'll ever take. I will return, this time without external motivation, because Homewood Cemetery is a new sort of home, a new sort of retreat, a place which envelopes me in its nature and gives to me when I rarely give back anything but my presence, my thoughts, my typed words. Things will move forward and I will continue to visit, without external motivators. There will be a slightly altered state between us, but not for the worst. It shall go on.
So it makes sense to me that today I see Homewood in the glory of what I first saw it in: precipitation. That first visit those short, quick months ago was in snow. The second in rain. Today, we embrace the tears of the sky again. Perhaps this time the sky weeps for the change in our relationship, never easy, but not always bad. And today it is good.
I finally see what this is all for. There is a funeral which disbands soon after I drive through the black wrought-iron gates by the discolored, weathered bricks of a building. In the distance there is a hearse, guests dressed in black with heads bowed, a fresh plot of dirt in the otherwise green curve of the hill's hip. Maybe this is what the sky mourns. It is the first funeral I've seen since coming to visit. And still, the cycle of peeling apart layers continues. One would think this relatively obvious layer would have been one of the first to be discovered, not the last. Or the last for now. I long to take a photo-- I am far away and the scene is movie-esque, beautiful in that intimate way, but I resist. I respect this place as it shows me perhaps the innermost part of itself.
Instead, I drive on, unsure of where to go. I realize that I no longer fear getting lost. These narrow roads, sometimes crumbling, have all become familiar. I know my way around without a map now. I have been here. And here. And here. I remember this. And this. And this. I stop to photograph an amazing green-tarnished relief on a huge stone behind a pillar surrounded by a circle of graves. It is strange, a crop circle, some odd occult set-up, and superb.
As I drive the roads, listening to mind.in.a.box's Lost Alone, singing just below my breath "I feel sad, so left alone. Words are not enough for me to go on" to the trancy EBM beat, I see it. I see what the cemetery wants to show me today.
It is a large tree, cracked into spiky shards at the very base of its trunk, fallen onto the graves downhill from it. It shrouds these graves, has dislodged some of the stones surrounding it, but is holds them close in its embracing branches. I work my way down the hill. I try not to step on the graves, but I know I do anyway. I rush to this tree. It pulls my heartstrings right to it.
I spend 30 minutes or more photographing this one tree. I get on my knees and peer up through it. I stand at the top of the hill and look down on it. I sit on limbs after I test their stability, photograph gravestones between other limbs. I photograph the little grave stone which sits rightat the base of the trunk, right below the crack. It sinks into the red-brown dirt, muddy from the moisture. I photograph it, the tree bent over it. I photograph the trunk, the bright green moss against the backdrop of grays and browns in the bark. I photograph the age rings of a branch. And then, I look up into the severed trunk of the tree.
This is what the inside of a tree looks like. This is what its organs are made of. This sawdust, this hollow drilled up its spine. It shows me its excruciatingly resplendent bowels, spreads itself wide open before me, a great, organic yaw with a spiked cowl, the most private and personal parts it could ever impress in my mind's eye-- its insides. This is what the cemetery has for me today. We have become this close that I may make love to the very core of its fibers.
And thus the cycle of this cemetery, the tree and funeral offering their death to me after I strove so hard to pick at its life. And this, this is what I came here for. The beauty of the decay. It took a while, but we're finally on that level. I can't wait to continue to discover the nuances of our intimacy from here.
"The world around me starts to spin. Suddenly it starts all over..."
-- "Hold My Ground"
Funker Vogt
Let's do away with the formalities, shall we? None of that date here, time there, weather and temp this and that. We are old friends now, and instead of shaking hands, we hug and kiss cheeks.
Life is a series of patterns. The general way of things happens. Things flow forward, seemingly straight and horizontal. One day, the general way ends up back where it once began. Things repeat their flow, even with a bit of a skew, even with a lot of skew. They are still the same things as before. The cycle is circular. Sometimes I wonder why we cannot feel it when we slide down the far side.
Today the cycle is complete. It is not my last time here, but rather it is the beginning of a new relationship outside of this blog required for a grade in one of the last academic classes I'll ever take. I will return, this time without external motivation, because Homewood Cemetery is a new sort of home, a new sort of retreat, a place which envelopes me in its nature and gives to me when I rarely give back anything but my presence, my thoughts, my typed words. Things will move forward and I will continue to visit, without external motivators. There will be a slightly altered state between us, but not for the worst. It shall go on.
So it makes sense to me that today I see Homewood in the glory of what I first saw it in: precipitation. That first visit those short, quick months ago was in snow. The second in rain. Today, we embrace the tears of the sky again. Perhaps this time the sky weeps for the change in our relationship, never easy, but not always bad. And today it is good.
I finally see what this is all for. There is a funeral which disbands soon after I drive through the black wrought-iron gates by the discolored, weathered bricks of a building. In the distance there is a hearse, guests dressed in black with heads bowed, a fresh plot of dirt in the otherwise green curve of the hill's hip. Maybe this is what the sky mourns. It is the first funeral I've seen since coming to visit. And still, the cycle of peeling apart layers continues. One would think this relatively obvious layer would have been one of the first to be discovered, not the last. Or the last for now. I long to take a photo-- I am far away and the scene is movie-esque, beautiful in that intimate way, but I resist. I respect this place as it shows me perhaps the innermost part of itself.
Instead, I drive on, unsure of where to go. I realize that I no longer fear getting lost. These narrow roads, sometimes crumbling, have all become familiar. I know my way around without a map now. I have been here. And here. And here. I remember this. And this. And this. I stop to photograph an amazing green-tarnished relief on a huge stone behind a pillar surrounded by a circle of graves. It is strange, a crop circle, some odd occult set-up, and superb.
As I drive the roads, listening to mind.in.a.box's Lost Alone, singing just below my breath "I feel sad, so left alone. Words are not enough for me to go on" to the trancy EBM beat, I see it. I see what the cemetery wants to show me today.
It is a large tree, cracked into spiky shards at the very base of its trunk, fallen onto the graves downhill from it. It shrouds these graves, has dislodged some of the stones surrounding it, but is holds them close in its embracing branches. I work my way down the hill. I try not to step on the graves, but I know I do anyway. I rush to this tree. It pulls my heartstrings right to it.
I spend 30 minutes or more photographing this one tree. I get on my knees and peer up through it. I stand at the top of the hill and look down on it. I sit on limbs after I test their stability, photograph gravestones between other limbs. I photograph the little grave stone which sits rightat the base of the trunk, right below the crack. It sinks into the red-brown dirt, muddy from the moisture. I photograph it, the tree bent over it. I photograph the trunk, the bright green moss against the backdrop of grays and browns in the bark. I photograph the age rings of a branch. And then, I look up into the severed trunk of the tree.
This is what the inside of a tree looks like. This is what its organs are made of. This sawdust, this hollow drilled up its spine. It shows me its excruciatingly resplendent bowels, spreads itself wide open before me, a great, organic yaw with a spiked cowl, the most private and personal parts it could ever impress in my mind's eye-- its insides. This is what the cemetery has for me today. We have become this close that I may make love to the very core of its fibers.
And thus the cycle of this cemetery, the tree and funeral offering their death to me after I strove so hard to pick at its life. And this, this is what I came here for. The beauty of the decay. It took a while, but we're finally on that level. I can't wait to continue to discover the nuances of our intimacy from here.
"The world around me starts to spin. Suddenly it starts all over..."
-- "Hold My Ground"
Funker Vogt
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Duality - Blog Prompt #6
It was the best place. Kiawah Island, a barrier island off of South Carolina's Atlantic coast and about an hour away from the artsy, historic city of Charleston, was the best place I've ever visited. Home to the Kiawah Island Golf Resort, the 13.5 square miles of the island is only accessible by bridge and then by special permit provided to residents, vacationers with reservations, and guests on a special guest list, which is checked by security at the gated entrance to the island--the only entrance and exit available.
Residential homeowners, 98% white and 100% filthy rich, drive the one main road of the island, past the resort, to the northern part of the island, where their enormous mansions are protected from vacationers by a second gated security checkpoint, but if said vacationers are riding rented touring bicycles on a bicycle path, they can pass through without stopping to gape at the homes they'll likely never afford except in their quaint American dreams. So why, then, would I, a person so opposed to corporate monopoly and "the 1%" adore this place?
It's not a tourist attraction in the usual sense. It's a nature preserve. Through the Kiawah Island Natural Habitat Conservancy, there are protections on the marshes, the beaches, the flora and fauna. Life takes on a different stride here. It becomes that laid-back, Southern island life one might expect. Most people use bicycles to get around. The beaches are pristine and never overpopulated. Deer abound in the woods and marshes. Hundreds of species of birds are within sight or earshot at all times. Alligators share the bike paths which wind around their marshy ponds. Raccoons, foxes, opossums, bobcats, coyotes, rabbits, squirrels, snakes, toads, frogs, salamanders, loggerhead turtles, egrets, herons, eagles, and hundreds of other types of animal life abound on the island. There are forests, marshes, beaches, dunes, ponds, streams, and of course the ocean. Life slows down when sharing a vacation with nature.
