When you're 21 going on 60, you feel like an old geezer among your peers.
Lately I have been noticing that I seem to be a prematurely old person. Only a couple of years ago I was one of the impassioned people on campus--I was active, organizing, leading. I was out on the front lines, and likely would have been in the protest lines with a shiny placard above my head if I had continued on that track. But then life intervened. I got frustrated with working so hard for no real result. I burned out from trying to get other people excited, instead of enjoying myself and doing things I was interested in. Then I went far away from this place and learned a lot about life and priorities.
Recently I sat in on an interesting conversation with Michael Osmera, an adjunct professor in the Sociology and Anthropology department. In the course of his discussion with our Senior Proseminar class, he shared some of the wisdom he had acquired over a lifetime of trying and failing and caring... and he said something that caught my attention: "as you get older, you move from problem solving to coping" (emphasis mine). And I thought, "Huh. That's interesting."
Michael went on to explain that there is a recognizable cycle of experience when it comes to caring about things. It starts with passion and excitement. At that point, you are convinced that if you just throw all of your energy at something, that alone will create change. This is the starting point in the cycle, and, I think, is the stage that college students are most familiar with: it's exciting, it lets you think up catchy slogans and organize guest speakers and wear t-shirts that espouse your beliefs. It's fun, it's a party--it also has an end. That end is the wall that I hit at the end of sophomore year: the let down. Suddenly you realize that all the energy you spent really didn't do much. You begin to feel like nothing will ever change--after all, your passion meant nothing to the world. This second stage quickly degenerates into the third, which is when you give up on action. Your frustration and feeling of impotence leads you to apathy, and you withdraw from all those associations that once made you so excited. For once, you think to yourself, I just want to come home at night. Not go to another meeting or organize another function that no one will come to. I just want to sleep enough and try to be happy.
This third phase is a hard one to face if you have ever cared about anything in your life. You feel lazy and selfish, and wonder what happened to your former self: the one who cared, and who wanted to talk about these issues, who was so motivated and ambitious. When things come up in conversation, you are the one changing the subject, avoiding the arguments. Your friend groups shift. You start to read and think more, talk less. It's a disorienting time. And then you find stage four: coming to terms with it.
Stage four, Michael explained to us, is where real change starts. It is where you start to understand the nuances of issues, the complications. You get educated. You re-evaluate your past convictions in light of that knowledge. And you start to integrate that knowledge into the way you live: maybe buying fair trade every time you purchase coffee, instead of only sometimes, or joining a CSA instead of buying bell peppers from the supermarket (grown in Mexico), in December.
The coping phase doesn't usually happen for a long while. We humans seem to be willing to bang our heads against the wall for a long time before realizing that all we're getting out of it is a bloody bruise. And when you hit that phase, you feel suddenly old. You find yourself scolding your peers for being excited about things, even though that isn't really what you mean. You mean to tell them that their voices will be better heard if they are educated, and if their actions speak just as loudly or more so. But, when you encourage them to read more, their response is often "but what good will that do?"
Plenty, is the answer to that question. There's less glory in it. You don't get to be known on campus as "that girl who is so passionate" about a, b, or c. You are overlooked, drowned out by other, louder voices; the same people you used to work side by side with, ignore you. When you try to speak, you are accused of being harsh or mean, of "forgetting what it is like." Does this phrase ring a bell? You probably accused your parents of the same thing at some point, didn't you? When did you become the parent in this exchange? It sucks a little, doesn't it? Being prematurely old isn't easy when you're only 21. In the face of these accusations, I returned to my little hole, made some tea, and went back to reading. If nothing else, being educated about what I was saying mattered to me.
And then I noticed something: people started asking me questions. Friends became curious about all of that reading, wondering what it was that was so fascinating. They wondered why I was so passionate when they asked me what I thought, but no longer volunteered it. Professors started to come to me with questions, because they knew that I had read more on a given topic than they had. A friend told me jokingly that, "you're the most legit person I've met." And then I started to realize that I did have a voice after all. It was quieter than before. It wasn't as catchy or appealing: it rambled a little bit, grasping for the right words. It was more silent than anything else--letting the way I was living speak more than what I said did. Letting the words I did speak stand alone, not have to compete. Maybe I'm starting to come to terms with being 21 going on 60. It's a pretty good place to be, really, even if it's not as popular.
what a year 2009 has been...
b
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 05, 2009
the want to be needed
"Freedom so often means that one isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to do is pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for a few square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder."
-Carl, from O Pioneers! by Willa Cather
i am learning more and more that i want to be needed. as much as i aspire to anonymity in the larger scheme of things, i can't imagine living a life in which no one person remembers the way that i laughed or hugged or kissed or cried. we only have this life, and in it we only have each other and the earth that we stand upon.
b
-Carl, from O Pioneers! by Willa Cather
i am learning more and more that i want to be needed. as much as i aspire to anonymity in the larger scheme of things, i can't imagine living a life in which no one person remembers the way that i laughed or hugged or kissed or cried. we only have this life, and in it we only have each other and the earth that we stand upon.
b
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
playing with prose
poetry, that is. before break i emailed lex, asking him what exactly prose poetry was. his response was about two paragraphs long, and ended with "that probably didn't help that much did it?" well, here's my attempt at some prose poetry. who knows if it is the real thing, but i like it.
1 am train
The first night in months that I crawled into bed without you, I found that I had forgotten how to sleep alone. I lay awake three hours past tired, still waiting for your steps on the stairs outside my window. Waiting for your almost quiet entry: the gentle clunk of the door closing, then the four steps to the couch, a crunch of bag and rustle of jacket, a sigh. The water glass filled in the kitchen, the flick of switches off, the one-minute-rhythm of a toothbrush before it lands on the counter; and finally, the grating push of a sticky bedroom door by careful fingers, not wanting to wake me up. I would roll over and pretend to peek from just-woken eyes and open my arms to welcome you into warmth, to my breast, your hair still clinging to the night's cold. But instead, I lay awake in an empty room; my only company the 1 am train whistle, and the weight of missing you.
