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.

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.

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.

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.

Cemetery in Snow: An Overview - Place Prompt #1

**Author's Note: I realize this post is extremely lengthy for a blog, but it recounts my first visit to a new place, and there is so much to say about it! Thanks in advance to those of you who *actually* make it through to the end. Way to stick to it! :-P **


12:38 PM on Friday, January 13th, 2012, and my poor South Carolina body (as I describe it in this northern winterscape) laments the fact that I'm dragging it into 29 degrees of pouring snow. Screw the fact that it's a homework assignment. Who cares that the weather creates a perfect aura for a perfect day (Friday the 13th, after all) in a cemetery? It would much rather hunker down and hibernate with my kitten...


I brush snow from my car using the heavy duty snow brush/ice scraper combo that was given to me by a woman who used it in Japan. My fingers feel cold then go numb because I don't have any gloves that fit. I am still not used to this, having only experienced snow very rarely back home in South Carolina. It was a pleasure then. Now, it's a way of life for months at a time, and it's annoying.


I drive slowly on the unscraped roads, still not used to how my tires interact with the slush after only one previous winter in Pittsburgh. Trucks and SUVs fly past me, and I ignore their pushiness. I see the black iron fence surrounding my destination, Homewood Cemetery, but miss the turn into it. I continue straight, turn right at the next light, and congratulate myself with a silent "Yes!" when I catch sight of another driveway to my left. I enter a small lane dusted with enough snow to cover the concrete, lined on the left with the iron fence and a major roadway, on the right with a metal railing and scrubby flora cascading down a steep incline.

I make a mental note to walk back here, to take a picture of the overview of rolling hills jutted with rows of grave markers that look as if hey are bodies themselves emerging from under the layer of white topsoil the precipitation has strewn on them. This is a fine introduction to my new place, what will become a sort of retreat, a safe space, for me this semester.

There is a pond! And trees! These are familiar to me-- they remind me of the stables at which I used to work, a small pond in the center of our horse pasture for them to drink, play, and cool off. And I can pretend, with the soft snow blanket, that I'm not in a city anymore. I continue my drive towards the office, where I see other vehicles parked in a haphazard line on the edge of the drive. I get out and am immediately entranced by the quietude of the scene: There's not a soul to be seen or heard, despite the evidence that they're near. Yes, I hear cars as they speed past, but I can ignore them and pretend I'm far away. I smile, turn towards the office to get my bearings, and fall in love with the skeletal tree I see. It's the kind of tree that impresses with its stature, the rough curves of its limbs, empty as they are of leaves, but not of life. This tree is dormant, and it fills me with excitement because it stimulates my aesthetic-- I love curves, not angles, the semblance of decay, knotholes and imperfections. It's the kind of tree that reminds me I want to do a photographic and poetic exploration of just such winter trees.

I press on and let my senses take over. This is a new place, a place of nature, and this is my first impression. I need to glean as much sensual knowledge as possible. I am cold-- I still need a winter coat. My hair and skin are damp where the snow melts into the strands around the heat of my face and neck. Snow looms over the landscape where it alights on my eyelashes and I can see it around the edges of my vision. My eyes are overwhelmed. This place is certainly different from South Carolina, my home, and there is a lot to take in at first glance. I cannot discern any specific scents, at least not ones to which I can put a name. I hear wind but calm, quiet, save for the cars I've already chosen to ignore. There is only one thing to taste, and the snow is refreshing and crisp as it turns to water on my tongue. Taking in these sensual elements one at a time makes it easier for me to focus, and it brings back memories of the few snows I can remember in South Carolina (and the excitement that came with them). I decide to focus on one area of the cemetery today-- the area which I oversee from this vantage point. I'll leave the rest for other visits.

I start my trek towards what has captured my attention most so far: the pond. As I approach, I hear the wind in the reeds (no pun intended). They sound dry and hollow, and their song is a whisper underlaid with chitterings as they dance together, bounce into one another. They are at the far end of the pond, where the dark water gives way to the tall, brown grasses so thick it's almost impossible to see the liquid from which they emerge.

There is a place among them where they tangle and smush almost into the water. The snow is heavy on them; it seems to push them down. I imagine they are weighted with the cold as I am, but I know they do not feel as I do. Still, I project my humanity onto them in an effort to better understand and relate to them.