My family has taken vacations to the resort island sparsely, as it is expensive but definitely worthwhile. We kayak, swim, read, laze about in the sun, ride bicycles, cook out, visit the resort restaurant where we ask the chef for his special recipe for sausage gravy. We go crabbing and catch blue crabs in the Kiawah River which we bring home and make into Lowcountry Boil. We sit on the balcony of our condominum at night and listen to the tree frogs while we wonder about the loggerhead turtles laying their eggs in the dunes.
We do not bother with time, cell phones, the internet, or television here. We do not ask if we can come and go. We simply come and go when we please. We spend all day outdoors exploring every inch of the island from the watchtowers we climb to peer over the marshes to the manicured lawns of mansions on the northern part of the island. This is where nature has become the sublime.
How, then, could this also be the place of my nightmares? How could this place have ruined my life? And why would I be so desperate to get back after several years?
I didn't know when we were there. It wasn't until hindsight showed me. He met someone there, someone he stayed in contact with behind my back as I pretended we would get married. And when I found out, I hated Kiawah Island more than I've ever hated any place, any nature, in my entire life. I never wanted to see it ever again.
Though I have no bad memories from that last visit, my emotions skewed the way I thought of the island. I despised the happiness it brought, the out-of-towners who pranced around in skimpy bikinis and stole boyfriends from long-term relationships. I despised the families with young girls, the homewreckers. The nature could not save the face of the island in my mind and heart. I never wanted to return ever again. How could such a paradise lead to the biggest emotional breakdown of my entire emotional-fractured life?
Now, a year and a half out from my discovery, on the brink of the biggest achievement of my life, I long to return. I want to save the island from my personal vendetta. I want to see it in its beauty, in its entirety. I want to separate the plants and animals of my heaven from the anger and hatred of my hell. I must face my fears. I think of the Litany against Fear from the Dune novels: "I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death which brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
Only I will remain, with the alligators and hawks, the saltwater sea breezes and the bivalves, the horseshoe crabs and the endangered loggerhead turtles. We will all lay our eggs in the dunes, protected by the lights-out ordinance so our creations can find their way to the sea.
Residential homeowners, 98% white and 100% filthy rich, drive the one main road of the island, past the resort, to the northern part of the island, where their enormous mansions are protected from vacationers by a second gated security checkpoint, but if said vacationers are riding rented touring bicycles on a bicycle path, they can pass through without stopping to gape at the homes they'll likely never afford except in their quaint American dreams. So why, then, would I, a person so opposed to corporate monopoly and "the 1%" adore this place?
It's not a tourist attraction in the usual sense. It's a nature preserve. Through the Kiawah Island Natural Habitat Conservancy, there are protections on the marshes, the beaches, the flora and fauna. Life takes on a different stride here. It becomes that laid-back, Southern island life one might expect. Most people use bicycles to get around. The beaches are pristine and never overpopulated. Deer abound in the woods and marshes. Hundreds of species of birds are within sight or earshot at all times. Alligators share the bike paths which wind around their marshy ponds. Raccoons, foxes, opossums, bobcats, coyotes, rabbits, squirrels, snakes, toads, frogs, salamanders, loggerhead turtles, egrets, herons, eagles, and hundreds of other types of animal life abound on the island. There are forests, marshes, beaches, dunes, ponds, streams, and of course the ocean. Life slows down when sharing a vacation with nature.
My family has taken vacations to the resort island sparsely, as it is expensive but definitely worthwhile. We kayak, swim, read, laze about in the sun, ride bicycles, cook out, visit the resort restaurant where we ask the chef for his special recipe for sausage gravy. We go crabbing and catch blue crabs in the Kiawah River which we bring home and make into Lowcountry Boil. We sit on the balcony of our condominum at night and listen to the tree frogs while we wonder about the loggerhead turtles laying their eggs in the dunes.
We do not bother with time, cell phones, the internet, or television here. We do not ask if we can come and go. We simply come and go when we please. We spend all day outdoors exploring every inch of the island from the watchtowers we climb to peer over the marshes to the manicured lawns of mansions on the northern part of the island. This is where nature has become the sublime.
How, then, could this also be the place of my nightmares? How could this place have ruined my life? And why would I be so desperate to get back after several years?
I didn't know when we were there. It wasn't until hindsight showed me. He met someone there, someone he stayed in contact with behind my back as I pretended we would get married. And when I found out, I hated Kiawah Island more than I've ever hated any place, any nature, in my entire life. I never wanted to see it ever again.
Though I have no bad memories from that last visit, my emotions skewed the way I thought of the island. I despised the happiness it brought, the out-of-towners who pranced around in skimpy bikinis and stole boyfriends from long-term relationships. I despised the families with young girls, the homewreckers. The nature could not save the face of the island in my mind and heart. I never wanted to return ever again. How could such a paradise lead to the biggest emotional breakdown of my entire emotional-fractured life?
Now, a year and a half out from my discovery, on the brink of the biggest achievement of my life, I long to return. I want to save the island from my personal vendetta. I want to see it in its beauty, in its entirety. I want to separate the plants and animals of my heaven from the anger and hatred of my hell. I must face my fears. I think of the Litany against Fear from the Dune novels: "I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death which brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
Only I will remain, with the alligators and hawks, the saltwater sea breezes and the bivalves, the horseshoe crabs and the endangered loggerhead turtles. We will all lay our eggs in the dunes, protected by the lights-out ordinance so our creations can find their way to the sea.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Cemetery Surprise - Place Prompt #6
Sunday, April 1, 2012 - 1:28 PM - 58 degrees - partly cloudy and warm with a soft wind
I dig my fingernails into the ground, cake the dirt beneath them. I pull up the plant, cut into the rind with those same nails, and peel to see what's beneath, peel again to see what's beneath that, keep peeling until the pulp of it, juicy and wet with a slight floral fragrance, makes mud of the soil at the tips of my fingers. This is how I discover the nature of Homewood Cemetery, like fruit in my hands.
Today, I want to revisit the first pond I found during my initial visit to the cemetery. Mainly I want to see the weeping willow again, thanks to a post by a fellow student which mentions their mythology. But it happens to be right beside the pond, and I know much will have changed between the cold, cloudy winter day on which I first saw it and today.
Movement to the left. There are bodies, two of them, with arched black necks and faces striped with white cheeks. Canadian geese-- I know them well from the flocks that hunker through the winter at the YMCA pond back home in South Carolina. I grin at the connection, feel as if I am an old friend to this place which now gives me little gems to spark my memories, good emotions. Homewood and I are more than acquaintances now, and we can have these private moments together. Homewood might have peeled some layers on me, too.
A splash. Something has glopped into the pond near my feet. I don't see it, but I notice the abundance of lily pads lazing on the water, sunning themselves beside the reflections of cottonball clouds and fresh trees. Were they here before? I don't remember them, though I'm sure they were. I wonder why I didn't make the connection between them and my horse pond in SC before. We have those, too.
As I stare at the wavy trees and shift the focus of my eyes from their reflection on the surface to the muddy browness beneath the pond, I see an orange fish flutter by. It looks like some sort of koi, and I wish I could jump in and take a picture. I imagine how the fish flies through the water, much like the grackles and robins which sprint from tree to tree above me. I hear their calls, bright, alert, confident.
A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. There is a woodpecker somewhere in a section of trees farther down the lane from where I am by the pond. I think of tracking it down, wonder if it is a red-headed woodpecker like the ones back home. Everything reminds me of home today, and I realize it might be because this is my new home now. I know I will be here beyond graduation now, and perhaps these happy little connections whisper to me, "It's okay."
Before I can make the decision to go, though, something else catches my eye. Another kerplunk into the pond, and I see frog legs dart swiftly, stretched behind the thick body, beneath the lily pads.
I am making my way around the pond. There are two boys coming around the pond in the other direction, and once we are on the same side, they stop, staring into the thick of reeds at the back of the pond. I hear a rustle between the dry stalks and look as two turtles rush into the water. The boys laugh, and I wonder if they had anything to do with the hustle of the turtles. It annoys me, but I can't make assumptions. I walk closer to them and they take the hint, see my raised camera as if I'm waiting to take a picture but they are in the shot, and begin walking past me. They don't know I actually took a picture of them.
I rest at the edge of the pond where they had stood, see one of the turtles floating in the middle. The red and yellow stripes on the sides of its head are familiar. It's a red-eared slider, and again, I've seen plenty back home.
As I continue my slow meander around the pond, I pass the reeds, which still look sound, still sound decayed, hollow with the wind. They look like giant matchsticks with the fuzzy heads on their stalks, and I know they'd go up in flame quite readily, too.
On the other side of the pond, another red-eared slider. I sit on the edge of the pond in front of the weeping willow, which I've saved for last. Honeybees buzz around me, play tag with delicate white butterflies which land in the mud, seem to eat from it. I consider how this goopy brown substance as a background only makes their whiteness sparkle more.
And then the weeping willow. I duck beneath and between the strands of its branches, peer out to see what this tree sees everyday.
I peer at its gnarled trunk which only gives it more of an elderly, wise appearance.
Under the falling strands of the tree, it is quiet, shady. They seem to block out some of the harshness of reality-- the bright, the loud, the very realness of everything. Flies and gnats buzz, and it smells like a bouquet of flowers though none are near.