1 am train
The first night in months that I crawled into bed without you, I found that I had forgotten how to sleep alone. I lay awake three hours past tired, still waiting for your steps on the stairs outside my window. Waiting for your almost quiet entry: the gentle clunk of the door closing, then the four steps to the couch, a crunch of bag and rustle of jacket, a sigh. The water glass filled in the kitchen, the flick of switches off, the one-minute-rhythm of a toothbrush before it lands on the counter; and finally, the grating push of a sticky bedroom door by careful fingers, not wanting to wake me up. I would roll over and pretend to peek from just-woken eyes and open my arms to welcome you into warmth, to my breast, your hair still clinging to the night's cold. But instead, I lay awake in an empty room; my only company the 1 am train whistle, and the weight of missing you.
b
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
i want to be c.k. williams
from The Writer's Almanac today:
It's the birthday of the poet Charles Kenneth Williams, C.K. Williams, born in Newark, New Jersey (1936). After graduating from college, he sat down and tried to read everything he'd ever heard of. He read Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Chaucer, Whitman, Yeats, Eliot, Auden, Shelley, Tolstoy, Hawthorne, Miller, Frazer, Jung, Plath, and Ginsberg. He said: "I'd fall asleep every night over a book, dreaming in other people's voices. In the morning I'd wake up and try, mostly fruitlessly, to write acceptable poems."
b
It's the birthday of the poet Charles Kenneth Williams, C.K. Williams, born in Newark, New Jersey (1936). After graduating from college, he sat down and tried to read everything he'd ever heard of. He read Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Chaucer, Whitman, Yeats, Eliot, Auden, Shelley, Tolstoy, Hawthorne, Miller, Frazer, Jung, Plath, and Ginsberg. He said: "I'd fall asleep every night over a book, dreaming in other people's voices. In the morning I'd wake up and try, mostly fruitlessly, to write acceptable poems."
b
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
no title yet
just when i am hitting a wall and can't think of anything to write about, union block provides. i love this little coffee shop. here is a very rough poem, fruits of this morning's latte. it needs work, like everything does, but i am happy with where it is going.
no title yet
there should be no
to-go cups,
alarm clocks
clocks
or calendars.
we don't need
more reminders
that time is
running
through our hands
like molecules
like grains
like drops
that stick
between our fingers,
grate there
wait there for
us to reach,
and then flee.
we feel it in
our bones,
in the ache
between our
third and fourth
rib. Taste it
on the edge
of the breath
we never quite
catch. Hear it
in the
hollow echo
of our voice,
too frail
to be carried--
that small white flag,
against the rush
and running
torrent.
we cannot take
ten, or even
twenty to
sit with a cup
of coffee,
cup and saucer,
to watch the wind,
the downfall
of one particular
leaf.
we don't need
another reason
to move on.
we are searching
for an excuse
to stay.
b
no title yet
there should be no
to-go cups,
alarm clocks
clocks
or calendars.
we don't need
more reminders
that time is
running
through our hands
like molecules
like grains
like drops
that stick
between our fingers,
grate there
wait there for
us to reach,
and then flee.
we feel it in
our bones,
in the ache
between our
third and fourth
rib. Taste it
on the edge
of the breath
we never quite
catch. Hear it
in the
hollow echo
of our voice,
too frail
to be carried--
that small white flag,
against the rush
and running
torrent.
we cannot take
ten, or even
twenty to
sit with a cup
of coffee,
cup and saucer,
to watch the wind,
the downfall
of one particular
leaf.
we don't need
another reason
to move on.
we are searching
for an excuse
to stay.
b
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
LALTing and other things
it seems to be a right of passage thing, being a senior in college and having no idea what you want to do with yourself. and it also seems to be a strange thing that we have classes and information sessions and workshops to attend, all designed to help us answer that question. i am currently taking a senior proseminar class where we spend a lot of time talking about what we might want to do with ourselves someday, eventually, whenever we might get around to it. yesterday, we did a "LALT" or "life after linfield trajectory" in class. it was a funny exercise for several reasons, not least of which that i diverged quite largely from the approach taken by my classmates.
i like to approach big changes step-wise. it scares me to think too far ahead, even with things that i am pretty certain about wanting to do. so, while my peers' LALTs were large webs of possibilities--6 different paths they could take after graduation, and where they eventually might lead--the most ambitious claim of mine was that i want to intern on an organic farm for the growing season of 2011. i have a rough idea of what i might want to do for the next year or so, but not the faintest clue after that. sure, grad school might happen in there somewhere, and i will probably do some traveling, and i will probably have some random adventures... but hell if i know what order they will occur in.
lately i have been struggling a bit with why i feel so un-ambitious. my friends are studying for the GRE and applying to grad school, turning in research proposals for fulbright scholarships, are applying to go abroad to teach english after graduating, etc, etc, etc.
i really just want to get an apartment somewhere here locally and give myself some time to figure things out. there's this whole side of being an adult--insurance, rent, loan payments, full time jobs--that i have no idea how to do, really. i want to have time to do not a whole lot besides figure some of that out. especially before i move somewhere, or go abroad, or re-complicate my life with school and deadlines again.
once upon a time i was ambitious: i wanted to go to medical school and work for MSF. those days are long-gone however, and now what i want more than anything is TIME. i want time to read and write and send letters and grow vegetables. i need some time to reflect on the whole college thing. i want some time to explore my options. i want some time without major stress (like moving to a foreign country or entering a graduate program), so that i can straighten out my brain a little bit. is that such a bad thing? who knows, maybe i'll come up with a new grand plan when my life is finally quiet enough for me to consider the possibilities... but maybe i'll just work in a coffee shop for a while, and read all of the books i have been accumulating of late, hang out with erik, volunteer, and finally write letters to friends i have been neglecting so badly. is it bad to be un-ambitious?
our society certainly would say so. and it does. "what, you mean you're not going to do anything with your degree?" is a much hated question i have had to defend against lately. well... not right now... but does that somehow make my four years of study worthless? i hardly think so, but in a world that demands concrete results, the personal growth that cannot be translated into a graph or excel spreadsheet just isn't going to cut it. i don't know if i want to "cut it."
i do know a lot of things that i want. and maybe that is what all of this is about: defining what i want, often by recognizing what it is that i DON'T want. i am not a patient person, but i am willing to wait and figure out what might be coming my way. in the meantime, here are a few things i do want to pursue:
1. reading for pleasure
2. long bike rides
3. trying new recipes
4. baking bread
5. Powells trips and coffee dates with friends
6. journaling and writing time
7. working on my thesis
8. spending quality time with erik
9. taking ceramics in the spring
10. learning to brew beer
b
i like to approach big changes step-wise. it scares me to think too far ahead, even with things that i am pretty certain about wanting to do. so, while my peers' LALTs were large webs of possibilities--6 different paths they could take after graduation, and where they eventually might lead--the most ambitious claim of mine was that i want to intern on an organic farm for the growing season of 2011. i have a rough idea of what i might want to do for the next year or so, but not the faintest clue after that. sure, grad school might happen in there somewhere, and i will probably do some traveling, and i will probably have some random adventures... but hell if i know what order they will occur in.
lately i have been struggling a bit with why i feel so un-ambitious. my friends are studying for the GRE and applying to grad school, turning in research proposals for fulbright scholarships, are applying to go abroad to teach english after graduating, etc, etc, etc.
i really just want to get an apartment somewhere here locally and give myself some time to figure things out. there's this whole side of being an adult--insurance, rent, loan payments, full time jobs--that i have no idea how to do, really. i want to have time to do not a whole lot besides figure some of that out. especially before i move somewhere, or go abroad, or re-complicate my life with school and deadlines again.
