For our midterm, we were assigned 25 species of trees to learn to identify. We were each given a list of clues and directed to a cache of manuals and books on that often-neglected shelf in the corner of the fourth floor lounge. At the end of each day leading up to the exam, we descended the spiral steps to wander under the heavy perfumes of the humid evenings and acquainted ourselves with the trees. By the time Thursday rolled around, we had examined enough bark, deciphered the developing growth of enough buds, and collected enough fallen leaves to be able to call all 25 by name.
I’ve genuinely enjoyed this spring more than any I can remember, and I think it’s largely because I’ve begun observing the trees as I walk around campus. By simply turning my gaze upward, the world revealed secrets that had until recently gone quite literally over my head.
It was easy to take note of this newfound habit of looking up while sitting in the sun today in my reflection spot and thinking back to my past meditations in this garden . Before, my tendency was to bring myself as close to the earth as possible in order to study the minute workings of the understory, believing this to be my most richly accessible contact with the nuances of the natural world. Today, I sat by the same pond inside the same brick walls but today I looked up. I noticed the tiny, fuzzy buds that have only just begun to peek from tips of the smooth, brown branches and remembered the surprising speed with which these buds will soon burst into verdant foliage swirling in gusty April sunshine. Looking up, I realized that there’s an entire skybound realm of the natural world which I’m only now learning to see with the same focus and appreciation as I’ve always devoted to the ground. And because of this I’m glad. I’m glad to be moving ever toward a more holistic conception of my place in this sphere. There’s so much to see and so much to love–down, up, left, right, inside, and outside.
Andrew Bird – Hole in the Ocean Floor