I decide to head back to the car after spending some time peeking at gravestones behind the flexible limbs. I walk up the hill, my visit complete. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an old drainpipe, red and crumbled. I can look up the pipe, and were I to walk up the hill a few steps, I could look down into the other half of it. I only notice it in passing, as it's one of those examples of decay I love-- these things stand out to me.
But then movement makes me stop. I saw something gray withdraw into it. I am sure it's some kind of bird; I see what must be fluffy gray down from a puffed, fat young bird. I see it again, but it looks more like a rabbit.
I wait, and then it pops out again. It's not a bird at all. It's a groundhog! I am excited because I've never seen one in real life and I am so close to this one (within a yard or two). We play hide-and-seek for several minutes. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. I take his picture each time, demanding that at least one turn out well.
I then leave him to his privacy and mosey up the hill, head home. I love this getting to know, this becoming acquainted, this dating of the cemetery. And now that I will stay here in Pittsburgh a while longer, I think I'm ready to call this a second home.
I dig my fingernails into the ground, cake the dirt beneath them. I pull up the plant, cut into the rind with those same nails, and peel to see what's beneath, peel again to see what's beneath that, keep peeling until the pulp of it, juicy and wet with a slight floral fragrance, makes mud of the soil at the tips of my fingers. This is how I discover the nature of Homewood Cemetery, like fruit in my hands.
Movement to the left. There are bodies, two of them, with arched black necks and faces striped with white cheeks. Canadian geese-- I know them well from the flocks that hunker through the winter at the YMCA pond back home in South Carolina. I grin at the connection, feel as if I am an old friend to this place which now gives me little gems to spark my memories, good emotions. Homewood and I are more than acquaintances now, and we can have these private moments together. Homewood might have peeled some layers on me, too.
A splash. Something has glopped into the pond near my feet. I don't see it, but I notice the abundance of lily pads lazing on the water, sunning themselves beside the reflections of cottonball clouds and fresh trees. Were they here before? I don't remember them, though I'm sure they were. I wonder why I didn't make the connection between them and my horse pond in SC before. We have those, too.
As I stare at the wavy trees and shift the focus of my eyes from their reflection on the surface to the muddy browness beneath the pond, I see an orange fish flutter by. It looks like some sort of koi, and I wish I could jump in and take a picture. I imagine how the fish flies through the water, much like the grackles and robins which sprint from tree to tree above me. I hear their calls, bright, alert, confident.
A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. There is a woodpecker somewhere in a section of trees farther down the lane from where I am by the pond. I think of tracking it down, wonder if it is a red-headed woodpecker like the ones back home. Everything reminds me of home today, and I realize it might be because this is my new home now. I know I will be here beyond graduation now, and perhaps these happy little connections whisper to me, "It's okay."
Before I can make the decision to go, though, something else catches my eye. Another kerplunk into the pond, and I see frog legs dart swiftly, stretched behind the thick body, beneath the lily pads.
I am making my way around the pond. There are two boys coming around the pond in the other direction, and once we are on the same side, they stop, staring into the thick of reeds at the back of the pond. I hear a rustle between the dry stalks and look as two turtles rush into the water. The boys laugh, and I wonder if they had anything to do with the hustle of the turtles. It annoys me, but I can't make assumptions. I walk closer to them and they take the hint, see my raised camera as if I'm waiting to take a picture but they are in the shot, and begin walking past me. They don't know I actually took a picture of them.
I rest at the edge of the pond where they had stood, see one of the turtles floating in the middle. The red and yellow stripes on the sides of its head are familiar. It's a red-eared slider, and again, I've seen plenty back home.
As I continue my slow meander around the pond, I pass the reeds, which still look sound, still sound decayed, hollow with the wind. They look like giant matchsticks with the fuzzy heads on their stalks, and I know they'd go up in flame quite readily, too.
On the other side of the pond, another red-eared slider. I sit on the edge of the pond in front of the weeping willow, which I've saved for last. Honeybees buzz around me, play tag with delicate white butterflies which land in the mud, seem to eat from it. I consider how this goopy brown substance as a background only makes their whiteness sparkle more.
And then the weeping willow. I duck beneath and between the strands of its branches, peer out to see what this tree sees everyday.
I peer at its gnarled trunk which only gives it more of an elderly, wise appearance.
Under the falling strands of the tree, it is quiet, shady. They seem to block out some of the harshness of reality-- the bright, the loud, the very realness of everything. Flies and gnats buzz, and it smells like a bouquet of flowers though none are near.
I decide to head back to the car after spending some time peeking at gravestones behind the flexible limbs. I walk up the hill, my visit complete. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an old drainpipe, red and crumbled. I can look up the pipe, and were I to walk up the hill a few steps, I could look down into the other half of it. I only notice it in passing, as it's one of those examples of decay I love-- these things stand out to me.
But then movement makes me stop. I saw something gray withdraw into it. I am sure it's some kind of bird; I see what must be fluffy gray down from a puffed, fat young bird. I see it again, but it looks more like a rabbit.
I wait, and then it pops out again. It's not a bird at all. It's a groundhog! I am excited because I've never seen one in real life and I am so close to this one (within a yard or two). We play hide-and-seek for several minutes. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. I take his picture each time, demanding that at least one turn out well.
I then leave him to his privacy and mosey up the hill, head home. I love this getting to know, this becoming acquainted, this dating of the cemetery. And now that I will stay here in Pittsburgh a while longer, I think I'm ready to call this a second home.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Emotive Powers - Blog Prompt #5
When I cry, it rains. Every major distressing life event I've experienced has been capped with grayness, oppressive clouds bearing down on the ground in an effort to become one with the earth, to suffocate me, to give in to my wishes.
With my tears, I control the atmosphere, give hardier physicality to the tiny, personal, and ultimately worthless drops of salty water that trail my cheeks, stain my lips brighter with their moisture, a crude lip gloss. They do not satisfy me. They are not enough.
I must escape the binds of my own body, bring my emotion to the masses of air and cloud, move them with my hefty shudders, the puffs of sigh escaping from my mouth. I must become something bigger than myself, than what plagues me. I must give it to my land, drive the cycle, give growth to what surrounds me even as I shrivel myself, drain all my waters into the ground, let it soak the life from within me, give it up to the sky until the stuffing bursts open, falls to the ground again.
Is it an heaving cry? Let there be thunder, mimic the groans of grief from my belly! Let there be lightning, imitate my flashes of memory in their destruction! Is it an angry cry? Let there be hail, mime the pounding of pain through my head! Let there be wind, tornado or hurricane, enact the rampant flutter of my heart as it explodes in my chest! Is it a soft, silent cry? Let there be sprinkles or glitters of snow, blanket and cleanse my soul.
Or is it a joyful cry? Let there be life from whence these tears stream. I'll find a field, crank up my music, dance for hours in trance on my own. For I am the Goddess of Rain. It is I who bring the waters or drought.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Cemetery Awakening - Place Prompt #5
Saturday, March 17, 2012 - 12:36 PM - 67 degrees - sunny,
warm, and breezy
Today I decide to be stationary. Each time I’ve come to the cemetery, I have moved, walked around or mulled about, sometimes for hours. Today, it is warm, the sun shining from a crispy blue sky, and it’s a lot like spring, almost summer even. I want to sit in the sun, feel the warmth of it, laze about, take in just one particular view of the cemetery as its life is more alive than in winter.
There are birds sounding everywhere. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced here before, that flat, motionless, lifeless terrain I described in my first visit. I’ve come to an aviary, but I cannot see the birds. They want me to listen, to enjoy their music. I wish now that I had been schooled in picking out the calls of various birds so as to know which are with me today. I know some, but they are in South Carolina. I can tell you what a mockingbird sounds like as it dips and dives onto Ticky Tac to protect its territory; I can describe the buzz of hummingbird wings, so close in memory that I can almost hear it right beside me.
I look down, to the left, from the weathered concrete bench on which I sit, overlooking the steep drop and rise of the cemetery before me.
The grass is short and green, except for patches where it has grown taller, somewhat ragged, but still bright. A fat bee buzzes in one of these right beside my leg. I don’t draw back like many people might. Years of working at the barn have made me accustomed to certain insects, like these bees, and other“creepy crawlies”-- giant writing spiders, snakes and skinks. I feel anaffinity towards this bee, wish there were flowers near for him.
I turn to survey the land beside and behind me. Most of the trees are still skeletal, save for the evergreens. But I notice a tree in bright pink bloom hanging over the edge of the drive to my left.
To my right, in the distance, there is a bush that is blossoming white flowers that remind me of daisies upon closer inspection, though I know they're not.
I notice the weeping willow which I had seen on my first visit, remember how its strands were brown. They are green now.
I would like to see all of the trees full and bushy. They don’t look like they’ll ever grow green again, even in this awakening of life.
There are birds that have flown to the grasses before me, allowing them to see me now. They hop around, fly into one another, chirp. I think they are robins, but the sun is in front of me and they are more like shadows from this angle. One lone bird has flown to a patch of shadow beneath the bare, angular limbs of a tree, sits alone, seems to do what I am doing—contemplating the land. This one is definitely a robin. I know from the way it moves in the grass before I see its red breast. They were all around in my suburban yard while I was growing up. My attention is drawn to the shadow in which it sits, a dark reflection of the skeleton growing above it. I realize I love the shadows of these trees as much as the trees themselves.
