Geography of the James (Earth Lodge)

The early summer weather has gone on sabbatical and true spring is here! In Richmond, that means sheets (more like thick blankets) of tennis-ball colored pollen covers absolutely everything that comes outside for more than 2 minutes. On the walk over to my reflection spot, I saw it accumulating in one stagnant corner of the lake and giving my friend the white duck a greenish hue. As I take my seat on the bench by the edge of the lake, I see tiny, neon leaves erupting from the branches of nearby trees and the vibrant purple blossoms of the redbud tree adding splashes of color to the growing scenery.

I reflect on our Earth Lodge field trip this past weekend to a cozy cabin nestled in the Shenandoah mountains where we ate (nod to the generous Shannon), hiked, grew closer, and played (a lot). Though the weather was uncooperative, I had an amazing time bonding with everyone on the trip, as well as noticing how much I have learned through our course. When we stopped to examine trees, I could actually identify them by their bark or structure, and consider the purity of the stream water given our lectures on sedimentation and the hydrologic cycle. I love sharing what I’ve learned (particularly tree names) with my non-lodger friends on runs and walks around the city and enjoying a deeper sense of environmental stewardship instilled by this experience.

As I look forward to spending the summer in Richmond, memories of little orange lizards, toasting baguettes, crazy Grizzly bear man, and campfires bring a smile to my (now pale-green) face.

As I swing between my two hammocking trees, trees with whom I’ve become very familiar this year, I am thinking about the concept of place-blindness. When we discussed it in class I mostly focused my attention on the way that we can come to view our surroundings as green and wooded when they are in fact so full of impervious surfaces. Since we studied up on trees, however, I have been thinking about how ridiculous it is that I didn’t know the names of so many of the trees around me. How on earth have I gone through life recognizing and adoring trees but spending so little time learning their names? It’s not as though I’ve been blind to the trees themselves—I’ve always spent a lot of time looking at trees—but being able to identify them feels like such a simple, achievable step towards improving my relationship to my surroundings. That tree at my feet is a Loblolly Pine, and the tree behind me is a small White Oak. I’ve known the name of the Loblolly for most of this year, and, if pressed, I probably could have told you that the White Oak was a type of Oak, but still, I feel an unwarranted sense of accomplishment for knowing their specific names. Unwarranted, as it seems that a basic knowledge of the trees around us should be a given. Still, I feel excited by my own excitement and that of my fellow lodgers. Knowing the names of even the few trees that I currently know feels like such a simple and productive way of becoming rooted in my home and aware of lives so nearby. Being unconscious of the names of these trees is like going through life without knowing the names of neighbors. How is it that I jump at the opportunity to familiarize myself with new humans but have gone so long without acknowledging my arboreal neighbors?

Looking out on this dreary, misty, 47 degree day, I cannot help but think of home, of a place so remarkably different from here. The shadows across the lake move, and I can almost trick myself into pretending it’s Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains are just beyond my reach. I squint, and I could be anywhere in my fair city, because the water is everywhere. However, the tulips bring me back.
Nowhere in Seattle will there be blooming tulips anytime soon, and yet here, their green shoots are braving our bipolar weather like true little soldiers. I admire their audacity. Like Mike said, spring is fast upon us, and although it may be confusing with the occasional snow storm thrown in, it is, in fact, changing seasons. How wonderful!
I love the spring. It seems as if right after spring break, the whole campus falls in love. Like more than Valentine’s day kind of love. I’m not sure if its the affects of spring, but it was something particularly unique I noticed last year I can’t wait to witness once more. People walking around holding hands, those “Facebook official” status changes, people generally acting happy and giddy around campus. How much are our moods, emotions, feelings…deep emotions (?) affected by the weather? I have to wonder. Is this genuine joy or just a fleeting, external response to the stimuli around? I prefer to think the former, but either way, it is a delightful season we are about to enter that makes it much, much easier to stay in the present and stop myself from dreaming too much about abroad.

