Geography of the James (Earth Lodge)

I trudged around the far end of the lake where our class walked last Wednesday in hopes to find a perfect spot of reflection. I walked along what was a swampy, beaten path only a few days ago, but has recently been transformed into a snow-covered trail with only a handful of noticeable footprints. I saw a relatively flat patch of ground next to a rotting stump, the last remains of what I could only imagine was once a mighty pine, a home to countless organisms. I sat down to test out this potential reflection spot and surveyed my surroundings. The stream that funnels into the lake is now covered over by a thin sheet of ice. I thought about taking a step onto the ice, but hesitated enough to think about how warm it was outside and that nothing truly good could come from trying to walk across this temporarily frozen stream. Picking my head up, I saw a couple pieces of garbage, namely a Jimmy Johns bag and an unrecognizable can. This was not the perfect reflection spot.

I moved along the bank of the stream in search of a new spot, weighing the options, looking for the most beautiful of trees to surround me, where just enough sunlight could break through the branches and warm my skin on this blustery January afternoon. I continued to walk around the outskirts of the lake looking for another potential place to sit and observe, but this time it was a trashcan that was in my direct line of sight that caused me to get up and continue looking for my ideal location.

I walked around for another ten minutes before I stopped right in my tracks and decided to sit down immediately. This spot did not offer a more beautiful view than the first, and not only could I see a trashcan, but I could see an entire dumpster. What I realized at this moment was that I had been walking around in hopes to find the most perfect spot for reflection, where there were little to no disturbances or unpleasant sights or sounds. What I failed to realize was that I was being more distracted by what I didn’t want to see than by what was right in front of me. I failed to miss the sound of the snow and ice crunching beneath my feet as I walked. I failed to listen to the wind shake the trees and its branches, or the birds humming, or even watching the squirrels doing whatever squirrels do.

My reflection spot is on the opposite side of the lake from Lakeview, in between the path the leads to the greek theatre and the road. As I sit down, I listen to both the cars rush behind me, and voices carry across the lake from people walking across the bridges by the gazebo. There is also a small stream of water that remains frozen that goes back into the wooden area that I have never encountered before. I have to say that the trees and the ground look tired and depleted, and appear more than ready to welcome warmer weather, as am I. I am excited to come back to this spot and observe how my surroundings change with time and with the coming seasons.

Something I struggle with, and a lot of people would probably agree, is that I take for granted what is right in front of me. I often overlook my immediate surroundings and yearn to discover and observe something more beautiful or more complex, rather than appreciate the beauty and simplicity of the trees, the lake, and the animals that I am lucky to be surrounded by everyday when I walk around this campus.

Since I was little, I have always loved being around the water.  One of my favorite places growing up was a local park that had this beautiful lake with multiple gazebos overlooking it.  I would enjoy sitting and reading a book or watching the water, the animals in the lake, and the people walking around it.  It was such a peaceful and calming activity.  Once I started looking at colleges, I was immediately attracted to Richmond’s campus because of the existence of the gazebo and the Westhampton lake.

I have had so many memories in the gazebo.  I’ve had many late night talks there with amazing friends that have helped me understand more about myself, my friends, and the world, as we sat in the freezing cold.  The gazebo is the first place I ever saw a shooting star and it was a surreal experience.  During the summer when I was working on campus, I would have time between shifts to take my journal out to the gazebo and write about anything that came to mind.  The gazebo has also been a place to take a breath and relax during my infrequent runs around the lake in the fall and spring. It has also been a place where the other Earth Lodgers  and I connected as we reflected on the beauties of nature together.

Although I know this is a popular place to gather thoughts and reflect, I feel like I have a special connection with the gazebo because of all the times I have already spent there in reflection.  Each time I come into the gazebo and look out at the lake and the campus, I think about how I’ve grown as a person since I visited it last.  It is amazing how much the lake changes as well.  In the spring, baby ducks start to appear, the yellow haze of pollen covers the lake, and everything is green.  In the summer,  I notice the smell of the lake, the heat, and the presence of the ducks, geese, and insects.  In the fall, the foliage of the trees surrounding the lake is breathtaking.  And now, in the winter, the lake is partly frozen over, patches of snow are still on the ground, and there’s a chill in the air.