once upon a time i was ambitious: i wanted to go to medical school and work for MSF. those days are long-gone however, and now what i want more than anything is TIME. i want time to read and write and send letters and grow vegetables. i need some time to reflect on the whole college thing. i want some time to explore my options. i want some time without major stress (like moving to a foreign country or entering a graduate program), so that i can straighten out my brain a little bit. is that such a bad thing? who knows, maybe i'll come up with a new grand plan when my life is finally quiet enough for me to consider the possibilities... but maybe i'll just work in a coffee shop for a while, and read all of the books i have been accumulating of late, hang out with erik, volunteer, and finally write letters to friends i have been neglecting so badly. is it bad to be un-ambitious?
our society certainly would say so. and it does. "what, you mean you're not going to do anything with your degree?" is a much hated question i have had to defend against lately. well... not right now... but does that somehow make my four years of study worthless? i hardly think so, but in a world that demands concrete results, the personal growth that cannot be translated into a graph or excel spreadsheet just isn't going to cut it. i don't know if i want to "cut it."
i do know a lot of things that i want. and maybe that is what all of this is about: defining what i want, often by recognizing what it is that i DON'T want. i am not a patient person, but i am willing to wait and figure out what might be coming my way. in the meantime, here are a few things i do want to pursue:
1. reading for pleasure
2. long bike rides
3. trying new recipes
4. baking bread
5. Powells trips and coffee dates with friends
6. journaling and writing time
7. working on my thesis
8. spending quality time with erik
9. taking ceramics in the spring
10. learning to brew beer
b
Thursday, October 08, 2009
thank you, poetry class, for making me read more
being in lex's poetry class this term is bringing me much joy. not only is it forcing me, for once, to really sit down and take the time to write, but it also has me reading all kinds of new poetry. finding new poetry is a hit-and-miss process, but having a list of authors to check out sure is a helpful way to start.
here is one of my favorite new poems. i don't know what to make of much of this poet's work, but this one struck a chord with me.
Things Shouldn't Be So Hard
Kay Ryan
A life should leave
deep tracks:
rut where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space--
however small--
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.
b
here is one of my favorite new poems. i don't know what to make of much of this poet's work, but this one struck a chord with me.
Things Shouldn't Be So Hard
Kay Ryan
A life should leave
deep tracks:
rut where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space--
however small--
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.
b
Sunday, September 20, 2009
overwhelmed
it's almost noon on a sunday, and i am still nursing the cold coffee that is left over from breakfast this morning. simon and garfunkel are singing in the background "every day is an endless stream of cigarettes and old magazines..." i have approximately eighty nine pages of reading to complete before class tomorrow. i have a stack of academic articles more than one inch thick that i need to read for thesis. i have a list of almost a dozen farms that i need to contact to begin my thesis research. there's laundry waiting to be moved, groceries to buy, and a kitchen that needs to be cleaned; letters that are long overdue to friends near and far.
these days it is hard not to feel overwhelmed by everything in my life. i handle it all pretty well on a day-by-day basis, making small decisions, trying not to think ahead more than a few hours, and rejoicing when i crawl into bed each night still all in one piece. i linger over meals and coffee and conversations, because those moments help keep me grounded in the midst of a constant onward flow--one that propels me forward endlessly and without regard to my opinion. some days (most days, really) it excites me, to think of all the changes and possibilities that are so rapidly approaching. i enjoy the sensation of being propelled along like a leaf that landed in a stream swollen by fall rains... the helplessness is empowering, in an odd sort of way. maybe it is the notion of surrender that i like most.
but not this morning. i know that i just need to get started. i know that once i do, i will feel one hundred times better. but, over the last grainy sips of this mug, i feel overwhelmed. perhaps i will make one more cup and move that laundry before i settle down to the task at hand. two steps at a time gets you there faster than just one... you can't pause for too long in between, but you don't end up running either.
b
these days it is hard not to feel overwhelmed by everything in my life. i handle it all pretty well on a day-by-day basis, making small decisions, trying not to think ahead more than a few hours, and rejoicing when i crawl into bed each night still all in one piece. i linger over meals and coffee and conversations, because those moments help keep me grounded in the midst of a constant onward flow--one that propels me forward endlessly and without regard to my opinion. some days (most days, really) it excites me, to think of all the changes and possibilities that are so rapidly approaching. i enjoy the sensation of being propelled along like a leaf that landed in a stream swollen by fall rains... the helplessness is empowering, in an odd sort of way. maybe it is the notion of surrender that i like most.
but not this morning. i know that i just need to get started. i know that once i do, i will feel one hundred times better. but, over the last grainy sips of this mug, i feel overwhelmed. perhaps i will make one more cup and move that laundry before i settle down to the task at hand. two steps at a time gets you there faster than just one... you can't pause for too long in between, but you don't end up running either.
b
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
sunset and sunrise
((it's been a long time since i have tended my blog... sorry everyone. this is mainly because what i have wanted to share is in image form, and i lost my camera cord for a long time. images have come much easier than words these past few months, so here follows the start of my summer's image recovery.))
in the middle of july erik and i were able to take a weekend off and spend some time at the coast. we enjoyed delicious weather, taffy, and each other's company--all far, far away from the daily summer reality (and frustration) of work.
the part of our trip that i most enjoyed was seeing the starts and ends of days... there is something so reassuring, and at the same time un-centering, about meditating on the movement of the earth under our feet--rather than the movement of those feet across the earth.
sunset, pacific city (1)
(2)
sunrise, glacier rock (1)
(2)
(3)
b
in the middle of july erik and i were able to take a weekend off and spend some time at the coast. we enjoyed delicious weather, taffy, and each other's company--all far, far away from the daily summer reality (and frustration) of work.
the part of our trip that i most enjoyed was seeing the starts and ends of days... there is something so reassuring, and at the same time un-centering, about meditating on the movement of the earth under our feet--rather than the movement of those feet across the earth.
sunset, pacific city (1)
(2)
sunrise, glacier rock (1)
(2)
(3)b
Friday, July 03, 2009
pieces of my summer so far
my back yard
garlic braided and ready for storage
first garlic harvest
beautiful cabbage my mommy grew
say hello to the chickens!
line dried laundry
beautiful bridge on opal creek trail
above opal pool
inside the old sawmill
flowers along the trail
the peace of old, old beingsb
Saturday, June 06, 2009
boxes and roots
and so i've moved again. in the past year (really 9 months), i have moved my crap around more times than i have in the previous 18 years of my life. moving is a strange thing to me, maybe because it is always when i am finally feeling settled in somewhere that i move again, but something in me resists pulling out those boxes.