Much of the allure of my sit spot is the exciting and rare prospect of alone time. I often feel that the only time I’m truly alone is when I finally get to sleep at night, so purposefully taking myself out of the hectic swing of things and onto the island allows me the reflective respite I need. The paragraph in our Twelve by Twelve reading in which Powers discusses the difference between being alone and lonely resonated with me. It reminded me of how much healthier I feel when I have had time like this to be silent, meditative, and centered. I think the proximity to water is the reason that this spot has this effect on me. Even though I’ve grown up around rivers, the mystery of bodies of water never ceases. When everything else seems so fixed, water continues to swirl and run, evaporate and fall. As I lightly swayed in my hammock, I began thinking about the way in which Siddhartha (in Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse) finally reaches the state of peace that he has been seeking: by sitting and contemplating a river with an ancient boatman until he can finally hear the voices of the river. When I sit by the lake, I feel only a small fraction of Siddhartha’s “Om—perfection,” of course, but I still enjoy thinking about water as having “hundreds of voices, thousands of voices” (Hesse 135)

When I sit by the water, I am often only paying full attention to the ducks, geese, and (if I’m lucky) herons, but the way that Hesse describes water itself is so full of the life and familiarity that I notice only when I am looking for it. Water in the form of rivers and lakes is ever changing, but also gives off an impression of permanency. The water that Siddhartha observes “changed to vapor and rose, became rain and came down again, became spring, brook and river, changed anew, flowed anew” (135), as does the water in the lake, in the James, in the Shenandoah, and in the Clarion. I wonder whether I ever come into contact with the “same” water again? Where in the world is the water that we saw in the James River last Thursday? And the Clarion River water I swam in all summer? I suppose I’ve moved on since those moments as much as the water has, but when I carve out time to wonder at the mysteries of water, this fact never ceases to amaze me.

“Snooooooowwwww”!!!! White flurries rush down the canyon and slam across my body as my arms spread wide like an eagle. The first snow is always a giddy time for me. It reminds me of the time I was snowed at my grandmothers in Wyoming and missed school for a month. The time my dad tossed me in snow pile and I sank so deep there was two feet of snow above my head. The time I first made an igloo in Montana and at home it is a sign that my birthday is near (October 30th.) Only four months late I finally saw snow on our trip up to the Potomac River and luckily it followed us back to Richmond.

Ironically the day before I had been bragging to my friends about the 70-degree weather, shorts and tees, and plenty of sunshine. Now there is three to five inches of snow….EVERYWHERE! This presented interesting choices to arrive at my reflection spot but nonetheless I did make it and enjoy the splendors abound. The world was still, except the subtle flurries of snow drifting down from the sky. Canadian geese flew into the scene in the shape of a “v,” swooping left and right and then skidding to a halt on the water. So peaceful and so surreal as if only I existed in this magical snow globe. Three trees form perfectly into a seat and upon this seat I sit and look at the world. Is this the real world I see or one of my creations? When you think back to the first time you saw someone’s face, how does it look? For me they are always different and certain features are accentuated such as the head, eyes and hair. These don’t ever match up with how I currently see their face but somehow my vision on a first impression is skewed. Is my view of the world also skewed upon first impression? Or is it skewed upon memory?

My original plan for getting to my reflection spot was to run to Pony Pastures around noon before my accounting class today, and then meditate on the same rock where I sat weeks ago. However, when I woke up this morning, it was not to the sound of the morning doves or even the squawking geese. I woke up to a low rumble of thunder and the patter of rain on the window. At first I rolled over to go back to sleep, for rain is my ideal sleep weather. But eventually my half-asleep mind actually convinced me to get out of bed and start my day with some meditation by the river. I pushed myself out of bed and borrowed my friend’s car to go down to Pony Pastures. Throwing on my rain attire and grabbing my umbrella, I made my way out to the river before breakfast.