I arrived back to campus from my hike at Old Rag, went for a swim, and took a relaxing shower. The whole time being spent brainstorming about where it was I wanted to claim as my reflection spot. The gazebo… nah. The intersection between the golf course and “wilderness…” nix. The lake drainage we observed on our first walk around campus.. nay. So I walked. I walked until I realized there was a spot that seemed to have grabbed me before. The o’ so glorious Frisbee golf hole of 11 and 3/4s popped its’ little head above the trees shouting at me to come reflect (3/4s for those Harry Potter fans and the fact that I’m just past where it ends).  Here I am, sitting on a 30 foot long half rotted log that’s been here for longer than I know. The joggers and walkers who pass stare puzzlingly back with an expression that begs for an explanation as to why I’m sitting in the middle of the woods pecking away at my keyboard on such a chilly day. Beyond them to my right, a seemingly thin layer of ice covers a small section of the lake. Atop it lies the litter Molly noticed earlier in the day. To my left, the sun creeps through the trees highlighting those stubborn leaves that refused to give in to the season’s mood swings and join the others on the ground. Despite being surrounded by these woods, there lies a lone cinderblock a few feet off the jogging path. How it got there is beyond me, but it provides an interesting contrast to the not too manicured woods.

In all, winter seems to have done its job on this section of the woods. The remnants of Friday’s snowstorm covering select sections of the woods, the crunch of the fallen leaves, and the crying of the trees for a warmer day fill my vision and ears.

My reflection spot is the middle of the Commons bridge, perched facing out over the lake. I’ve come here to reflect for Earth Lodge mostly because I’ve been coming to sit here regularly for as long as I’ve been at UR. I come to the bridge to read, to watch, to paddle around in my thoughts for a while, to dispense with thought altogether. Sometimes I’m struck by what a strange place I’ve chosen to have these moments with myself—the dribble of conversations passing behind me rarely ceases, and everything I see seems to sway to the percussion of joggers trotting by. Maybe it’s counter-productive to seek a rest from the frenzy of it all, and to seek solitude, really, in such a public space. But I think my spot on the bridge has been one of the most valuable sources of comfort, observation and genuine quiet that I’ve found here.

My affection for the bridge is partly visual. Each grey leaf whispers to me from across the lake with stunning clarity; the sky edges into dinnertime purple and the water answers, in amber and ink, getting heavier. Even if I don’t stop to sit, to walk across the bridge and give myself wholly to seeing these details (I’m thirsty for them, always) enriches my days with its constancy and its surprise. The concrete much hotter or much colder than the air, the lacy layers of bird calls and breezes, the tug of awareness that immediately behind me all this dazzle turns to cold industrial dripping—engaging my senses in an afternoon on the bridge never fails to electrify me, somehow.

I think the bridge’s most valuable asset as a reflection spot in this context, though, will be what it allows me to observe in the ways humans interact with their environment. The bridge can be a jarringly direct illustration of a community choosing not to be truly present in its natural surroundings, shuffling from building to building, gazing down at its shoes and its screens. It’s a reminder not to fall into that ambivalent rushing, and also a reminder not to generalize, never to assume I’m the only one feeling the wonder, breathless under the yellow moon. I can’t imagine a more ideal spot from which to quietly watch my community interact with the body of water at its heart.

A quiet little creek

barely known

silently feeds the lake

Down the three flights of stairs, over the bridge, past the gazebo and right into part of the forest. Follow the path turn down the hill and follow the creek.

Today I tried to find my reflection point. It was hard, there were a lot of interesting places that I had been, the gazebo and island, Frisbee golf holes in the forest, and the garden of the five lions. The only problem with those places were they weren’t just mine. Everyone knew about those places and I wanted my reflection point to be my reflection point and mine alone, I didn’t want to be interrupted every 3 minutes.

Walking through the forest I eventually fell into( not literally) a little creek on the edge of the forest. It was calm and forgotten and it was mine.

Time passed as I came to know my spot. The creek icing over into the lake, The little pine sapling, the tree that was inspired by the arch in St. Louis, and the two little trees that pushed away to give a view of the lake anyone rarely sees.