As much as I like this cemetery, the way it is more alive, and how I can see differences from all of the past times I have visited, part of me misses the cold, seemingly lifeless place with which I first became familiar, the way I had to patiently wait for it to divulge its layers. Change is difficult, they say, and even such a change, which many would assume to be a good one, is somewhat sad to me, makes me nostalgic. Still, I do like seeing the evolution of this cemetery. It's amazing that this is the same place in the photos I took before.
Today, human life in the cemetery is much more apparent as well. There is a group of people walking in exercise gear and sunglasses. Several cars have passed near me in the cemetery proper, not just on South Dallas Avenue to my right. And yet more people walk by. It’s strange to see a place of death come to life, sustain it. It’s also strange for this cemetery to be so open to public use. No one is afraid of the dead here.
The sun starts to burn my arms. I can feel the heat from my skin as I’ve sat on this bench for a while now. The breeze sends ripples through the taller patches of grasses and seems to blow on me to cool the burn, much like my mother would do when she poured hydrogen peroxide on my cuts. I wonder what it is about the sun that makes people feel lazy, the breeze that makes people calm, want to let their hair down to feel it runs its fingers through their hair. I wonder now about this place, how much it reminds me of South Carolina, how it’s that same sun and a similar breeze, the same sky which nurtures me there, 600 miles away. I’d love to be at the barn today. I can almost feel the muscular sway of my horse beneath me as we laze through the woods. But I've got a thesis due on Tuesday!
Today I decide to be stationary. Each time I’ve come to the cemetery, I have moved, walked around or mulled about, sometimes for hours. Today, it is warm, the sun shining from a crispy blue sky, and it’s a lot like spring, almost summer even. I want to sit in the sun, feel the warmth of it, laze about, take in just one particular view of the cemetery as its life is more alive than in winter.
There are birds sounding everywhere. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced here before, that flat, motionless, lifeless terrain I described in my first visit. I’ve come to an aviary, but I cannot see the birds. They want me to listen, to enjoy their music. I wish now that I had been schooled in picking out the calls of various birds so as to know which are with me today. I know some, but they are in South Carolina. I can tell you what a mockingbird sounds like as it dips and dives onto Ticky Tac to protect its territory; I can describe the buzz of hummingbird wings, so close in memory that I can almost hear it right beside me.
I look down, to the left, from the weathered concrete bench on which I sit, overlooking the steep drop and rise of the cemetery before me.
The grass is short and green, except for patches where it has grown taller, somewhat ragged, but still bright. A fat bee buzzes in one of these right beside my leg. I don’t draw back like many people might. Years of working at the barn have made me accustomed to certain insects, like these bees, and other“creepy crawlies”-- giant writing spiders, snakes and skinks. I feel anaffinity towards this bee, wish there were flowers near for him.
I turn to survey the land beside and behind me. Most of the trees are still skeletal, save for the evergreens. But I notice a tree in bright pink bloom hanging over the edge of the drive to my left.
To my right, in the distance, there is a bush that is blossoming white flowers that remind me of daisies upon closer inspection, though I know they're not.
I notice the weeping willow which I had seen on my first visit, remember how its strands were brown. They are green now.
I would like to see all of the trees full and bushy. They don’t look like they’ll ever grow green again, even in this awakening of life.
There are birds that have flown to the grasses before me, allowing them to see me now. They hop around, fly into one another, chirp. I think they are robins, but the sun is in front of me and they are more like shadows from this angle. One lone bird has flown to a patch of shadow beneath the bare, angular limbs of a tree, sits alone, seems to do what I am doing—contemplating the land. This one is definitely a robin. I know from the way it moves in the grass before I see its red breast. They were all around in my suburban yard while I was growing up. My attention is drawn to the shadow in which it sits, a dark reflection of the skeleton growing above it. I realize I love the shadows of these trees as much as the trees themselves.
As much as I like this cemetery, the way it is more alive, and how I can see differences from all of the past times I have visited, part of me misses the cold, seemingly lifeless place with which I first became familiar, the way I had to patiently wait for it to divulge its layers. Change is difficult, they say, and even such a change, which many would assume to be a good one, is somewhat sad to me, makes me nostalgic. Still, I do like seeing the evolution of this cemetery. It's amazing that this is the same place in the photos I took before.
Today, human life in the cemetery is much more apparent as well. There is a group of people walking in exercise gear and sunglasses. Several cars have passed near me in the cemetery proper, not just on South Dallas Avenue to my right. And yet more people walk by. It’s strange to see a place of death come to life, sustain it. It’s also strange for this cemetery to be so open to public use. No one is afraid of the dead here.
The sun starts to burn my arms. I can feel the heat from my skin as I’ve sat on this bench for a while now. The breeze sends ripples through the taller patches of grasses and seems to blow on me to cool the burn, much like my mother would do when she poured hydrogen peroxide on my cuts. I wonder what it is about the sun that makes people feel lazy, the breeze that makes people calm, want to let their hair down to feel it runs its fingers through their hair. I wonder now about this place, how much it reminds me of South Carolina, how it’s that same sun and a similar breeze, the same sky which nurtures me there, 600 miles away. I’d love to be at the barn today. I can almost feel the muscular sway of my horse beneath me as we laze through the woods. But I've got a thesis due on Tuesday!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
For Better or For Worse? - Blog Prompt #4
Ahh, Pittsburgh. You were one of the most booming industrial cities at the height of the Industrial Revolution and for decades thereafter. According to Pittsburgh Green Story, from 1850 to 1980, your waters and heavens were polluted as you rose to power because of your love affair with coal. A short natural gas flirtation occurred in the late 1800s, at which point you seemed to clean up, but it wasn't meant to last. You returned to your roots, deep under your ground in fact, where the black gold pulled you back under, sunk its claws into you.
Look at you now! Your skies are blue and clear, your parks green and flourishing, even your cemeteries inundated with plant and animal life. Chatham University is not only an arboretum in itself but is also a leading force in sustainable living within your limits. And one of your daughters, Rachel Carson, is a legend in the environmental movement.
But not all is well in your belly. There's more than just black gold down there, and it's as invisible as air. The natural gas, clean and cheap, within your Marcellus Shale is said to be environmentally better than the coal which coats your stomach, your breath. But is progress always so easy? Of course not.
Hydraulic fracturing, or fracking as it's called in the press, is the process by which companies extract the gas from inside you. How can anyone come to possess something which is intangible? Marcellus Shale Protest explains: "Once a well is drilled, millions of gallons of water, sand and proprietary chemicals are injected, under high pressure, into a well. The pressure fractures the shale and props open fissures that enable natural gas to flow more freely out of the well." Wait. Millions of gallons of water? "Proprietary" chemicals?! Of course sand is dirty; it looks like the natural gas industry is, too.
Just how much better and cleaner can something be if the effort that goes into it is polluted? Contaminated "wastewater" is treated, but up to 50% of the initial amount used is lost forever. Still, in Butler, PA, C. says that she can light the air surrounding the water coming out of her faucet on fire with the flick of a lighter. Apparently the treatments to clean the used water are working, which is phenomenal news since the industry is exempt from the Safe Drinking Water Act.
As the VOCs, or valatile organic compounds, are evaporated off of the water recovered, it combines with diesel exhaust to create ozone plumes that stretch for miles. So much for the cleaner air, it seems, but who cares, since the industry is exempt from the Clean Air Act.
And those ill people and dead animals which show up around fracking-developed areas? It's got to be unrelated. After all, those signs posted in the Allegheny and Moshannon State Forests touting toxic water were put up by hoodlums.
Pittsburgh, your people have done something amazing, though. They've stood up for their rights and yours and banned fracking within your body. But it's all around you; it won't stay away. There's no way to cut off your length of Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers to exempt them. There's no way for you to stop the wind blowing the ozone into your heart, to exempt your air.
Is it really worth it? As it's been said, how much cleaner can an industry be if it's already polluted?
Look at you now! Your skies are blue and clear, your parks green and flourishing, even your cemeteries inundated with plant and animal life. Chatham University is not only an arboretum in itself but is also a leading force in sustainable living within your limits. And one of your daughters, Rachel Carson, is a legend in the environmental movement.
But not all is well in your belly. There's more than just black gold down there, and it's as invisible as air. The natural gas, clean and cheap, within your Marcellus Shale is said to be environmentally better than the coal which coats your stomach, your breath. But is progress always so easy? Of course not.
Hydraulic fracturing, or fracking as it's called in the press, is the process by which companies extract the gas from inside you. How can anyone come to possess something which is intangible? Marcellus Shale Protest explains: "Once a well is drilled, millions of gallons of water, sand and proprietary chemicals are injected, under high pressure, into a well. The pressure fractures the shale and props open fissures that enable natural gas to flow more freely out of the well." Wait. Millions of gallons of water? "Proprietary" chemicals?! Of course sand is dirty; it looks like the natural gas industry is, too.
Just how much better and cleaner can something be if the effort that goes into it is polluted? Contaminated "wastewater" is treated, but up to 50% of the initial amount used is lost forever. Still, in Butler, PA, C. says that she can light the air surrounding the water coming out of her faucet on fire with the flick of a lighter. Apparently the treatments to clean the used water are working, which is phenomenal news since the industry is exempt from the Safe Drinking Water Act.