It was pouring, but with the protection of my umbrella and rain gear, I was completely dry sitting on that rock as I observed the water. The river is entirely different in the rain, almost unrecognizable. There was no longer the flickering of the reflecting sunlight on the rapids but instead it was more of a single shade of gray, the rapids almost disappearing under the raindrops that were hitting the water. The sound of the rapids was perfectly blended with the patter of raindrops into a low hum. It smelt of soil, rain, and I could feel the damp wind wafting over the river blowing my hair out of my hood. The moment was perfect; I could enjoy the direct exposure to the beauty of the soothing rain next to the river but I was warm and cozy in my waterproof attire.

When I looked down at the ground, I could see the miniature streams gathering in the soil and leading downhill to the river. It reminded me of all of the things I have learned in this class so far and how much more aware I am of the source of my surroundings rather than merely appreciating them for what they simply are. Knowing that the rain falling down, not only here but also as far away as the Blue Ridge Mountains, is contributing to our water source makes me appreciate every drop so much more. The rain bothers so many people, but I adore it because it is the food of the river. It is a source of all life around us, but is not appreciated by a majority of people because of its inconvenience. But because of this class, the rain is now one of my favorite types of weather, and I will continue to go outside during the rain and fascinate myself with its beauty instead going back to my bed to take a nap.

It’s hard to say what’s changed. University campus is largely monotonous and homogenous. I mean, of course there’s the new landscaping between Boatwright and Maryland, it was hard to miss the smell of manure on my daily walk from Jepson to Commons. Reminded me of the extensive agriculture of home; a nice little reminder that I belong to two different worlds. Home and here are a mere 135 miles apart, but the smell of manure is the same in both places.

The change of Richmond foliage goes largely unnoticed from my little spot on campus, and from here, not much has changed at all. I mean, the grass is perhaps a different shade of green but it’s still green. Grass can still take care of grass’ self. The stone I sit on is perhaps a little more damp than usual from the influx of rain that we’ve been getting lately, not yet dry from the sun’s rays. When was the last time I was here, a month ago? Back then it was winter posing as spring, and now it is spring being spring. I suppose it is a little warmer now, the daffodils the university planted are blooming nicely.

But there is one thing present that was not during the past month, and this small, subtle change becomes aware to me as I once again look at the dirt. There are a few resilient little ants navigating their way around the soil and grass and cement. Ants, that’s what’s different about this spot. There are ants.

Ants are curious little arthropods. Many of us humans view them as invasive pests and seek to exterminate them as quickly as possible from our humble abodes; however, in nature, these little guys serve an amazing purpose. A true keystone species. They have symbiotic relationships with some caterpillars and aphids where they transport these two species between different feeding areas in exchange for the sweet nectar that they produce. Both insects get food out of the exchange, and sometimes the ants even let the caterpillars stay the night in their colonies for protection from predators of the night. A similar food-based symbiotic relationship exists between ants and some plants where the ants provide protection in exchange for some glucose. Lemon ants also clear plots of land for the growth of lemon ant trees. That’s not even beginning to credit them for their ability to disperse plant seeds. They are truly a unique species with quite an environmental impact.

Socially they are even more marvelous. They efficiently communicate with each other, relegate rolls between defense, nest construction, food cultivation, and royalty. They can travel up to 700 feet away from their nests and even remember where they’ve been using pheromones to mark trails! Shockingly they also raid other colonies for space and resources and sometimes steal larva and eggs and raise them to be workers or slaves for their own colonies. They also possess the ability to learn from their past mistakes and streamline their colonies.

And the most fascinating thing, these things are tiny. Ants surely have no conception of a world larger than their own little 700 foot radius from home base, yet whether they know it or not, they have a massive ecological impact that greatly expands this small little bubble and affect the whole world (there are an estimated 22,000 different species of ants that inhabit every continent except Antarctica).

So I began to think, these arthropods can’t imagine a world outside of their own bubble and similarly I can’t imagine a world outside of the two bubbles that I inhabit. And even though I can’t imagine this larger world (well I can conceptually but not the vast physicality of it all), that doesn’t mean that my ecological impact is any less significant. Indeed, humans, like ants, are a very important keystone species that inhabit every corner of the globe, sans Antarctica. Some would even go so far as to say that humans, like the fire ant, are an invasive species.

