Listening, by Mae Latko

On Tuesday, I went to Main Street with my friend for dinner.  And right after we got our food, the first thing she said was, “Phone eats first,” before snapping 4 pictures of her Mexican chicken in a bowl. I’ve been preoccupied with this concept since that evening.

So often are we too fixated on how things look, instead of listening to what’s around us. Instead of hearing and feeling the vibrations of the environment that hums and pulses around us.  The idea that the Ladakhis construct arranged marriages based on skill, personality and family impression, truly baffles me. How do they find these truths that so often seem hidden?

I have been participating in the sorority rush process for the last 2 weeks.  This very planned social experience allows me a 25-35 minute conversation with 2-3 people.  I get to share my name, my major and where I’m from. And before the sound byte small talk becomes genuine interaction, the time is up and we move on.   And I have noticed something: these so-called conversations have so much less impact on sorority interviewers than the way I present myself, my hair, my clothes.  It is my appearance — what they see — that carries more weight with these groups of women, typical of our American culture. However, the Ladakhi spouse is somehow more than seen; she is felt and heard, seeking to unveil what she is like on the inside.

Scrolling through my camera roll today, I realize all I had to show for my last trip to White Clay were the pictures that I took with my phone. The color of the few burgundy berries growing amongst a white, melted, snowy backsplash, followed by a lime green patch of moss shaped like my Long Island home, and the difference in size of my sunken, muddy footprint against that of a larger, past traveler. And again, like at my dinner, I was suddenly aware that our phones, more specifically our eyes, all-too-easily dominate our experiences.  

So I closed my eyes this time.

I walked down to the stream wrapped in a blanket I brought, shut my eyes, and listened. Quickly, my ears were surrounded by the wind that seemed to be rushing at me from every direction.  So I slowly began tipping my head different directions, slowly, pausing in each new position to attempt to gather as many unique noises as possible. In front of me ran a stream, where sounds of quieter water knocking against the log I sat on bounced off the shoreline, but beat a very different rhythm from the whooshing of the deeper current. To my left, the squawk of what I could only imagine to be a seagull startled me (my later research would determine that it was most likely a Herring Gull) but the more chattering, obnoxious honks of Canada geese at times overwhelmed the repetitive, fluttery chirp of some other bird that seemed to play on loop to my right, as if waiting for a response that never came in the time I sat and listened.

Behind me I heard the quick step and jingle collar of a dog, clearly off the leash because there was only one set of sloshy steps. A few seconds later, both a man and woman called out “Hayden, come,” each at separate times, the woman seemingly more aggressive. And just like that the ring of the collar and even faster steps followed until they walked out of audible distance.

Only then did I open my eyes and walk back to my car.

But I quickly realized that the beauty and peace of listening was much less gratifying when all there was to hear was the slam of my car door and the redundancy of today’s top hits.

 

Snow and Skunk Cabbage, by Jake Paraskiewicz

A week has passed since my last visit to White Clay Creek. I found myself anticipating this weekly hiatus from college life. With the spring semester heating up, it is nice to dedicate some time for self-care and reflection. Armed with my newly acquired eyeglass, I return to the same closed trail in search of a new mandala for observation.

Immediately upon hopping the downed tree at the mouth of the trail, I am greeted with the repercussions of the heavy, yet short-lived snow storm received earlier in the week. The melt was now responsible for flooding an area of about two-hundred square feet. It sits as a pool of ankle-deep water about ten feet above the adjacent creek. The stillness of the day allows the surface of the water portray a near perfect inverted reflection of the flooded forest and speckled-blue sky above. I stop and revel in the sight just long enough to spot the multitudes of skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) thriving despite the recent temperature fluctuations. Their thermogenic nature and affinity for saturated soil, allow these young cabbages to tolerate everything the late winter months can dish out. I contemplate harvesting a sample for closer inspection with my hand lens. I lean closer just as its pungent odor fills my nose. I elect to forego the opportunity and continue down the trail.

A few hundred yards upstream from last week’s sandy point bar, I come along a cut bank at the neck of a meander. The bank has been fully eroded at a seventy degree angle allowing for me to hang my feet off the side and look straight down at the flowing water beneath me. This creek lies dormant, seemingly devoid of all life signs. Most of the fish that call it home must be reintroduced annually as part of the Delaware Division of Fish and Wildlife’s stocking program. Last fall, one thousand pounds of rainbow and brown trout (Oncorhynchus mykiss, Salmo trutta) were introduced to various locations along White Clay Creek. Since most trout are a cold water species, they have a very hard time surviving the hot summer months. This, coupled with competitive sport fishing, puts these species’ living populations in a constant flux. A fresh surplus of trout are ready to be introduced in anticipation of the opening of the spring fishing season. Come March 2nd, the fly fishermen will be as numerous as the fish themselves. This realization leads me to believe that this is the last week I will be alone on this forgotten stretch of trail. I may even ditch my eyeglass and notebook for my hip waders and fly rod, but that is yet to be seen.

I now shift my attention to a rocky section of washout a few yards away. I could spot a few nice skipping stones so I decide to slide down the bank to toss a few rocks. Among the gravel I can spot a few minerals which I recognize: rose quartz and amphibole smoothed by the river, and thin flakes of mica chipped from a larger parent. These rocks are common for this area and drew no immediate attention. However, after skipping a few downstream I picked up a piece of layered bituminous coal. I pull out my eyeglass and put it to my eye. The inspection of this glossy black lump reveals many small fragments of organic matter which have yet to fully decompose. Each compressed layer represents years of heat and pressure within our Earth’s crust. Seeing this in the field, engaged my inner geology nerd and provided a truly enriching experience.

I skipped a few more rocks as I allowed the stress from this week to flow away like the water before me. These trips to the woods continue to shape my psyche just as the creek shapes the stone, slowly but with an unrelenting certainty.