As the VOCs, or valatile organic compounds, are evaporated off of the water recovered, it combines with diesel exhaust to create ozone plumes that stretch for miles. So much for the cleaner air, it seems, but who cares, since the industry is exempt from the Clean Air Act.
And those ill people and dead animals which show up around fracking-developed areas? It's got to be unrelated. After all, those signs posted in the Allegheny and Moshannon State Forests touting toxic water were put up by hoodlums.
Pittsburgh, your people have done something amazing, though. They've stood up for their rights and yours and banned fracking within your body. But it's all around you; it won't stay away. There's no way to cut off your length of Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers to exempt them. There's no way for you to stop the wind blowing the ozone into your heart, to exempt your air.
Is it really worth it? As it's been said, how much cleaner can an industry be if it's already polluted?
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Minutiae of Decay - Place Prompt #4
Friday, February 24th, 2012 - 12:53 PM - 52 degrees - gusty and raining
Today, I look closer at the land of Homewood. After my last visit, in which I walked much of the cemetery paths in overview, I want to focus on something smaller.
I am surrounded by hills and curves. I like this land because it appeals to my love of unconventional lines-- I don't like angles and straight, flat shapes. I prefer movement in shapes, and this land certainly has it. The hills roll, undulate around me, drop and rise beneath my feet. Even the man-made roadways wind.
Grave markers are placed perpendicular to the flat horizon we imagine the sky must have, but the perspective of these hills makes them appear slanted. Some truly are slanted, and others have fallen over as the surface beneath them has eroded.
The trees mimic these stones (or is it vice versa?) and stand at strange angles to the surface of the earth. I imagine how their roots, like the bodies of the deceased, must plunge deeper into the hillsides that rise to one side, shallower as the land falls away on the slant below them. Are the graves dug to be flat, accounting for the angle of the land? If so, the head of the graves would be covered with more dirt than the feet. Or are these bodies lying at a slant, too, ready to slide down the hills? I wonder how we humans must change the way we manipulate the land in even a graveyard to account for these things.
There is much to learn about this land, what lies below the grassy surfaces, in the cracks between and beneath gravestones. I find that there are layers of roots and chocolate-colored dirt below the moss and dead leaves. The dirt is hard-packed, similar to the red South Carolina clay I dug my fingernails into when I was a child. It is also packed into rocks of various sizes, as if someone had rolled them, wet and muddy, and let the sky bake them into shape. I don't know how much of this is natural, though, since the ground here has obviously been worked over and over for decades. How much of this dirt has been brought here for filler and topper? I wonder when I also see that some of the mud is black and fine, rich like peat, and other is sandy, grainy and pale. How much can I know of the veracity of this land when the human imprint upon it is clear?
In the distance down a muddy lane of tire prints, I see some fencing, chairs set next to a tree. There are no graves that way, leafless woods on one side, a green field to the other that I know must be waiting for more death in order to become useful. I trek towards the fenced area, wondering if the path I walk is set to become a road when this area becomes harvested. It is flat here, too, unlike the majority of the cemetery. Is this even Homewood's property? I know Frick Park extends from across Forbes Avenue and meanders alongside this end of Homewood.
I find deer prints in the ruts left by trucks and marvel at the symbolism-- animal/city coexistence that amazes me, as I've written about before. This time, my picture turns out, and I like the way I could follow the prints and find where the deer have gone. I almost take that detour, but the call of the fences is growing.
I reach what seems to be an abandoned network of gardens. Fences are down, gardening tools are strewn about, and nothing seems to be growing. The sites are fenced in, creating square after square, each in proportion to the rest. There are paths down and across the grid to allow access to the sites in the middle. Despite the precision of the layout, the area is unkempt and unsightly. It reminds me of the backyards I've seen in trailer parks across the south. I have no idea what this place is.
I've never felt the eeriness I've heard associated with cemeteries in Homewood until now. I catch myself looking over my shoulder into the distance grayed by rain as if expecting someone or some animal to emerge. This place embodies a new decay, the decay of human leftovers, perhaps even the decay of human interest. This is what we leave in our wake when we decide not to clean up after ourselves, I think.
Maybe it marks the decay of my comfort, too, because I find that it's gone. I attempt to take a picture of a children's lonesome plastic rake through the holes in a fence. My camera chooses that moment to malfunction-- it just won't take the picture. It does not freeze (when I move the camera, the image on screen moves with it). It does not shut off. It looks like it wants to take the picture (when I press the button, the screen changes in the usual way that it does when capturing an image). And yet, it does not actually take the picture. I turn the camera onto a window shutter that is resting on two metal sawhorses-- what was needed with a window shutter in a garden, I do not know. But the camera screen fades to bright white, the slowly the image returns. I try to take the picture of the shutter; again, the camera does not do it. I turn it off then back on, try it again, and there it goes-- it works!
I'm not superstitious, and I have no idea if I believe in ghosts. But I am human, and odd occurrences in creepy abandoned places certainly fuel my imagination. I know there's some explanation for what happened since I am just learning this camera D. let me borrow. But I decide not to stick around and leave the cemetery for the day. I may be goth, but even I get scared!
Later, I call Homewood's administration office and ask the lady on the phone about the area I visited. She said that it's the Homewood community garden, which provides a 20-foot by 20-foot gardening plot to urban families. It has a long waiting list, she said, and directs me to the website. I find that the website has not been updated since 2010, when 120 people were on the waiting list for a small plot to grow fresh plants. I realize that the plots probably haven't been kept up because of the winter season. Still, it's hard for my mind to make the leap from the creepy, abandoned area I witnessed to a fruitful, vibrant community of gardens and gardeners. I'll be interested to see if they are in use later this year!
Today, I look closer at the land of Homewood. After my last visit, in which I walked much of the cemetery paths in overview, I want to focus on something smaller.
I am surrounded by hills and curves. I like this land because it appeals to my love of unconventional lines-- I don't like angles and straight, flat shapes. I prefer movement in shapes, and this land certainly has it. The hills roll, undulate around me, drop and rise beneath my feet. Even the man-made roadways wind.
Grave markers are placed perpendicular to the flat horizon we imagine the sky must have, but the perspective of these hills makes them appear slanted. Some truly are slanted, and others have fallen over as the surface beneath them has eroded.
The trees mimic these stones (or is it vice versa?) and stand at strange angles to the surface of the earth. I imagine how their roots, like the bodies of the deceased, must plunge deeper into the hillsides that rise to one side, shallower as the land falls away on the slant below them. Are the graves dug to be flat, accounting for the angle of the land? If so, the head of the graves would be covered with more dirt than the feet. Or are these bodies lying at a slant, too, ready to slide down the hills? I wonder how we humans must change the way we manipulate the land in even a graveyard to account for these things.
There is much to learn about this land, what lies below the grassy surfaces, in the cracks between and beneath gravestones. I find that there are layers of roots and chocolate-colored dirt below the moss and dead leaves. The dirt is hard-packed, similar to the red South Carolina clay I dug my fingernails into when I was a child. It is also packed into rocks of various sizes, as if someone had rolled them, wet and muddy, and let the sky bake them into shape. I don't know how much of this is natural, though, since the ground here has obviously been worked over and over for decades. How much of this dirt has been brought here for filler and topper? I wonder when I also see that some of the mud is black and fine, rich like peat, and other is sandy, grainy and pale. How much can I know of the veracity of this land when the human imprint upon it is clear?
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Language Fluency - Blog Prompt #3
"Heels down, toes forward, not out. Grip with your entire legs, not your knees. And sit on your butt, not your thighs. You want the back pockets of your jeans between you and the saddle!"
I spoke these words to my horseback riding students, ages five to eighteen, for seven years. But I've been married to the horse as a species for nearly twenty-one. The seven years I spent taking care of a barn full of equines, in particular the domesticated subspecies equus ferus caballus, delved me into their nature more than any series of riding lessons ever could.
Horses have been evolving on our planet for over 50 million years. They began as eohippus, a four-toed dog-sized creature that roamed several continents, including Europe and North America, during the Tertiary Period and Eocene Epoch. They began to be domesticated for use by humans between 4000 and 3000 B.C. Horses helped further human development through their use in agriculture, warfare, and transportation, among other endeavors. It is only relatively recently in their history that horses have been seen as companions, athletes, and recreation.
I often wonder what initially drew me to the equestrian lifestyle, because I don't remember. Was it the language of their bodies? I did not know when I was five that a horse gives away what it's looking at through the direction of its ears. I didn't know that, unlike a dog, a horse is annoyed when it swishes its tail. How could I have realized in my childhood that a colicky horse drops its head to the ground, paws the dirt, nips at its belly, circles tightly and falls to the ground, where it attempts to roll the pain away? One thing I quickly learned is that ears flat against the skull, whites of rolled-back eyes, and lowering of the head meant agression, or, in my 5-year-old mind-- "Watch out!"