this term at linfield, i only ever halfway unpacked. i don't know if that is because in the back of my mind i knew i would be re-packing in just a few months, or if it was an acknowledgment in myself that my life is transient right now. things i used every day escaped their cardboard confinements, but things i pull out more occasionally--craft supplies, old journals, camping gear--remained tucked away. my photos remained in their envelope on my desk all term. i think i actually sat down at that desk only once in all those months. melissa and i never got around to putting things up on our wall. it seemed silly, kind of, knowing that we were moving on so soon and would just have to take it all down again.
moving has its good points. for one, it forces you to carefully evaluate every thing that you pack into those boxes. as i repacked all my stuff, i made three piles: things i need now, things i will use later, and things to get rid of. being so transient has forced me to slim down what i own, in no small part because moving it all around is a pain. also because moving so much forces you to prioritize: what do i really want to own? clothes. books. a journal. photos of friends. a deck of cards. several frisbees. a bike. kitchen equipment. camera. computer. good backpacks. i don't need five sweaters: two or three will do just fine. which ones do i keep? the ones bequeathed by friends. the bright colored ones. the rest are going to goodwill.
otherwise, moving is challenging for me. dislodging myself from what i come to know and enjoy; from my routine, from my daily patterns, from those who i love... is hard. i crave roots. and at the same time, i am glad to be living the life i am so lucky to live. i also know that this is the way that life is probably going to be for a while: busy, full of changes, exciting, and... transient. my stuff will spend a lot of time in boxes. i'm not going to unpack for a while. i'm going to be stuck in the inbetween space for a bit: between boxes and roots. the best i can do is take things as they come, and enjoy each period of my life for what it is, for what it offers and what will be lost, when the boxes come out again.
b
this term at linfield, i only ever halfway unpacked. i don't know if that is because in the back of my mind i knew i would be re-packing in just a few months, or if it was an acknowledgment in myself that my life is transient right now. things i used every day escaped their cardboard confinements, but things i pull out more occasionally--craft supplies, old journals, camping gear--remained tucked away. my photos remained in their envelope on my desk all term. i think i actually sat down at that desk only once in all those months. melissa and i never got around to putting things up on our wall. it seemed silly, kind of, knowing that we were moving on so soon and would just have to take it all down again.
moving has its good points. for one, it forces you to carefully evaluate every thing that you pack into those boxes. as i repacked all my stuff, i made three piles: things i need now, things i will use later, and things to get rid of. being so transient has forced me to slim down what i own, in no small part because moving it all around is a pain. also because moving so much forces you to prioritize: what do i really want to own? clothes. books. a journal. photos of friends. a deck of cards. several frisbees. a bike. kitchen equipment. camera. computer. good backpacks. i don't need five sweaters: two or three will do just fine. which ones do i keep? the ones bequeathed by friends. the bright colored ones. the rest are going to goodwill.
otherwise, moving is challenging for me. dislodging myself from what i come to know and enjoy; from my routine, from my daily patterns, from those who i love... is hard. i crave roots. and at the same time, i am glad to be living the life i am so lucky to live. i also know that this is the way that life is probably going to be for a while: busy, full of changes, exciting, and... transient. my stuff will spend a lot of time in boxes. i'm not going to unpack for a while. i'm going to be stuck in the inbetween space for a bit: between boxes and roots. the best i can do is take things as they come, and enjoy each period of my life for what it is, for what it offers and what will be lost, when the boxes come out again.
b
Monday, May 18, 2009
an article you should read
i've been reading so much about sustainable agriculture in the past few months, that i can scarcely formulate my thoughts anymore... but luckily other people can! this is an interesting article about the choice to eat ethically (read: sustainably, locally, organically) that you should all read.
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2009/04/25/pinched_ethically/index.html
sustainable agriculture is rapidly becoming my passion, and it is one that i am sure you will all hear more about in the following months, especially as i start doing thesis research on CSAs (community supported agriculture programs). if this article piques your interest, i also highly recommend browsing katie and casey kullah's blog: their farm, oakhill organics, is in its fourth season here in yamhill county, and their blogs are a wonderful combination of farm updates, recipes, pictures, and commentary on sustainable agriculture.
read and think about your food!
peace,
b
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2009/04/25/pinched_ethically/index.html
sustainable agriculture is rapidly becoming my passion, and it is one that i am sure you will all hear more about in the following months, especially as i start doing thesis research on CSAs (community supported agriculture programs). if this article piques your interest, i also highly recommend browsing katie and casey kullah's blog: their farm, oakhill organics, is in its fourth season here in yamhill county, and their blogs are a wonderful combination of farm updates, recipes, pictures, and commentary on sustainable agriculture.
read and think about your food!
peace,
b
Sunday, May 17, 2009
something i wrote recently
it isn't often that i write anything that i actually am proud of, but this paper from my nature writing class is one that i wrestled with a lot and that i am really happy with. it addresses a major theme that we have been investigating in this class--the paradox of horror and beauty that is in nature, and our methods for negotiating that paradox. if you have some time, take a read, and let me know what you think. i know it isn't exactly short or an easy read...
peace,
b
__________________________________________________________
On Faith and Finding an Environmental Ethic in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
It seems that it is in the presence of nature, the edges of the ocean for example, that humans gain an intimate sense of the awesome. Coupled with that awe and wonder though, is often a sense of horror, for the world can be beautiful, and beautifully cruel as well. The necessity of reconciling the horror and beauty in nature finds company in a perhaps unlikely realm—that of religion. Religion negotiates this juxtaposition of awe and horror using a curious path: that of faith. Faith is a belief in something that is not guaranteed to be true. Is it possible that the possession of such faith can be an effective approach to the natural world? Moreover, could such an approach be a path to more than mere acceptance of the realities of the natural world, but a deeper love and appreciation for it—even the foundation of a new sort of environmental ethic? Throughout Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard negotiates the paradox of horror and beauty in nature, using faith to glean meaning from it, and in doing so provides the basis for a novel environmental ethic: one that is shaped by faith.
Understanding Dillard’s concern with and conclusions about the horror and beauty that she sees in the natural world first requires an examination of her worldview. It is clear that hers is one that is deeply shaped by religious belief, as illustrated by her obvious knowledge of theology. She frequently utilizes Biblical metaphors—ranging from Cain, to the fall of Adam, to Moses on Mt. Sinai. This is evidence of her worldview in an explicit sense, but there are more subtle and implicit references as well. The deliberate framing of the world of Tinker Creek in such religious terms suggests a significant relationship between the natural world and the divine. It is also interesting to note that Dillard characterizes nature with the same reverence as “creation” or “Creator”—creating an alignment between them that allows space for the application of religious ideals to nature, and visa versa. An idea that comes up often in the novel is that of “creation.” In her observation of the natural world, often on the minutest levels (the insect world, for example), she frequently remarks on the character of the Creator and of creation. Descriptions of creation range from being “made in jest” to “one lunatic fringe” to “beauty inexhaustible” (7, 144, 139). Similarly the Creator is variously “a generous spirit” and one who “stops at nothing“ (135). A religious approach to the natural world highlights the extremes of horror and beauty, and thus throughout the novel Dillard finds her religious view of the world challenged by a seemingly traitorous natural world. This novel is the depiction of her struggle to reconcile that conflict.
