Powder, by Kendall Vrana

 

Hard to believe that, just a few days before, I had just been remarking that the air did not feel as cold. There was a tease of warmer days, only for another storm to dip south and blanket campus in another deep, powdery layer of snow.

Fresh powder is the kind of snow I lived for, though, so I bundled up in my warmest jacket and thickest boots and began my trek across campus. It had crossed my mind to get a ride, but by the looks of it the snow plowing crew had not yet even attempted to work on the roads. A few times a car rolled slowly, precariously by and I was reminded that my tiring choice was still most likely the safer one.

The path I take to my spot was coated with the flakey white, shallower here slightly thanks to the slight shelter of the surrounding bare trees. Even with this protection the snow still came nearly entirely up my shin-high boots, and the effort only became more difficult when reaching the embankment. The path had been snowed in and was harder to find; finally, I recognized the familiar archway the curve of the leaning trees created and fought my way up the hill on all fours.

There’s something about snow that seems to take the sharpest, to-the-bone bite out of the cold. On any given day I would rather been buried in the stuff than left to deal with the empty, stinging air. Laboring my way through the deep powder had left me burning underneath my jacket, and I did not take into account that the graveyard of fallen trees at the crest would become treacherous hidden under the snow. Crawling a few more feet, I rolled over onto my back and sprawled out, cushioned as I looked up.

The sky was a space less shade of grey that had no depth or distinction. The tips of the skeletal trees around me thrust up into it, some marked with pockets of snow in their bark. The snow had been falling rather heavily as I began my trek but had slowed a little; the little assailants seemed never-ending, obscuring my vision with tiny wet touches along my face. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, pushing every thought away and opening my mind to total sensation. I became minutely aware of how heavy my legs felt in my heavy snow boots, how long and weightless my arms felt spread on either side. It was quieter than usual, as the usual white noise of the distant road was not as big a distraction. The small flakes made the softest sound as they landed around me.

I let my mind wander now, letting go of being centered to what I heard and felt. “So this is how you flow outward” I recalled Mary Oliver’s line as I released my mind to whatever fantastical whimsy. Maybe this is what she had meant, what she had found in that peculiar dream; the most pure form of meditation, out in the world, without a soul to disturb you and nothing to make you think clearer than the crisp, blank escape above.

A Fury of Light, by Rhiannon Hare

I ventured out after the fresh snowfall that once again covered Newark in powder. As the year pushes onward, I keep hoping each snowfall may be the last of this season. I am so tired of being cold. That being said, the snow is very beautiful and I was untroubled by being able to go out and enjoy the peaceful woods. Someone evidently felt the same. When I was walking along the creek road, “HAPPY” was spelled out with footprints in the snow about a quarter mile in. It brought a smile to my face. Around the same time, a bright red cardinal flashed across my vision, radiant against the snowy white backdrop. On my walk I took note of a lot of birds whose patterns I had never noticed before. I specifically stopped to watch a short, stout little bird with intricate black and white markings and as I watched him, he watched me too. I am going to make an effort to start recording and researching these different bird species so I can identify them in future journals.

My plans to plod to my spot via my newly discovered trail that follows the creek was quickly thwarted by hidden rocks, brambles, and ice. I reluctantly decided I had better take the high road (literally) and leave the risky exploring for the springtime. My favorite thing about a fresh snowfall is the little bit that collects on the tree branches and gives them a nice white highlight, accentuating their complicated twists and turns. Not by coincidence I am sure, my favorite part about creating a drawing or painting is adding in the white highlights at the very end. Reflecting the grey sky above, but also owning its deep, dark color, the creek flows poignantly onward.

As I turn onto the trail, I am the first to forge through the snow this time around. The light snow is a soft cushion, hiding worlds beneath it. I turn back to see the line my footprints have made behind me. The thorns that consume the path as it narrows catch my hair and my pants until it spits me out at the creek’s banks. I am looking down when I arrive, monitoring my foot placement. I look up suddenly when I hear a loud commotion. A pack of geese were perturbed by my arrival and took flight from the creek, honking and flapping forcefully. The synchronicity of their wings expanding and contracting was poetic and beautiful. Just upstream the sight I see takes my breath away. Another fifty geese all float calmly together, only feet away from me. The whole scene appears as though it’s in black and white. The overcast day robs the woods of its color. The geese look so magnificent, slowly drifting upstream together and eventually around the bend and out of sight. It’s really interesting to think about how I ended up at that spot in that exact moment and all the random little factors that led me to be able to witness it. I am intrigued by the power of life’s little vignettes.