I became obsessed with one specific breed of horse above all others. Sure, Miniatures and Shetland ponies are adorable. Quarter horses and Clydesdales are strong and sturdy. But it was the elegance and flightiness of the Arabian that I fell for. The way their tails are naturally held higher than those of other horses because they have one less vertebrae in their spines. The way their faces dish in like the swoop of a girl's nose, the extra arch in their necks to match. The curve of their ears, tips that point towards each other, and the flare of their large nostrils, big enough to accept the oxygen necessary to support their actions. These short horses, many considered ponies because they are less than 14.2 hands high, were bred by humans for their endurance through the stifling deserts of the in long-distance races. Thoroughbreds just can't keep up for that long. Not everyone knows, either, that most Thoroughbreds can trace their ancestry back to three separate Arabian stallions, the most well-known called the Godolphin Arabian. The lineage of the Arabian breed is one of the oldest and most important in today's equestrian culture. Maybe it's the history, the ancient blood of the species, a connection to some pre-modern culture, that draws me.
But I think I had it right when I posited that the language of the horse drew me in. After all, I'm almost one myself. If you give me a horse and a roundpen, I can show you how to "join up," or assert yourself as the alpha of the herd then form a bond of trust with the horse on which you are working. This method is especially useful for wilder, less trusting horses. It's a matter of speaking to a horse as a horse, using your body to push the horse out from you, turn it around to go the other direction, slow it down or speed it up, and ask it to come to you, follow you, all from the ground, all without physical contact.
And so it is that I am a horse in my other life. My social skills, my ability to communicate with a herd of humans, detect body language and infer psychology, my fight-or-flight instinct, my sixth sense of predatorial people, my attempt to master my life, comes from my native language, that of the horse.
I spoke these words to my horseback riding students, ages five to eighteen, for seven years. But I've been married to the horse as a species for nearly twenty-one. The seven years I spent taking care of a barn full of equines, in particular the domesticated subspecies equus ferus caballus, delved me into their nature more than any series of riding lessons ever could.
Horses have been evolving on our planet for over 50 million years. They began as eohippus, a four-toed dog-sized creature that roamed several continents, including Europe and North America, during the Tertiary Period and Eocene Epoch. They began to be domesticated for use by humans between 4000 and 3000 B.C. Horses helped further human development through their use in agriculture, warfare, and transportation, among other endeavors. It is only relatively recently in their history that horses have been seen as companions, athletes, and recreation.
I often wonder what initially drew me to the equestrian lifestyle, because I don't remember. Was it the language of their bodies? I did not know when I was five that a horse gives away what it's looking at through the direction of its ears. I didn't know that, unlike a dog, a horse is annoyed when it swishes its tail. How could I have realized in my childhood that a colicky horse drops its head to the ground, paws the dirt, nips at its belly, circles tightly and falls to the ground, where it attempts to roll the pain away? One thing I quickly learned is that ears flat against the skull, whites of rolled-back eyes, and lowering of the head meant agression, or, in my 5-year-old mind-- "Watch out!"
I became obsessed with one specific breed of horse above all others. Sure, Miniatures and Shetland ponies are adorable. Quarter horses and Clydesdales are strong and sturdy. But it was the elegance and flightiness of the Arabian that I fell for. The way their tails are naturally held higher than those of other horses because they have one less vertebrae in their spines. The way their faces dish in like the swoop of a girl's nose, the extra arch in their necks to match. The curve of their ears, tips that point towards each other, and the flare of their large nostrils, big enough to accept the oxygen necessary to support their actions. These short horses, many considered ponies because they are less than 14.2 hands high, were bred by humans for their endurance through the stifling deserts of the in long-distance races. Thoroughbreds just can't keep up for that long. Not everyone knows, either, that most Thoroughbreds can trace their ancestry back to three separate Arabian stallions, the most well-known called the Godolphin Arabian. The lineage of the Arabian breed is one of the oldest and most important in today's equestrian culture. Maybe it's the history, the ancient blood of the species, a connection to some pre-modern culture, that draws me.
But I think I had it right when I posited that the language of the horse drew me in. After all, I'm almost one myself. If you give me a horse and a roundpen, I can show you how to "join up," or assert yourself as the alpha of the herd then form a bond of trust with the horse on which you are working. This method is especially useful for wilder, less trusting horses. It's a matter of speaking to a horse as a horse, using your body to push the horse out from you, turn it around to go the other direction, slow it down or speed it up, and ask it to come to you, follow you, all from the ground, all without physical contact.
And so it is that I am a horse in my other life. My social skills, my ability to communicate with a herd of humans, detect body language and infer psychology, my fight-or-flight instinct, my sixth sense of predatorial people, my attempt to master my life, comes from my native language, that of the horse.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Evolution of Homewood - Place Prompt #3
Thursday, January 9th, 2012 - 2:09 PM - 37 degrees - bright and clear
It seems ridiculous now to say again "I visit Homewood Cemetery." The location becomes much more familiar with each trip, and they are less like visits and more like escapes, returning to a place of solitude and breath. I leave everything else behind.
Today, I am not alone. A friend has generously accompanied me to the cemetery, and we decide just to walk and chat. As we stroll, my eyes are open to what surrounds me. I notice that I become more capable of observation, even while multi-tasking to progress the conversation, every time I allow myself the opportunity to do so. What do I mean? In my daily life, I become so focused on one thing that everything surrounding disappears. Here, I am able to balance my interest in our words with my interest in the place. I am proud and relieved. It feels like returning to a childlike frame of mind, state of sensual experience, but with mature control. I sometimes feel as if I have lost some of the pleasure I had in experience when I was young. Now I realize I just need to create a safe haven, both in time and in location, for it. And it's already enriching my poetry.
D. and I spend two hours in Homewood, moving all the while, and yet we figure we've only covered half of its expanse. Today, the nature does not seem to be my focus. Early in our walk, I look to the bright, clear sky, the blinding hole-punch of the sun, the skeletal trees, the crisp, curled plants. I wonder if I've already written everything I can about the place, and now that it is more familiar, there is less that pops out as unique and new. Somehow, between the snow and the rain of my first two visits, this calm but chilly day seems boring, lackluster. Even so, I briefly remember the heat of South Carolina summer sun on my cheeks as I embrace the rays which are much too fleeting in the Pittsburgh winter. It fills me. I manage to get burnt and I am glad.
I lament to D., "I have no idea what I'm going to write about today." With perfect timing, the answer manifests a hundred feet or so in front of us. I gasp, fumble with the camera D. has let me borrow, and give up, realizing that I would be more satisfied to watch with my own eyes rather than through the lens. Three white-tail deer-- does-- trot over a ridge, startle, and scamper down a hill out of sight. I grin. "Yearlings, perhaps," says D. They are young, one a bit smaller than the others, and gangly. They are alert and, I think, frightened at our presence so near to them. But I am beyond thrilled. Homewood has been preparing me for this. My first visit showed no signs of life. My second hinted at the presence of these animals with tracks and excrement. And now, finally, I see them with my own eyes, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a city.
Deer are common in the South. I tell D. about seeing deer on my newspaper route when I delivered papers each morning before dawn. I remember vacations to my grandparents' house in Knoxville, TN. They would take me to a retreat in the mountains, protected land very close to my heart, called Cades Cove. We would drive the 11-mile loop and count the deer and other animals we inevitably saw. There is a picture of me as a child feeding a doe potato chips out of my hand somewhere (which, by the way, I am torn about, because I know wild animals should not be bothered, but it was exciting to me as a child). I've even seen deer on Chatham's campus as I walked to class one night. Despite all of these experiences, though, I still fill with joy at the sight of these three. I tell D. that it's incredible for me to see they exist outside of the rural and suburban areas I associate them with. And, just as it did when I first glimpsed their traces at my last visit, I am filled with hope for nature's power to survive, even when we humans try (both consciously and subconsciously) to kill it off.
We do not see much more animal life on our tour. There is a hawk which circles low to us, catches the wind, glides backwards with it under its wings. It is under the sun, and we shield our eyes, strain to figure out what kind it is, but only determine it is not a red-tailed hawk. It ascends higher, circles wider, and far off meets up with another. The two are like vultures on each side of a dial, and we wonder if they have picked out a meal. Later I notice another bird flit over our heads. It has sharply angled wings and a streamlined body, but again, I am unable to see much color or pick out other traits to identify it. I think it some sort of swift, but that's just a guess based on an ornithology course I took in elementary school.
I also notice human remains in nature, and I'm not talking about dead bodies. There is a shriveled yellow balloon with a long, dirty string caught in a bush. There are two alcohol bottles strewn in a field where the gravestones are embedded in the ground and the area looks empty. There is a frisbee with a hole in its center tangled in the branches of a tree. I am interested in the way we humans contribute to the decay of a place, and yet, my mind only thinks of those deer, those hawks. I am pleased with the way Homewood has kept itself from me, giving me a little each time, building to today. I wonder what it will allow me to learn of it next time as we become more intimate with each other.
It seems ridiculous now to say again "I visit Homewood Cemetery." The location becomes much more familiar with each trip, and they are less like visits and more like escapes, returning to a place of solitude and breath. I leave everything else behind.
Today, I am not alone. A friend has generously accompanied me to the cemetery, and we decide just to walk and chat. As we stroll, my eyes are open to what surrounds me. I notice that I become more capable of observation, even while multi-tasking to progress the conversation, every time I allow myself the opportunity to do so. What do I mean? In my daily life, I become so focused on one thing that everything surrounding disappears. Here, I am able to balance my interest in our words with my interest in the place. I am proud and relieved. It feels like returning to a childlike frame of mind, state of sensual experience, but with mature control. I sometimes feel as if I have lost some of the pleasure I had in experience when I was young. Now I realize I just need to create a safe haven, both in time and in location, for it. And it's already enriching my poetry.