I look across the pond, out to the graveyard proper. I like the idea of human remains nurturing the grounds under which they lie. Some might think I have no respect for the dead. I am not here to honor them, nor does it stir something within me to know I am among them. I have seen more death, up close and personal, in the past eight years than most people witness in a lifetime (save for what they see in the media). But I always grin when I see death feed back into life, and Homewood Cemetery certainly abounds with both.

There is another tree to the side of the pond which I admire. It seems to be some sort of weeping willow. It must have been planted here deliberately because I cannot find it on Western Pennsylvania Conservancy's Trees of Pittsburgh web-guide. Its long, brown strands cascade from curved branches and sound similar to the reeds when the wind mingles them together. They are dry, papery, and I admire how the short, dark trunk gives way to multiple branches in all directions. In spring, this will be the tree I most want to sit under.

For now, I stand underneath and feel the strands caress my shoulders as I look to see how they enhance the landscape around us, the tree and me. I like to peer through and between things, and this is a perfect opportunity.

I trek on. To my right, the sun is coming down from its peak in the noon sky. I try to not stare at it, as I've been told since elementery school, but I like how it is a bright circle that beams through the misty gray cloud-cover that seems to loom right above my height. The sun is a glowing hole in this sky. There is a steep hill, one I wish to climb, but I'm not sure if I will make it up considering how I manage to slip on snow on flat surfaces. Grass tips peek through the snow, and where they are covered, they make the ground a lumpy blanket. I am intrigued by yet another tree on the hill, and my photographer's mind forces the rest of me to stop to get the shot.

I climb the hill, leaning forward in an attempt not to slide right back down. I reach another tree (I must be single-minded or obsessed) with smooth, grey bark and moss around its roots that has captured the snow in a speckled pattern. Someone has carved into this tree, and the tattoo of it cannot be placed in time, though I want to think it is old and has withstood the weathering this landscape endures.

I have reached a road which circles around the valley-home of the pond. I follow it, taking in the scene, enjoying my brisk walk, glad I'm not as cold now that my body is used to it. The nature seems evident in all that I've seen, but I know there is more if I look harder and uncover it.

In front of me, I see several examples. There is a bush, two-tiered, which has grown protectively around a couple of gravestones. It's as if the graves were accidentally put into the bush, but I know that they are old enough such that the bush has begun to envelop them. I see several trunks, so they might be trees, but I'm mostly intrigued by the layers of long, slim, slick, dark green leaves: one at ground-level, the other above an empty layer between the two. I've never seen any plant like it before.

This conversion of nature with the human footprint always leaves me fascinated. Nature, it seems, will prevail. I find this to be true in two other areas very near to this one--grass growing between the minute cracks in the concrete, and clover growing at the edge of a grate which covers a drain.

There is a dead stump across the small roadway from these sights. This death propels more life from it-- weeds grow in its gaping mouth and mushrooms staircase up its side. This is the decay I'm sure Bhairavi would celebrate. This is how destruction can be good, how it can lead to yet more life. These mushrooms recycle the decay of the stump. I find both exquisite.

Further down the road I find bedframe-like grave which have sunken into the ground. Within them, fallen leaves and grass I can barely see through the snow blanket create the mattress.

There is a horse chestnut tree around the next bend. I can tell by looking at the seed pods which are scattered below it, though I have to scoop them out of the snow with the toe of my sneakers. I am familiar with them because they are poisonous to horses (despite their horse-friendly common name), which I learned during my time working at the stables in South Carolina. While searching for one to photograph, I hear a strange sound each time the wind picks up. It's a familiar wooden creak, like floorboards or heavy doors in old plantation homes in South Carolina. I realize the tree above me is moaning, and the cemetery ambiance is at its finest.

(Please forgive the white noise and wind in the video. You can hear the tree sort of popping and then groaning towards the end of the clip, though.)

I have made it around the loop back to my car. In front of it is the scene depicted in the background of this blog-- a large tree with a concrete bench in front of it. I feel it embodies the essence of Homewood Cemetery, or at least the essence I get from it. There is a knot in the tree, beneath which is a frozen icicle made of sap. Up close, it is the hue of amber, with smooth ridges. I notice the knot, which I refer to as a nook, has greenery growing out of it, very much like the stump I discovered earlier.

I look out over the graves, and cannot wait until my next visit when I can explore a new section and its nature offerings. I love my cemetery in the snow.