Perhaps because Dillard sees such an intimate connection between nature and creation, she has difficulty reconciling what is observed in the natural world with her interpretation of creation. In her observations at Tinker Creek, she is struck again and again by the paradox of horror and beauty in nature (in creation). This paradox is highlighted in the recurrent images of the giant water bug and the mockingbird. The water bug is a fearsome creature not for its appearance (as the locust is), but for its method of gaining sustenance: it bites a frog, injecting poison that kills it and liquefies its insides so the bug can suck them out. Dillard writes, “Soon, part of his skin, formless as a prickled balloon, lay in floating folds like bright scum on top of the water: it was a monstrous and terrifying thing” (6). Certainly the world of the water bug cannot be the same as the creation spoken of in scripture, for a loving and merciful God would do no such thing. Or would he? For he who creates the water bug, also creates the mockingbird—a creature of exquisite grace:
The mockingbird took a single step into the air and dropped. His wings were still folded against his sides as though he were singing from a limb and not falling, accelerating… [and] [j]ust a breath before he would have been dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate care… and so floated onto the grass. (8)
Dillard’s religious view of the world is undone by this paradox that she observes in the natural world. It suggests that God is indifferent in a way, for he creates things of horror and of beauty, seemingly with no preference shown to what humans would deem “good” or “beautiful.”
But Dillard does not turn away from God or nature in disappointment—instead, she embraces it fully, horror and beauty alike. She explains in the chapter “The Horns of the Altar” how she comes to peace with the paradoxes she finds, showing how the presence of horror does not inhibit one’s ability to feel love toward this world. “Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty’s deep-blue speckles…?” she asks: “It is very tempting, but I honestly cannot” (242). Dillard sees that she cannot love the world by denying the horror or by calling it something else, because she would be loving a world that doesn’t exist. But neither does she say that she loves the world because of the horror. This world is anything but perfect, but that imperfection only intensifies the love one feels for it, as Dillard explains:
I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along… I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about in a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them… (242)
In this quote, Dillard is pointing to grace; the fact that it is enough that beauty persists, that the world possesses a sort of wholeness. That there is such an inexplicable goodness and beauty in that whole is cause enough for love. It is possible to love fully, without full understanding.
Dillard possesses more than a love for this world, however; she possesses a deep and abiding faith in it, illuminated by her understanding of its nature, and fed by the world’s constant, small instances in which it reveals itself (as illustrated by the mockingbird). Faith can be described as belief without guarantee of benefit, without certainty of protection or comprehensible meaning. For Dillard, the faith she has in the natural world is born out of her struggle with the reality of nature itself: that which constantly rubs up against her deep, visceral love for it. Struggle plus love equals understanding and care, and out of that comes faith. Just as belief in God requires love and trust, so does the love of nature. Neither offers guarantees. And so, the relationship of the individual to nature becomes one that is deeply religious. This is where Dillard steps beyond the deconstruction of previous notions of the world, and lays the foundation for a new environmental ethic, or way of being toward the world. She is saying that to love the world makes the individual implicit in it. Each body belongs to the world, turns to it for sustenance, for joy, for meaning, and therefore has an obligation to it. This obligation is to do well by it, to preserve the grace and beauty that provide for each of these lives. Indeed even to preserve the horrors, for without them it would not be the one that so provides for us. And so, a religious approach to the world evolves, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, into the foundation of a necessary ethic towards it—one that recognizes how beholden each life is to the natural world, and therefore commits itself to its protection. The reason for this ethic arises fundamentally from the grace of the natural world, and the recognition of this grace is an admission of faith.
The wonder is… that all the forms are not monsters, that there is beauty at all, grace gratuitous, pennies found, like the mockingbird’s free fall. Beauty itself is the fruit of the creator’s exuberance that grew such a tangle, and the grotesques and horrors bloom from that same free growth… This, then, is the extravagant landscape of the world, given… given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. (146)
One must recognize the running over of the world—the beauty freely given, and further recognize that to partake in this grace requires one to act gracefully in its presence.
Dillard embarks on a journey in this work. It is a journey from a preconceived understanding of the world, to entirely novel one. It is a journey run through with complications, losses of hope, the burden of new understandings, and with joy inexpressible. She begins looking out at the world through a relatively rigid religious framework, which is constantly challenged by the natural world; she emerges from the tangled, messy, glorious paradox of reality with a new faith that is well informed and grounded in the immediacy of this world and which revels in the very qualities that once made it shrink and cower. Dillard is able in this book to address a concern that arises in the minds of many, who walk through the world, and witness horror at one turn, wonder at the other. What can one do in the face of such a world? The answer turns out to be fairly simple, though it is no simple task to live out: love the world for what it is, and rejoice in its grace—the fact that beauty remains even in the face of horror or pain or death. What is offered to us in this book is not only a deeper understanding of the natural world, but a path forward. If each individual can come to a similar understanding—that is, reconciled to but also in love with the world and all its complexity—it would be possible to do something real to save what is left of this natural wonder. And with such an understanding it is possible to step forth, and as Dillard writes, “and my left foot says ‘Glory,’ and my right foot says ‘Amen’” (271).
peace,
b
__________________________________________________________
On Faith and Finding an Environmental Ethic in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
It seems that it is in the presence of nature, the edges of the ocean for example, that humans gain an intimate sense of the awesome. Coupled with that awe and wonder though, is often a sense of horror, for the world can be beautiful, and beautifully cruel as well. The necessity of reconciling the horror and beauty in nature finds company in a perhaps unlikely realm—that of religion. Religion negotiates this juxtaposition of awe and horror using a curious path: that of faith. Faith is a belief in something that is not guaranteed to be true. Is it possible that the possession of such faith can be an effective approach to the natural world? Moreover, could such an approach be a path to more than mere acceptance of the realities of the natural world, but a deeper love and appreciation for it—even the foundation of a new sort of environmental ethic? Throughout Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard negotiates the paradox of horror and beauty in nature, using faith to glean meaning from it, and in doing so provides the basis for a novel environmental ethic: one that is shaped by faith.