D. and I spend two hours in Homewood, moving all the while, and yet we figure we've only covered half of its expanse. Today, the nature does not seem to be my focus. Early in our walk, I look to the bright, clear sky, the blinding hole-punch of the sun, the skeletal trees, the crisp, curled plants. I wonder if I've already written everything I can about the place, and now that it is more familiar, there is less that pops out as unique and new. Somehow, between the snow and the rain of my first two visits, this calm but chilly day seems boring, lackluster. Even so, I briefly remember the heat of South Carolina summer sun on my cheeks as I embrace the rays which are much too fleeting in the Pittsburgh winter. It fills me. I manage to get burnt and I am glad.
I lament to D., "I have no idea what I'm going to write about today." With perfect timing, the answer manifests a hundred feet or so in front of us. I gasp, fumble with the camera D. has let me borrow, and give up, realizing that I would be more satisfied to watch with my own eyes rather than through the lens. Three white-tail deer-- does-- trot over a ridge, startle, and scamper down a hill out of sight. I grin. "Yearlings, perhaps," says D. They are young, one a bit smaller than the others, and gangly. They are alert and, I think, frightened at our presence so near to them. But I am beyond thrilled. Homewood has been preparing me for this. My first visit showed no signs of life. My second hinted at the presence of these animals with tracks and excrement. And now, finally, I see them with my own eyes, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a city.
Deer are common in the South. I tell D. about seeing deer on my newspaper route when I delivered papers each morning before dawn. I remember vacations to my grandparents' house in Knoxville, TN. They would take me to a retreat in the mountains, protected land very close to my heart, called Cades Cove. We would drive the 11-mile loop and count the deer and other animals we inevitably saw. There is a picture of me as a child feeding a doe potato chips out of my hand somewhere (which, by the way, I am torn about, because I know wild animals should not be bothered, but it was exciting to me as a child). I've even seen deer on Chatham's campus as I walked to class one night. Despite all of these experiences, though, I still fill with joy at the sight of these three. I tell D. that it's incredible for me to see they exist outside of the rural and suburban areas I associate them with. And, just as it did when I first glimpsed their traces at my last visit, I am filled with hope for nature's power to survive, even when we humans try (both consciously and subconsciously) to kill it off.
We do not see much more animal life on our tour. There is a hawk which circles low to us, catches the wind, glides backwards with it under its wings. It is under the sun, and we shield our eyes, strain to figure out what kind it is, but only determine it is not a red-tailed hawk. It ascends higher, circles wider, and far off meets up with another. The two are like vultures on each side of a dial, and we wonder if they have picked out a meal. Later I notice another bird flit over our heads. It has sharply angled wings and a streamlined body, but again, I am unable to see much color or pick out other traits to identify it. I think it some sort of swift, but that's just a guess based on an ornithology course I took in elementary school.
I also notice human remains in nature, and I'm not talking about dead bodies. There is a shriveled yellow balloon with a long, dirty string caught in a bush. There are two alcohol bottles strewn in a field where the gravestones are embedded in the ground and the area looks empty. There is a frisbee with a hole in its center tangled in the branches of a tree. I am interested in the way we humans contribute to the decay of a place, and yet, my mind only thinks of those deer, those hawks. I am pleased with the way Homewood has kept itself from me, giving me a little each time, building to today. I wonder what it will allow me to learn of it next time as we become more intimate with each other.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Nature of My Heart - Blog Prompt #2
This is the land where he spent what were possibly the best, certainly the last, days of his life. He drank from the roughly y-shaped pond even in the summer when the neon green duckweed coated its murky surface, made lentil soup of it. His hooves sank in the silt printed with the three-pronged and webbed prints of the black-necked, white-cheeked Canadian geese that migrate here every year, the shiny mallard ducks and their brown-spotted ducklings. His grey hooves left pockets for pools of water to form, swimming with little black tadpoles, some with tiny feet emering from their tails. His steps, certainly, spooked frogs into jumping into the pond with only the gulp of the water to give them away.
This is the land he stood on during thunderstorms and tornado warnings, the thick black mud in the sloped paddock by the barn rich with manure, deeper than his fetlocks. He ate hay golden with heat from this ground, the steep hill of yellow-white sand leading from the paddock towards Old Orangeburg Road, the hill over which the sun set in the winter, endless sky melting to rainbow phosphorescence then blue-purple then night. Nowhere on earth could the sunset be more vibrant on cold November nights than right here in little Lexington, South Carolina, above my beloved's shaggy mane and slightly swayed back.
This land, crowded with pine forest and rough-cut trails worn by years of hooves kicking up dust on the same path to and from feeding each day, blanketed with brown pine needles, is the land he walked. The downed limbs and prickly pine cones weren't the obstacles for his grey hooves that they were for my flip-flopped feet and tender, naked white legs. The bushes he nudged through were home to writing spiders, large black and yellow female bodies which create zig-zagged webs, eat them at night, rebuild them each morning, bounce in them and make it look like hefty wind.
This earth swathes my first true love. He has been buried here since May 1st, 1998, and every year, I leave a bouquet of dead flowers and scatter dead petals on his unmarked, sandy grave. Even now, after all of the trees have been levelled and the horses await the planned fencing-in, I can still point out the exact rectangular patch of sunken ground which papooses his long-decayed remains, the exact dimensions of the place where every tear I've cried has watered him, fertilizer for the newly planted grass, even in this sea of horse graves.
This is the land he stood on during thunderstorms and tornado warnings, the thick black mud in the sloped paddock by the barn rich with manure, deeper than his fetlocks. He ate hay golden with heat from this ground, the steep hill of yellow-white sand leading from the paddock towards Old Orangeburg Road, the hill over which the sun set in the winter, endless sky melting to rainbow phosphorescence then blue-purple then night. Nowhere on earth could the sunset be more vibrant on cold November nights than right here in little Lexington, South Carolina, above my beloved's shaggy mane and slightly swayed back.
This land, crowded with pine forest and rough-cut trails worn by years of hooves kicking up dust on the same path to and from feeding each day, blanketed with brown pine needles, is the land he walked. The downed limbs and prickly pine cones weren't the obstacles for his grey hooves that they were for my flip-flopped feet and tender, naked white legs. The bushes he nudged through were home to writing spiders, large black and yellow female bodies which create zig-zagged webs, eat them at night, rebuild them each morning, bounce in them and make it look like hefty wind.
This earth swathes my first true love. He has been buried here since May 1st, 1998, and every year, I leave a bouquet of dead flowers and scatter dead petals on his unmarked, sandy grave. Even now, after all of the trees have been levelled and the horses await the planned fencing-in, I can still point out the exact rectangular patch of sunken ground which papooses his long-decayed remains, the exact dimensions of the place where every tear I've cried has watered him, fertilizer for the newly planted grass, even in this sea of horse graves.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Cemetery Pond - Place Prompt #2
Thursday, January 26, 2012 - 12:33 PM - 39 degrees - cloudy and drizzling
I visit Homewood Cemetery again, and since I had a general overview at my last visit, I decide to direct my attention to one small area to keep my writing more focused and concise. When driving past the length of the cemetery iron fence on my way to the entrance, I notice a large, grassy field. I want to take a look at it, so that's where I aim when I arrive.
However, on the way towards the field, another, smaller area catches my eye. It is perfect, and I know it is what I will write about today. In the center of three converging lanes, there is a small pond surrounded by flat, wide rocks, grass, and bushes and small trees. Obviously a man-made preserve, the pond has an eerie, whitish glaze to its surface which I can't define from where I am standing. All I know is that, in the misty grey day, it is a rather gothic nature scene.
The rocks remind me of river rocks, the kind I've used to get to the center of the Congaree River and sun myself on in South Carolina. But whoever made this place created a strange structure with some of them in the middle of the water.
From the edge of the water, my attention is drawn again to the milky coating on its surface. I realize the pond is mostly frozen. While others in the area might not be surprised, I've never seen more than a small puddle frozen, so this is an entirely new sight for my Southern eyes! I really love the gradations of the ice-- the very edge of the pond is still water, a foot or so in is a thin layer of ice, and in the middle, the ice is thick and sturdy. I know because I precariously balance on a rock to reach out and touch it! But it is also interesting to imagine the state of things below the surface, where the water is still liquid, where dead brown maple leaves, dark gooey silt, and hydrophilic flora are trapped.
Moss abounds on the damp surface of the rocks. I see a strange variety which is dark green and has red hair-like structures growing tall out of it. They look almost prickly, like spines on a porcupine.
Finally, three Japanese Red Maple trees contort themselves to one side of the pond. I know them because of one which is on the Chatham campus, labeled, which bursts into red-orange-yellow flame each fall as senescence occurs befores the leaves fall off. (The first picture in this post, the uber-gothic vision of this pond-place, also showcases one of these trees, which I have fallen in love with since my first fall at Chatham.)
I visit Homewood Cemetery again, and since I had a general overview at my last visit, I decide to direct my attention to one small area to keep my writing more focused and concise. When driving past the length of the cemetery iron fence on my way to the entrance, I notice a large, grassy field. I want to take a look at it, so that's where I aim when I arrive.