And while I was getting to know my space, I noticed footprints in the snow that were not my own. Some were from some animal, others were from someone’s shoes. Somebody had trespassed on my spot, or was it the other way around? Truthfully it was neither of those options, the creek and the spot belong to no one. Yet it still surprised me that sometime within the last 2 days, someone had done what I had done, and found the spot and just watched the lake, and listened.

When I had stopped myself and listened, I heard so many sounds. Birds in the background, dried beech leaves shivering in the cold wind, the quiet tired creek, and cars. So many cars. I couldn’t believe it. This piece of land rarely touched an managed by people had so much noise and people around it. It was disturbing how difficult it was to find a completely isolated spot in nature, but conversely it was nice to know spaces like this could be found so close to “civilization.” I liked how even in such a busy place there are still places like this.

Since our first day of class I have been thinking about making the point where Little Westham Creek meets Old College Road my reflection spot. I love that it’s isolated from students rustling by and that it’s on the water, yet one can watch the cars and their passengers zoom on and off campus.

Last night I was walking around the lake with Jenni and Natalie, and in K Lot we spotted a shy little raccoon. We followed it as it skittered up the bark of a Loblolly Pine; the bright flash of our iphone sent it scurrying into the woods towards the creek. I took it as a sign.

I made my way into the woods after a quick swim, my presence leaving a  trail of chlorine that permeated the crisp winter air. The unusual weather allowed an easy reflection, the edges of the lake clothed in a layer of thin ice. The snow blanketed across the surrounding watershed has been melting all day, making its way down to my spot. It’s higher than ever, and I wonder if when the water recedes, will the ice surface separate? Delicately floating a few inches over its body. Right as it passes under the road, as TLB said, the creek flattens out, coming to a lull. The water babbles out of its tunnel, swirling in patterns, slowing, frothing, freezing as it makes its way downstream. The oily pollution solidifies on the surface, forming ripples of white lather.

Cars ceaselessly passed by, seeming to mark off the edge of campus. I remember jogging by this spot with my friend Aileen; crossing into the neighborhoods always felt like a game of Frogger. In the brief moments undisturbed by engines, the sounds of campus and its wildlife neighbors would blur. I closed my eyes, but my eyelids seemed to mirror the colors all around me: white, greyed brown, and the rust orange of dying leaves. I breathed through my nose, the smell of decomposition barely perceivable under the vacuous snow air. I realized how much I miss that smell – It can be overwhelming in the damp forests of Washington, but here it’s like a rare delicacy that passes by unnoticed.

I marveled at how beautiful the sun is today, realizing my ears had gone numb. The smell of chlorine returned to me, so I stood up and made my way back to Lakeview. I’m excited to see how the water changes with the season, and the banks around it.

This morning I woke up just before that awkward period between 10:00 and 10:30am during which the dining hall is closed, and decided to go for a morning walk to discover my reflection spot. As I was crossing the island, I paused a moment and considered the gazebo. I realized that this would likely be a popular reflection spot, due to its location central to the lake and its quiet simplicity. However, I also realized that I had sat in the gazebo all of once during my time at Richmond, during the small field trip with book club last semester. My typical lake perch tends to be one of the benches on the waterside. I decided the gazebo would be my reflection spot.

During my initial 360-degree scan of my surroundings, I was disappointed to see the amount of litter scattered atop the frozen portions of the lake, the largest piece being a full trash can. Accompanying the trash can were a red visor, a few empty beer cans, red solo cups and small pieces of crumpled paper. I understand that at least a few of these objects were put on the ice as an experiment by students, to see how strong the ice was. Curiosity got the better of them. But they failed to realize the consequences of what they’d done, because when the ice melts and the litter falls through, it’ll join the countless other pieces of trash in the lake that disrupt the local ecosystem, though technically they are disrupting the local ecosystem where they are now. It will get stuck there for an indefinite amount of time, until a lake cleanup project occurs when the lake is drained. When litter gets into bodies of water, it poses a threat to local creatures who may confuse it for food, eat it, and get sick or die. If the litter is sharp, like broken glass, it poses a threat to both animals and humans who walk around the lake. Litter is also a threat to the aesthetic appreciation of the lake. A beautiful, clean and healthy lake is much preferable to one smothered by junk.

Though my first time in my reflection spot was a little disheartening, I’m truly happy with my choice and am excited to spend more time there.

-Jules