Understanding Dillard’s concern with and conclusions about the horror and beauty that she sees in the natural world first requires an examination of her worldview. It is clear that hers is one that is deeply shaped by religious belief, as illustrated by her obvious knowledge of theology. She frequently utilizes Biblical metaphors—ranging from Cain, to the fall of Adam, to Moses on Mt. Sinai. This is evidence of her worldview in an explicit sense, but there are more subtle and implicit references as well. The deliberate framing of the world of Tinker Creek in such religious terms suggests a significant relationship between the natural world and the divine. It is also interesting to note that Dillard characterizes nature with the same reverence as “creation” or “Creator”—creating an alignment between them that allows space for the application of religious ideals to nature, and visa versa. An idea that comes up often in the novel is that of “creation.” In her observation of the natural world, often on the minutest levels (the insect world, for example), she frequently remarks on the character of the Creator and of creation. Descriptions of creation range from being “made in jest” to “one lunatic fringe” to “beauty inexhaustible” (7, 144, 139). Similarly the Creator is variously “a generous spirit” and one who “stops at nothing“ (135). A religious approach to the natural world highlights the extremes of horror and beauty, and thus throughout the novel Dillard finds her religious view of the world challenged by a seemingly traitorous natural world. This novel is the depiction of her struggle to reconcile that conflict.
Perhaps because Dillard sees such an intimate connection between nature and creation, she has difficulty reconciling what is observed in the natural world with her interpretation of creation. In her observations at Tinker Creek, she is struck again and again by the paradox of horror and beauty in nature (in creation). This paradox is highlighted in the recurrent images of the giant water bug and the mockingbird. The water bug is a fearsome creature not for its appearance (as the locust is), but for its method of gaining sustenance: it bites a frog, injecting poison that kills it and liquefies its insides so the bug can suck them out. Dillard writes, “Soon, part of his skin, formless as a prickled balloon, lay in floating folds like bright scum on top of the water: it was a monstrous and terrifying thing” (6). Certainly the world of the water bug cannot be the same as the creation spoken of in scripture, for a loving and merciful God would do no such thing. Or would he? For he who creates the water bug, also creates the mockingbird—a creature of exquisite grace:
The mockingbird took a single step into the air and dropped. His wings were still folded against his sides as though he were singing from a limb and not falling, accelerating… [and] [j]ust a breath before he would have been dashed to the ground, he unfurled his wings with exact, deliberate care… and so floated onto the grass. (8)
Dillard’s religious view of the world is undone by this paradox that she observes in the natural world. It suggests that God is indifferent in a way, for he creates things of horror and of beauty, seemingly with no preference shown to what humans would deem “good” or “beautiful.”
But Dillard does not turn away from God or nature in disappointment—instead, she embraces it fully, horror and beauty alike. She explains in the chapter “The Horns of the Altar” how she comes to peace with the paradoxes she finds, showing how the presence of horror does not inhibit one’s ability to feel love toward this world. “Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty’s deep-blue speckles…?” she asks: “It is very tempting, but I honestly cannot” (242). Dillard sees that she cannot love the world by denying the horror or by calling it something else, because she would be loving a world that doesn’t exist. But neither does she say that she loves the world because of the horror. This world is anything but perfect, but that imperfection only intensifies the love one feels for it, as Dillard explains:
I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along… I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about in a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them… (242)
In this quote, Dillard is pointing to grace; the fact that it is enough that beauty persists, that the world possesses a sort of wholeness. That there is such an inexplicable goodness and beauty in that whole is cause enough for love. It is possible to love fully, without full understanding.
Dillard possesses more than a love for this world, however; she possesses a deep and abiding faith in it, illuminated by her understanding of its nature, and fed by the world’s constant, small instances in which it reveals itself (as illustrated by the mockingbird). Faith can be described as belief without guarantee of benefit, without certainty of protection or comprehensible meaning. For Dillard, the faith she has in the natural world is born out of her struggle with the reality of nature itself: that which constantly rubs up against her deep, visceral love for it. Struggle plus love equals understanding and care, and out of that comes faith. Just as belief in God requires love and trust, so does the love of nature. Neither offers guarantees. And so, the relationship of the individual to nature becomes one that is deeply religious. This is where Dillard steps beyond the deconstruction of previous notions of the world, and lays the foundation for a new environmental ethic, or way of being toward the world. She is saying that to love the world makes the individual implicit in it. Each body belongs to the world, turns to it for sustenance, for joy, for meaning, and therefore has an obligation to it. This obligation is to do well by it, to preserve the grace and beauty that provide for each of these lives. Indeed even to preserve the horrors, for without them it would not be the one that so provides for us. And so, a religious approach to the world evolves, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, into the foundation of a necessary ethic towards it—one that recognizes how beholden each life is to the natural world, and therefore commits itself to its protection. The reason for this ethic arises fundamentally from the grace of the natural world, and the recognition of this grace is an admission of faith.
The wonder is… that all the forms are not monsters, that there is beauty at all, grace gratuitous, pennies found, like the mockingbird’s free fall. Beauty itself is the fruit of the creator’s exuberance that grew such a tangle, and the grotesques and horrors bloom from that same free growth… This, then, is the extravagant landscape of the world, given… given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. (146)
One must recognize the running over of the world—the beauty freely given, and further recognize that to partake in this grace requires one to act gracefully in its presence.
Dillard embarks on a journey in this work. It is a journey from a preconceived understanding of the world, to entirely novel one. It is a journey run through with complications, losses of hope, the burden of new understandings, and with joy inexpressible. She begins looking out at the world through a relatively rigid religious framework, which is constantly challenged by the natural world; she emerges from the tangled, messy, glorious paradox of reality with a new faith that is well informed and grounded in the immediacy of this world and which revels in the very qualities that once made it shrink and cower. Dillard is able in this book to address a concern that arises in the minds of many, who walk through the world, and witness horror at one turn, wonder at the other. What can one do in the face of such a world? The answer turns out to be fairly simple, though it is no simple task to live out: love the world for what it is, and rejoice in its grace—the fact that beauty remains even in the face of horror or pain or death. What is offered to us in this book is not only a deeper understanding of the natural world, but a path forward. If each individual can come to a similar understanding—that is, reconciled to but also in love with the world and all its complexity—it would be possible to do something real to save what is left of this natural wonder. And with such an understanding it is possible to step forth, and as Dillard writes, “and my left foot says ‘Glory,’ and my right foot says ‘Amen’” (271).
