Geography of the James (Earth Lodge)

Seeing as our class toured the upper and lower parts of our campus to observe our water sources and outlets, it made sense that my reflection spot go one step further.  There is a small path carved out through the middle of tangled trees behind a shopping center. I take the path down and take in my surroundings.

Before I can even sit, a thundering splash 20ft downstream signals I am not alone here. Under the murky, silt-filled water, there is no telling what is with me. There are also signs that other people come to this spot — litter scattered here and there is evidence of this (non-point sources of pollution!). The large amount of foliage gives me shade and cools the air underneath its canopy. A distant rush of cars can be heard, which constantly reminds me that I am only a short way off from a busy road.

I cannot be totally comfortable in my “reflection” spot. This was a deliberate choice and it is one that William Cronon, who wrote “The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” would agree with.  Cronon observes that urbanized people characterize nature as a far-off place that is disconnected from their daily lives. These people escape their urban lives for sublime “natural” landscapes, and forsake the environments near their homes and places of work because they are “tainted.” Cronon wants people to stop separating where they live from the picturesque areas where they vacation because that train of thought prevents people from helping the environment in their own backyard.

My reflection spot is an urbanized, non-idyllic, yet natural setting. This place is one that I can positively change after observing it through the year. Here, a human can make “home” even more “natural.”

Side note: I am saving my pictures until the final reflection post so they can be presented side-by-side.

Staring across the lake, I notice how everything moves.  The geese float serenely across the surface of the otherwise glassy surface of the water.  The students and faculty hurry to their next class or meeting.  The leaves on the trees bristle at a weak gust of wind.  And the cars speed by, desperate to reach their destination as soon as possible.  The geese are the only beings capable of independent movement not rushing somewhere.  They float, the turn, float some more, occasionally they’ll dive in for a hopeful bite, but for all intents and purposes, they are just hanging our enjoying the sun.

The geese have a daily list of things they must do, just like you and me.  However, the concept of time, of when each task must be accomplished, means nothing to them.  If one wishes to cross the lake, they do, at whatever pace they wish.  Whether they arrive at 10:29 or 10:32 makes no difference, but that mere 180 seconds can make a huge difference in our lives.

Some professors will lock a student out if they are even 60 seconds late.  Every day, cars drive absurd speeds above the speed limit in an attempt to shave off just a couple minutes, if that, in the long run.  Even what one can order at a restaurant could be altered by a 2 minute delay in transportation.  We even feel the need to apologize for being five minutes late to a pre-planned meeting, under the belief that we have wasted someone’s time.  Humans value punctuality so greatly, we allow it to dictate every aspect of our lives.  It is only when we escape “society” and find some free time, that we can see how trivial 60 seconds is.  How little it matters whether one arrives at 10:29 or 10:30.

Sunday, September 8, 2013; 11:00PM

It’s awfully quiet here. Well, not quiet, but peaceful. The sounds of the insects prevent me from saying otherwise. But as I sit here, alone, surrounded by what many would call nature, I cannot help but notice the things that aren’t: the stone steps, the lights, the gazebo. Even more than that: the cars that drive by on the road on either side of me, the airplane overhead, even the lake right in front of me…

Yet what is running through my mind is that what I am starring at – the reflection of the Commons in the water – is often described as one of the most beautiful sites on campus. But it is not natural beauty. None of it is really. Man has touched everything. Even the most “natural” thing on campus – the lake. And when I try to think of other natural beauties that I’ve seen, I am beginning to question even their naturalness.

This summer, I hiked up Old Rag. But now that I think about it, that 9 mile trail was made way back when with the rise of the National Park Program. And while the mountain itself still existed beforehand, the trailblazers remind you that man has since been here and has shaped it for future generations.

Even further still (while I have never been there), we have Yosemite. Currently the park is being ravaged and threatened by forest fires. Yet it is also being threatened in another way – by humans. I recently read an article discussing that Yosemite was planning to cut back on human activity because of the heavy impact that human presence due to tourism has had on the park. The plan would be to encourage the restoration of over 200 acres of meadows, reorganizing transportation, and reducing traffic flow. (For more info, read http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/29/us/plan-for-yosemite-calls-for-scaling-back-human-activity.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20130729.)

This brings me to my next point. Where has man not been? He has practically explored every inch of this Earth. The ocean is the only thing I can think of that has yet to be explored. The question now progress to, should we? How much human activity is too much? Are we destroying or creating beauty with our presence in certain natural settings?   Does our presence mean that natural beauty cannot exist? Or can the two co-exist? Where then can we look for this beauty?

Over the summer, I developed a new hobby called urb-exing. It is where one goes into an area and explores the remains of urbanization. This can take the form of factories, public pools, train stations, etc. – as long as they’re abandoned. One of the reasons, aside from the adrenaline rush that I get, that I had such a strong affinity for it, was that it was a wonderful exhibition of the power and sheer determination of Mother Nature. It was beyond amazing to see what exactly nature could reclaim. Even the smallest of shrubs peeking out from the concrete floor signified a victory, a promise, a reminder of sorts that Mother Nature is always here and will always be here in one way or another.

Sometimes you just have to stop and look.

So now, I sit here and really try to look and listen. I begin to notice the little things.

The pinecones that scatter the area, a promise of life to come, protected in a case for safekeeping.

The fish that jumped in the distance, landing with a splash, presumably eating it’s midnight munchies.

 The raindrops that are falling from the sky, once a part of some other far off body of water; now a part of our own little Westhampton Lake watershed.

Sometimes you just have to stop and look.

~Garrett

In the center of everything is a man-made bench inscribed with the words “Gift of Robert J and Bettina S Lumpkin” which is firmly attached to a slab constructed of brick. On top of the bench is me, who is facing the lake.

The time is 5:00 o’clock PM. The trees across from me cast shadows onto the lake, covering less than half of the surface. In the shadow of the trees are ducks, there are more ducks than I’ve ever seen on the Westhampton Lake. They float across the rippling water in harmony with the geese.

Cicadas boast their presence with constant buzzing.

Directly in front of my feet is 3 yards of sand. I see small unimposing, hardly noticeable blades of grass and two short trees flanking me. The height of the trees are unimpressive, they look sturdy but not invasive, and a few thin roots breach the soil. Their branches reach out into the lake, they do not droop but instead stretch firmly out into the sunshine giving as much opportunity as they can for their small leaves to catch sunlight. Their leaves are wimpy and small, a few of them have already given into the new season and begun to change to shades of orange and yellow. Their existence silently beside the bench creates an immobile company of three.

The bank dividing the sand and the lake is created by small jagged rocks about the size of my head or the size an incredibly handsome bowling ball. On top of the rocks are ducks, geese, and dragonflies. Most of the flock look for residence on the shady parts of the lake but in front of me the shade ends at the bank, so there are few ducks in front of me. The sunlight flashes off of the blue exoskeleton of numerous dragonflies and the gentle ripples disturbing the water. The full exposure to sunlight exposes none of the contents of the lake, the water is brown and murky. I can only see a few small fish dart between the rocks next to the bank.

Where the water meets land across the lake looks similar to where I am sitting. The trees droop downwards as though they are falling into the lake. None of the trees I see grow straight upwards, they grow informally at different angles. My eyes continue upwards until I see a walking path. Above the walking path is a thick growth of trees and shrubbery. Trees on the East Coast grow thin but strong, the resulting forests are crowded and dense. The trees are green and full of life.

The cicadas have been replaced by crickets.