As the geese were flying off, I wished to myself that I had my camera and that my phone was not dead. But that is the whole point of this! I get mad at myself when I think that, because there is a beauty in just experiencing a moment, and only being able to represent it with words. That is something I have been trying to implement in my life over the past year.

I attended the Philadelphia Flower Show this year, which had an art theme, something especially appealing to me. Seeing the way the exhibits merged two of my interests was enlightening and the amount of overlap between the two is fascinating. The extent to which humans use natural elements to illustrate and interpret their experiences is extensive. It was also fascinating to see how many visitors were living the show through their cameras, phones, and tablets. A lot of the time, people would not even stop to observe the exhibit or piece before they held their camera up to capture it for a later date. I am not saying I am not too guilty of this, but it is definitely something to take note of, and something that has thoroughly and completely engrossed our society.

Learning about the “sacrifice zones” in “Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt” has opened my mind to a lot of issues I do not generally learn, think, or talk about, which is so great, but I am also not an activist at heart. There are some days I am utterly overwhelmed by how many problems face this world on so many different levels. The thought makes me want to retreat into the woods or pastures and live a modest, self-sustaining life. Maybe that is solving a problem in it of itself. There are other days where I am utterly overwhelmed by how much beauty, joy, freedom, and happiness there is in life. Those days don’t usually come for me until spring returns.

I fortuitously came across a Mary Oliver poem, “Sunrise,” that really resonates with the feelings I addressed above. Or maybe I am misinterpreting it and just taking what I need from the poem, which I often feel like I do with music, poetry, and art. I have to remind myself that sometimes there is nothing wrong with that. Sometimes that is exactly what it is all about. Oliver starts off with “You can/ die for it-/an idea,/ or the world…” and equating the people that do that to ‘furies of light.’ She, in the end, addresses another way to be a fury of light: to take in deep breaths, to absorb the sun that shines on us all, and to exude happiness, for we are all one. “…[I]t is another one/ of the ways to enter/ fire.” I feel like this poem found me at the perfect moment, and I will carry it with me as I take on this week, this month, this semester, this year.

The Original Sculptor: The Woods by Jillian Silverman

It is lightly raining today but it is warmer than the bitter cold weather that I should have gotten used to but still have not. My boots still squish through the muddy footpath in the groves worn by foot traffic and bicycles and crunch over the remaining snow protected by the shadows of the trees tightly packed together. The stream next to me is much quieter than it was last week, yet I can hear tiny water droplets hitting rocks and the snow still coating the ground and melting the point where they touch. The grayness of the sky makes all of the colors surrounding me seem that much more vibrant. I peered into the decaying body of a fallen tree trunk speckled with holes, its whole form a rusty orange color. A moss colored rock formation, even under the shade of tall trees, stood out a bright yellow green. I passed a tree that I always catch myself looking at. The tiny beige leaves remind me of crumpled wings. Sometimes when it is windy, they rustle against each other softly and it almost sounds like flapping. I can hear birds chirping, the same two distinct calls back and forth. I wonder what it is like for them. To me, it is just background noise, but they must be saying something. The rain is picking up, bleeding the ink of my pen down the page and crinkling the paper. The droplets are cold against my skin and I am surrounded.