However, on the way towards the field, another, smaller area catches my eye. It is perfect, and I know it is what I will write about today. In the center of three converging lanes, there is a small pond surrounded by flat, wide rocks, grass, and bushes and small trees. Obviously a man-made preserve, the pond has an eerie, whitish glaze to its surface which I can't define from where I am standing. All I know is that, in the misty grey day, it is a rather gothic nature scene.
The rocks remind me of river rocks, the kind I've used to get to the center of the Congaree River and sun myself on in South Carolina. But whoever made this place created a strange structure with some of them in the middle of the water.
From the edge of the water, my attention is drawn again to the milky coating on its surface. I realize the pond is mostly frozen. While others in the area might not be surprised, I've never seen more than a small puddle frozen, so this is an entirely new sight for my Southern eyes! I really love the gradations of the ice-- the very edge of the pond is still water, a foot or so in is a thin layer of ice, and in the middle, the ice is thick and sturdy. I know because I precariously balance on a rock to reach out and touch it! But it is also interesting to imagine the state of things below the surface, where the water is still liquid, where dead brown maple leaves, dark gooey silt, and hydrophilic flora are trapped.
I take time to notice small details of the place, particularly in regards to the rain (my favorite weather): the sound of it all around me, its discordant pattern like fingers on my body, the precarious droplets clinging to the bright Red Twig Dogwood bushes, naked of their leaves.
Moss abounds on the damp surface of the rocks. I see a strange variety which is dark green and has red hair-like structures growing tall out of it. They look almost prickly, like spines on a porcupine.
A tangled vine-like bush with candied-apple-red berries seems to choke the surrounding plants. These same berries tumble over the elevated edge of the pond on one side, creating a waterfall of color.
A single specimen of a very odd plant grows out from the dark depths between several rocks (which I have taken a liking to peering in). I have no idea what it is, but it looks like someone planted dried star-like flowers which have shriveled into dark brown curlicues with wheat-colored tips. I love it.
Finally, three Japanese Red Maple trees contort themselves to one side of the pond. I know them because of one which is on the Chatham campus, labeled, which bursts into red-orange-yellow flame each fall as senescence occurs befores the leaves fall off. (The first picture in this post, the uber-gothic vision of this pond-place, also showcases one of these trees, which I have fallen in love with since my first fall at Chatham.)
I also have a revelation. This cemetery, this place of the dead, is also a haven for life, for animals! I hear birds chirping (though I don't see any and can't identify their calls). I find deer tracks in the mud around the shore of the pond, two triangular toe-prints elongated in the slippery suction of the saturated ground. (I take pictures of these tracks, only to discover when I transfer the files to my computer that they are somehow missing. I still don't know what happened to them!) Along with the prints is another clue-- an abundance of piles of berry-shaped deer feces.
My last visit to the cemetery was quiet and lonely. This one showcases livelier sounds and the existence of others besides myself. I am really excited to discover that, in the middle of this bustling city, in between three rivers, somehow deer flourish in this little sanctuary. Despite all the odds-- the traffic, the concrete, the selfish and unconcerned humans going about their daily lives, the lack of shelter, the skyscrapers upon apartment buildings upon stores, bars, clubs and all-- these deer have found a way to survive. I wonder how they got here (did they swim across a river or just trot through Fort Pitt Tunnel and over Fort Pitt Birdge?!). Regardless, I am relieved they did. It brings me hope in the hardiness of nature.
I am also entranced by the change in the usual dynamics between humans and nature. Though this place was created by humans, it is not they who subsist here. Instead, plants and animals survive off of the decay human remains rather than vice versa. It seems almost ironic, and I enjoy the thought. "Take that, humanity!" I exclaim to myself. And again, I recognize the absolute necessity of decay in sustaining life.
(**Author's Note: These days, with humans being buried in much more durable caskets made out of materials which do not break down, our remains are apt to rot without giving back to the soil. I realize this, but have chosen to let my imagination run free and ponder many different aspects to this place! And who knows-- some of these graves are so old that they might have once contained plain wooden coffins which have broken down along with their human contents, and thus the giving of life from our deaths...)
I love this place, this sanctuary, and I long to come back before I've even left, just from thinking about leaving. I am soothed here. I feel I can breathe deeply and unwind, here, in the middle of a city, in my own little bit of seclusion. I will return.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Mother Land: A Mini-Memoir - Blog Prompt #1
This is the place that bred me, that more than any other locale influenced my being. It's the Lexington Family YMCA in Lexington, SC, a far cry from the depths of the snowy city where I am now. Over 280 acres of the great outdoors, the YMCA was a sanctuary that sheltered me, nurtured me, and developed me.
My mother tells me the story of trying to find an afterschool program for me when we moved from the trailer park into our first suburban house when I was 5 or 6. My grandfather, her father, had been a well-known player in the political atmosphere of Columbia, SC, and when he died of cancer (my first look at a dead human body was at his funeral), he left a sum of money which went towards the down payment on our home. I would be placed in one of the best school districts in the state, and my parents wanted to find a place for me to grow-- not to stagnate in oppressive, blocky gyms watching movies and eating unhealthy snacks every afternoon. After searching around the area, she found the YMCA, an affordable outdoors space which would keep me active outside, giving me room to run and play, imagine and learn.
I cannot pretend to know what my life would be without this space. The pine trees and ponds, the frogs and birds and insects, the sandy terrain and changing seasons, boating and swimming and hiking and camping, would not be so ingrained in my being if I had not experienced what the YMCA had to offer year after year. Nor would I be the professional equestrian which I am today.
I remember when my mother found this place. They had horses, and I don't think I had ever seen one in real life before. My favorite animal until then was the cheetah. My birthday rolled around, and my parents wanted to give me a fantastic party. They decided to book a horseback riding adventure for me and my friends. I don't think they realized that I was actually disgusted by the choice. I remember not wanting to ride horses, but I don't know if it was out of fear or lack of interest. I remember riding a horse named Patches, a tricolored paint pony I fell in love with. From that moment, I was hooked, and I was enrolled in the facility's horseback riding lessons.
That was a life-changer. I stayed active in riding lessons and loved taking care of the animals, being outdoors with creatures who became my best friends. I especially loved trail rides, during which we would meander through the woods, our faces and arms tickled by the leaves of trees we rode through. My first love, which they say you never forget, was not with a boy but with a horse named Twiggy. His death brought me into adulthood-- it was the first time I ever experienced grief and depression, the understanding that with life comes loss. And, after his death, my incessant begging for a horse of my own finally paid off. I became the proud owner of Twiggy's Ghost of Gold, or Ghost for short, at the ripe young age of twelve. And guess where he lived (and still lives today)? That's right-- the YMCA.
And, based on my experiences with and connection to this place, the very horses I grew up with became my charges when I obtained my first job as an equestrian counselor, horseback riding instructor, public trail ride leader, and caretaker of (at most) 27 horses. This job thrust me deeper into my homeland. The trails became my getaways; I know them better than I know the ridges of my hands. I became frog rescuer, putting them outside of the barn when they were trapped in the bathrooms. I relocated mice to the shavings piles that lined the lake. I watched the sunset over the hill of the pasture, the way it changed its intensities as the seasons went by. I remember the lone red fox which would trot through the paddock at the same time every day for months, the Canadian geese that would migrate to our horse pond each fall and stay through the winter. I witnessed the coming and going and growing and dying of horses and children alike, all of whom I left some mark on, all of whom left some mark on me.
Another of my beloved animals came from the YMCA, too. I was on the playground after elementary school one day (this was shortly after I began going to the YMCA, so I was probably nearly 6 years old) when I noticed a group of kids forming around one of the rarely-used shuffleboard courts (they were more places to sit our of the fire ants, chiggers, and prickly pine straw than anything else). I walked over and saw the kids were playing with a tabby kitten which seemed scared of the way the loud, anxious children closed in around him. Before a counselor realized there was a fuss in the area, I made my way through the crowd and sat down, pulling the kitten into my lap. He sat quite happily in my protective Indian-style embrace until a counselor confiscated him from me.
The staff of the barn decided to take him in as a barn cat, of which they already had enough, but they weren't ones to toss an animal to the side. It turns out that he didn't work well as a barn cat-- he would never catch mice and the other cats hated him and kept him from their rations of cat food, so he stayed inside the little house at the front of the YMCA property with the barn director more often than not. They decided to adopt him out, for free, to the first family to offer their home. And I begged and begged my parents for him. My mother was easy to pressure and gave in, but my father didn't want anything to do with a cat (he had had many growing up in Tennessee). Finally, though, it was decided that the barn cat Spur would be mine, and we brought him home the very next afternoon. Spur became Ticky Tac (a nickname I despised when my mother came up with it but which became the only name he knows). Now he is nearly 20 years old. He is my familiar; we communicate on a spiritual level which no one else could ever comprehend or interfere with. He is the essence of my being, and when I lose him, as I know I will one day, I will lose a tremendously important connection, part of myself.
The YMCA gave me love of animals, some of my best childhood friends, and the ease and hominess I feel in nature. It is part of the reason why this city of Pittsburgh, even the cemetery in the snow, are so foreign to me. But it is also the reason why I can experiment with place and nature-- I know where I have come from, that its safety awaits my return, and in the meantime, I can experience something new, expand my understanding of what the world really is.
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