However, instead of simply relegating our species to that of the invasive, primed for uprooting and deportation and destruction, perhaps there is something positive that can be gained from this commonality that humans share with ants. How about instead of destroying the environment we inhabit, we remove things selectively so that another beneficial species will flourish? How about, instead of adopting a parasitic attribute we develop one of communalism where we give and take equally from nature? How about we use our impressive social abilities to work for the mutual good of the world?

If these small annoying insects can do it, surely we can do it bigger and better. I’ve always said to enjoy the little things. Who knew that little thing would be an ant?

This one’s for C.J.

I am glad to have the opportunity to take a few minutes to return to my reflection spot. Not a whole lot has changed since I last sat here by my fountain, but I can spot some subtle differences. On my way here, I saw many cheerful yellow daffodils sprouting from the February ground. Their bright trumpets appear to be heralding the beginning of spring rather early this year. Walking around campus, I have noticed several trees blossoming weeks earlier than they did last year. In this respite from the torrential rains, swirls of evaporation waft from the puddles around me. I wonder if the extreme weather conditions we have been experiencing and the early signs of spring can be attributed to global warming, coincidence, or whether it is not actually that early to be entering the spring season. Part of me is inclined to simply appreciate the joys of nature’s early gifts. However, I can’t help but be concerned about the increasing threat of humans contributing to harmful environmental conditions.

I let my mind wander to our discussion by the river last week. I am still unsettled by the conclusion that we came to towards the end of our talk: the earnest effort to seek more sustainable consumption and production habits will likely not occur until it is an absolute necessity. Humans are robbing the rest of the environment and future generations from the benefits of adopting sustainable practices before the situation has spiraled out of control. What will be the breaking point that will eventually push us to change our ways? How many plant and animal species will die off in the meantime? How many of those will have medicinal properties that we will never discover? These questions leave me yearning for an answer, or some power to make a change. If only people could be convinced that today is the day to make a change if we are to preserve the environment for the future. This reminds me of a tidbit of wisdom I recently read in a book: Not even a day. This simple phrase means that when a person perceives that action is required, they do not let even one day pass before taking the required action. If this practice was applied to our environmental predicament, we could start making effective sustainable changes now before the situation worsens further.

When I returned to the garden this afternoon after a particularly good lunch I noticed a few changes.  The earth and brick were wet, the pool had been cleared by the heavy rain, and big pink puffy flowers had started to bloom on one of the hedges where the songbirds hide.  What was most striking, however, was the jagged stone stump where the sundial used to stand.  Whether “time” had been removed by some pointedly destructive force or by some serendipitous mishap I can’t be sure, but the reflections that it invited while I stood alone between the four brick walls today were wonderful and I’m glad they happened.

Nature has a way of blurring the boundaries of time.  This can extend to include the weight of structure, of deadlines, and of pressing obligations.  Venturing into the natural world suspends personal and societal expectations in precious reprieve.  There’s a weightlessness and freedom in becoming immersed in the swell of the natural world where the only thing that matters is being present in and receptive to a single, vital moment.  We Earthlodgers often marvel at this phenomenon on our weekend trips.  On those rare occasions when we rise early to sleepwalk down to the van waiting well-stocked with bagels and coffee, we get the chance to leave our habitual surroundings and explore campsites, riverbanks, rocky cliffs, and wintery wetlands in invigorated unison.  Once there, it’s easy to leave the burden of collegiate responsibility behind–if only for a few hours. 

Sometimes, amid the anxiety of surging heedlessly from task to task, we fall victim to numb, auto-pilot productivity.   During these busy days, weeks, months, and semesters when we become so overencumbered that we lament a lack of time, perhaps we’re overlooking the solution to our distress.  In the garden today, I found relief in allowing that time I so vehemently craved to dissolve away entirely.  I remembered a stillness I had neglected, and reinstated it.  The natural world asks nothing of us other than an exclusively active consciousness, a quality of being aware and in-tune to the sweet quiet, the simple, and the sublime. 

Naked As We Came – Iron and Wine