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
after a drought... a trickle
...and no that isn't in reference to the weather, but instead my long, long absence in the blog-o-sphere. i'm not sure how to explain why i haven't been writing lately. a lot of it has to do with being caught up in the busyness of life at linfield, a lot to do with having other outlets than this two dimensional one, a lot of it is having a brain chock-full of new and exciting ideas and plans... and no idea how to start processing them. it's a good time. :)
as i am writing this it is blowing cold rain outside, and i'm finding myself wishing that i could fall back into those cozy winter patterns of tea and books and cookies... instead of the harried late spring patterns of coffee and textbooks and homework. life is really good right now, but just so FULL. i rarely have time to take a breath it seems, or a moment (or more, because an hour is the minimum for me to really get down to writing anything) for reflection. so, here's endeavoring to be more reflective. it may be a bit of a cop-out, but here's a list of things (i like lists, as erik rightly observed the other day) that have been bringing me much pleasure of late, as well as some that i have found draining. let's hope i can get back to some real reflective writing soon.
pleasures:
--riding my bike
--working at the community garden
--spending a lot of time volunteering
--rain
--reading for and talking about issues in my environmental sociology class
--reading for my nature writing class
--talking to people about the ideas that are consuming me lately
--rediscovering/finding my (new) niche at linfield
--looking forward to distant friends coming hoooooome!
--reading the oakhill organics blog from start to finish
--cooking kale and cabbage
--thinking about the future
drains:
--thinking about the future (it's coming so fast!)
--nasty weather
--surface level class discussions and narrowness of vision
--long to-do lists that only grow no matter how many things i cross off
--planning for senior year (making sure i can fit everything in)
--not enough sleep
and in closing... a poem. not one of mine sadly, because writing poetry takes me even more time than stream-of-consciousness-reflection-mushy-ish does. but, wendell berry, as ever, continues to bring me comfort and inspiration. when i read his words, my heart resonates with the deep, rich tones of his prose and the ideas that they propose.
The Want of Peace
All goes back to the earth,
and so I do not desire
pride of excess or power,
but the contentments made
by men who have had little:
the fisherman's silence
receiving the river's grace,
the gardener's musing on rows.
I lack the peace of simple things.
I am never wholly in place.
I find no peace or grace.
We sell the world to buy fire,
our way lighted by burning men,
and that has bent my mind
and made me think of darkness
and wish for the dumb life of roots.
... okay i lied. there's one more...
The Wish to Be Generous
All that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods and the hill and the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.
so that's me lately: wanting and wishing... hope you are all well.
peace.
b
as i am writing this it is blowing cold rain outside, and i'm finding myself wishing that i could fall back into those cozy winter patterns of tea and books and cookies... instead of the harried late spring patterns of coffee and textbooks and homework. life is really good right now, but just so FULL. i rarely have time to take a breath it seems, or a moment (or more, because an hour is the minimum for me to really get down to writing anything) for reflection. so, here's endeavoring to be more reflective. it may be a bit of a cop-out, but here's a list of things (i like lists, as erik rightly observed the other day) that have been bringing me much pleasure of late, as well as some that i have found draining. let's hope i can get back to some real reflective writing soon.
pleasures:
--riding my bike
--working at the community garden
--spending a lot of time volunteering
--rain
--reading for and talking about issues in my environmental sociology class
--reading for my nature writing class
--talking to people about the ideas that are consuming me lately
--rediscovering/finding my (new) niche at linfield
--looking forward to distant friends coming hoooooome!
--reading the oakhill organics blog from start to finish
--cooking kale and cabbage
--thinking about the future
drains:
--thinking about the future (it's coming so fast!)
--nasty weather
--surface level class discussions and narrowness of vision
--long to-do lists that only grow no matter how many things i cross off
--planning for senior year (making sure i can fit everything in)
--not enough sleep
and in closing... a poem. not one of mine sadly, because writing poetry takes me even more time than stream-of-consciousness-reflection-mushy-ish does. but, wendell berry, as ever, continues to bring me comfort and inspiration. when i read his words, my heart resonates with the deep, rich tones of his prose and the ideas that they propose.
The Want of Peace
All goes back to the earth,
and so I do not desire
pride of excess or power,
but the contentments made
by men who have had little:
the fisherman's silence
receiving the river's grace,
the gardener's musing on rows.
I lack the peace of simple things.
I am never wholly in place.
I find no peace or grace.
We sell the world to buy fire,
our way lighted by burning men,
and that has bent my mind
and made me think of darkness
and wish for the dumb life of roots.
... okay i lied. there's one more...
The Wish to Be Generous
All that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods and the hill and the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.
so that's me lately: wanting and wishing... hope you are all well.
peace.
b
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
sunny afternoon observations
four in a line
a father walks by in the sun,
a train of three behind him
in height (descending) order--
each child's head looks a different direction.
the first, he looks straight ahead.
marching forward into the world
in all his small importance,
his voice raises to assert his presence to all who will listen.
the second, she looks all around.
the light flashes off her golden head
as she takes in the world--the sky and tree and birds;
her voice lifts at the end, questioning.
and the third... he is looking down.
dawdling and lagging behind at the end of the line,
he is fascinated by the meeting of his feet and the pavement.
his voice sings deep inside him, and on his face there is a smile.
b
a father walks by in the sun,
a train of three behind him
in height (descending) order--
each child's head looks a different direction.
the first, he looks straight ahead.
marching forward into the world
in all his small importance,
his voice raises to assert his presence to all who will listen.
the second, she looks all around.
the light flashes off her golden head
as she takes in the world--the sky and tree and birds;
her voice lifts at the end, questioning.
and the third... he is looking down.
dawdling and lagging behind at the end of the line,
he is fascinated by the meeting of his feet and the pavement.
his voice sings deep inside him, and on his face there is a smile.
b
Monday, March 16, 2009
holey jeans, our attachment to things, and small joys
last week i patched a pair of jeans that had a couple of two-euro-coin-sized holes in a not entirely appropriate spot... and as i sat there wrestling with the denim and trying to not stab myself with the needle, i got to thinking.
there were many reasons why i was patching those pants. for one, aside from the massive holes they had acquired of late, they were still in pretty good shape and holes did not seem like a good enough reason to retire them. they are easily the most comfortable pair of jeans i've owned in years, and probably the only ones that have actually fit me well. i like the softness of the worn denim that fits my shape; the worn in feeling where they settle onto just the right spot on my hips. but those small reasons aren't enough to warrant all that wrestling and stabbing... why was i so attached to these particular jeans?
the short answer is: lately i have seen no point in acquiring lots more of things like clothes, which are so easily forgotten in the bottom of a drawer or back of a closet. these jeans have a lot more wear in them, and and would rather risk tender fingertips than buy something new produced in a system that i don't support. it's getting harder and harder for me to justify the accumulation of things these days, and i am finding myself wanting simplicity more than anything else. a few pairs of good pants is more than enough for me, and i will patch them if i need to.
the long answer is: these pants are more than just pants to me. i wore those jeans almost every day for five months. i trekked all over the UK and europe in them. those holes were worn from the friction of many days of walking, exploring, getting lost, and getting found again. they have witnessed some of the roughest times for me, and some of the happiest too. they have stories associated with them. they have seen things and places i have wanted to see for so long. i have hugged many now-distant friends while wearing them. i have spilt untold random things on them, and washed them again and again and again. it was worth the patching, in my mind, to continue to wear those stories, that history, on my body every day.