This class has been forcing me to see nature a lot more now- actually, fully see it. I remembered an artist and photographer we learned about in one of my high school art classes who used elements of the outdoors to create his pieces. Andy Goldsworthy incorporates items like flowers, leaves, branches, mud, snow, ice, and stone. He finds beauty and possibility in the simplest parts of nature. I went outside today channeling him and I was not disappointed in what I saw and found. Small orange spheres with spikes on them lined the muddy path toward White Clay. Branches all along the trails intertwined and curved as if someone had woven them together. One narrow tree trunk had bark wrapped around it in an upward spiral. A bright orange leaf sat lightly pressed into an untouched patch of bright snow. Raindrops collided with fresh puddles and fanned out in perfect rings. Everything looked like art. The forest was not just raw materials; its works were already complete, framed by uprooted tree trunks and long, curving branches. Andy Goldsworthy once said, “I think it’s incredibly brave to be working with flowers and leaves and petals. But I have to: I can’t edit the materials I work with. My remit is to work with nature as a whole.” I tried to look through his eyes today. I hope that the pieces I saw will withstand the test of time just as many of his nature-based sculptures have.

As I was reading “Days of Devastation,” the town of Gary in West Virginia sadly reminded me of the woods behind Laird Campus in that both are filled with garbage. Chris Hedges describes the creeks as being littered with plastic bags and bottles. Although White Clay is nowhere near as defiled, the idea remains the same. Gary has become a sort of mistreated wasteland, the same fate that could occur in the woods if we are not careful.

Mary Oliver talks in “Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine” about how the portion of time we each spend on this earth is so small in comparison to all of the years that it has been here and will continue to be here even when we are gone. In the last lines, she says, “Look! And then we will be like the pale cool stones, that last almost forever.” I thought about the things in nature that people are drawn to- colorful flowers, sturdy climbing trees, bright green plants- and how they are all temporary. The rocks that we so often overlook are able to remain undamaged. Yet, they do not feel or breathe or do anything, really. We as humans are mortal and fragile, but we can experience life and happiness, so maybe time is not the greatest issue we are facing. Perhaps the more crucial concern is what we are doing with our limited time. We could be living wildly with little regard for the world around us. Or, we could be conscious of all we do in order to minimize the scars we leave on this earth. We must be aware, however, that these things outlive us. Some redwood trees live to be 2,000 years old, if not more. The average lifespan is 500 to 700 years. Our time is such a small fraction of that, so it should not leave a disproportionately large mark on the environment.

On a similar note, Oliver expressed her sentiments through the quote, “Look, I want to love this world as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get to be alive and know it” in her poem “October.” She then goes on to discuss how she is afraid to touch anything or get too close, as she does not want to disturb it. She closes the poem with, “so this is the world. I’m not in it. It is beautiful.” Oliver is modest. She knows that there are things that are beyond her control and that sometimes they should be observed from afar and left alone. She respects this planet and its creatures. It is difficult to love something from a distance, but she manages to do it and that is inspiring to say the least.

All of these lines resonated with me. They are impactful, they are beautifully written, and they are important. Mary Oliver describes in detail the world she sees around her, and towards the end of each of these poems she extends it to the big picture. I also appreciate the fact that she uses “look” in two different places in each of these poems; she so clearly wants people to open their eyes and pay attention to what is around them. She writes what she sees and other people should take notice of her connection to nature. Maybe if more people went for a walk in the woods or watched for birds in their backyards, they would have a much harder time denying its importance and its magic.

There is still beauty and terror associated with the forest. I saw a lot that I was proud of, but none of it was manmade. I could pick out where humans had been through the trash strewn about, but the sculptures made by the trees and the rock faces lining portions of the path were almost enough to distract me from what we have done and presumably will continue to do until the damage is irreparable and it is too late. I am trying to keep channeling Andy Goldsworthy, but it is not an easy feat when everywhere we go we leave reminders of ourselves and the destruction we are capable of.

Doghood, by Tyler Kline

Along the path, a man and woman are walked by a dog.
The pink, wet pelt of his tongue
is arched abstractly outward, slurping air.
 
Again, I begin wishing –
 
the wish that tells my therapist more than descriptions can alone –
 
for someone to please just throw a gnarled branch for me to retrieve
or spill a little beer at a campsite and let me lick it off leaves stapled on the ground
or give me reasons why two legs are better than four.
 
Forget racing airplanes or bringing in broken creatures
with jaws lined red like sashes on a spelling bee victor,
 
I’m interested in the metaphysics of Doghood.
And at this point, my spell of canine spirituality comes full circle –
 
Before the sun stretches back,
and the Rangers perform their rounds,
the couple opens their car doors
and in jumps the dog, seizing shotgun,
resting his head out the window like a comma.
 
The dog, with a belly full of creek water
and insects crushed under his paws has got it all right.
 
And before I come home, making sure no cars are in sight,
I try too –
balancing my head out with one eye to the road
and the other left free to wander –
 
I spread my face wide and think, maybe I’ve found the secret,
but the moment stops as quickly as it began
 
as a turn springs up ahead
and I duck back in to steady the wheel.

Lost in the Beauty, by Anthony Istomin

I find myself lost in the beauty of my silent retreat. Stumbling through rivers of melting snow, I notice the surreal difference between the epitome of winter last Sunday and the beginning of spring today. The sun makes the most notable difference. I am charmed by its gentle kiss upon my brow. Like a mother she keeps me warm and makes me feel loved. The sky is perfectly blue and a lone hawk flies overhead. Unplug Gaia tells me, relax and enjoy she says. I’ve already shut my iPod off, the music of the stream couldn’t even compare to Vivaldi. Now I only wish I could get rid of my computer and simply bask in my newly aroused senses. My chest swells with the fresh air and my ears are tickled with the sound of the rumbling water and. The stream beckons me to touch and dipping my fingers into the liquid I am lost yet found.

I am awakened from my fascination with the aqua by a couple who stumbles through the foliage. By their laughter and smiles I can see they are in love. I bask in life’s simple pleasures along with them. As they depart, I am troubled by the destruction of natural beauty. I look at my reflection twice, once in the glare of the computer screen and once upon the cool, glossy water. My reflection, though clearer on the screen, compares nothing to the water’s portrait. Like a black and white photograph, the river captures my true self. Millions of drops of water shake and tremble from the surface tension. My image is alive.

A fly dances about my leg. He sits on my knee and rubs his miniscule hands together. Though not the cutest of creatures, he radiates life. I gently blow him away and think. In the woods I am a child of nature, equal to all others. It is neither mine nor anyone else’s. The fly comes back a little later to make a second acquaintance , I guess he likes me. The majestic hawk passes me by again.

What startles me next is a gentle breeze that ruffles my hair and gently raises it before again letting it down. I notice the sun on its downward spiral and as I grab my jacket from my bag, I resolve to stay to watch the sunset. The only barrier to obstruct my view was a menacing, dark power line. I had been so captivated by nature’s beauty that I had not noticed it until now. It slithered, like a snake, from branch to branch, infecting the environment with its poisonous black venom. I start to notice other anomalies in the atmosphere. Behind me, in a small patch of water reeds lay scattered about cans of beer and soda. They point directly towards a metal cage with no apparent purpose in my secret garden. Its sharp distinction from the rest of the world gives me anxiety. Isolated from its city home it stands like stranger, menacing and out of place.

My mind, imprisoned by the fence, is thrust to recall the so called age of innovation we have entered. This week alone I have swallowed enough chemicals to make me cringe at the thought. I recall the specific words my girlfriend had told earlier this week. “Your skin is so smooth” she says. What worries me is that I have been bathing in chlorine this whole week to swim. Could it mean that my skin, so tender, has been burned by the chlorine to leave only the freshest layer of skin intact? What about the new soap I just bought? Could that have enough chemicals to make my skin soft?

My thoughts are broken yet again. Three young, boys, all aged around 5 years old, bask in the glory of the natural world. They shriek, running through the brush and stumble upon the cascading falls where I sat. I am charged by them, their curiosity has been overwhelmed by the powerful rush of the creek. Their father barley holds them back as one of the boys nearly jumps into the water. As the children laugh I can tell that people inherently love nature. It is only as we grow distant from it, sheltered by bricks of cities, do we learn to stay away. I smile knowing that not all hope is lost. Humanity still has a passion for nature and with that kind of love, we will be able to preserve her beauty.

I am ready to leave, I grab my bags and then suddenly nature says its final goodbye. Two geese, the only two I’ve seen all day, have decided to land right besides my seat. They honk as I walk back to civilization. The birds chirp and the water still runs. As the sounds begin to fade I look up at the sun, its final rays of sun wave goodnight and I am immersed in nightfall. What a beautiful day.