the attachment to things is an interesting phenomenon in my mind. we humans get attached to all manner of "things," and they have various degrees of hold on us. for example, i am attached to things that i appreciate for their utility (like my laptop), to things that i cherish (my writing book and journal and photographs are a few), to things that i use every day (like my fridge), and to things that i would rather live without, but seem to live with anyway (like my cell phone). i am much more deeply attached to people (family, close friends, and erik), and places (the house where i grew up, my little kitchen here in the greens, scotland, tirol, the ocean and the mountains)... but things still follow me around. they become appendages that are often too cumbersome and geometric to meld with my being or otherwise be easily carried, and so instead they drag behind me. that dragging is a weight i often wish i could live without.
buddhism teaches that attachment is the source of suffering. attachment is a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of things. things, for all of their weight (physical, mental or emotional) and impacts (toxic chemicals or unbreakdownable plastics or memories), are illusory. they are impermanent in spite of all of their appearances of permanence. after all, i do touch them every day, they do persist in my perception from day to day. but i know deep down, in a sort of unexplainable and visceral way, that such permanence isn't what i think it is. things pass just like the days do, just like the clouds pass over my head, sand passes through my fingers, and people pass in and out of my life. impermanance is "good" in that it teaches us to cherish what we have in the moment. it is "bad" in that when we become too attached to things, we lose track of the truth: that this too shall come to pass, and that causes us pain, holds us back.
things also have other impacts, beyond how they imprint our individual lives. my classes lately have been making me ever-more conscious of my consumption habits, and more passionate about creating real change in the way people view "things." these things we buy in unfathomable quantities in america only lead us further astray. we are killing our planet, killing our future, killing our children, killing ourselves in our greed for more. all of this is a false and costly effort though, because it is misguided: we fill our lives with things instead of meaning. the things can never be the meaning that we seek. they can pretend to be, but then they will break, and once again we are left with nothing. they can't stand up to the heaviness of our desire for happiness and fulfillment. they never will be able to. we need to accept that, and throw all of that money and effort into things that can satisfy our hunger for meaning and belonging and joy: things like community and wilderness. these are things worth being attached to, worth fighting for, which are currently lost in the din of our automobiles and shopping cart wheels.
i try to practice "measured" attachment in my life. some things in life--my values, certain books, lots of people--are worth holding on to. some are necessary to hold on to--like food and what preserves it (though this can be done more carefully and mindfully, to minimize its impact). others--negative emotions, regret, and stuff (that superfluous junk that weighs us down)--is not worth the attachment.
except for those jeans apparently.
there were many reasons why i was patching those pants. for one, aside from the massive holes they had acquired of late, they were still in pretty good shape and holes did not seem like a good enough reason to retire them. they are easily the most comfortable pair of jeans i've owned in years, and probably the only ones that have actually fit me well. i like the softness of the worn denim that fits my shape; the worn in feeling where they settle onto just the right spot on my hips. but those small reasons aren't enough to warrant all that wrestling and stabbing... why was i so attached to these particular jeans?
the short answer is: lately i have seen no point in acquiring lots more of things like clothes, which are so easily forgotten in the bottom of a drawer or back of a closet. these jeans have a lot more wear in them, and and would rather risk tender fingertips than buy something new produced in a system that i don't support. it's getting harder and harder for me to justify the accumulation of things these days, and i am finding myself wanting simplicity more than anything else. a few pairs of good pants is more than enough for me, and i will patch them if i need to.
the long answer is: these pants are more than just pants to me. i wore those jeans almost every day for five months. i trekked all over the UK and europe in them. those holes were worn from the friction of many days of walking, exploring, getting lost, and getting found again. they have witnessed some of the roughest times for me, and some of the happiest too. they have stories associated with them. they have seen things and places i have wanted to see for so long. i have hugged many now-distant friends while wearing them. i have spilt untold random things on them, and washed them again and again and again. it was worth the patching, in my mind, to continue to wear those stories, that history, on my body every day.
the attachment to things is an interesting phenomenon in my mind. we humans get attached to all manner of "things," and they have various degrees of hold on us. for example, i am attached to things that i appreciate for their utility (like my laptop), to things that i cherish (my writing book and journal and photographs are a few), to things that i use every day (like my fridge), and to things that i would rather live without, but seem to live with anyway (like my cell phone). i am much more deeply attached to people (family, close friends, and erik), and places (the house where i grew up, my little kitchen here in the greens, scotland, tirol, the ocean and the mountains)... but things still follow me around. they become appendages that are often too cumbersome and geometric to meld with my being or otherwise be easily carried, and so instead they drag behind me. that dragging is a weight i often wish i could live without.
buddhism teaches that attachment is the source of suffering. attachment is a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of things. things, for all of their weight (physical, mental or emotional) and impacts (toxic chemicals or unbreakdownable plastics or memories), are illusory. they are impermanent in spite of all of their appearances of permanence. after all, i do touch them every day, they do persist in my perception from day to day. but i know deep down, in a sort of unexplainable and visceral way, that such permanence isn't what i think it is. things pass just like the days do, just like the clouds pass over my head, sand passes through my fingers, and people pass in and out of my life. impermanance is "good" in that it teaches us to cherish what we have in the moment. it is "bad" in that when we become too attached to things, we lose track of the truth: that this too shall come to pass, and that causes us pain, holds us back.
things also have other impacts, beyond how they imprint our individual lives. my classes lately have been making me ever-more conscious of my consumption habits, and more passionate about creating real change in the way people view "things." these things we buy in unfathomable quantities in america only lead us further astray. we are killing our planet, killing our future, killing our children, killing ourselves in our greed for more. all of this is a false and costly effort though, because it is misguided: we fill our lives with things instead of meaning. the things can never be the meaning that we seek. they can pretend to be, but then they will break, and once again we are left with nothing. they can't stand up to the heaviness of our desire for happiness and fulfillment. they never will be able to. we need to accept that, and throw all of that money and effort into things that can satisfy our hunger for meaning and belonging and joy: things like community and wilderness. these are things worth being attached to, worth fighting for, which are currently lost in the din of our automobiles and shopping cart wheels.
i try to practice "measured" attachment in my life. some things in life--my values, certain books, lots of people--are worth holding on to. some are necessary to hold on to--like food and what preserves it (though this can be done more carefully and mindfully, to minimize its impact). others--negative emotions, regret, and stuff (that superfluous junk that weighs us down)--is not worth the attachment.
except for those jeans apparently.
well, i did only say that i try to avoid attachment. that doesn't mean that i always succeed. :)
and on a slightly different (and perhaps ironic?) note...
some things that bring me a lot of joy lately:
-erik
-cuddles
-frisbee
-the stacks of books surrounding that i don't think i'll ever have the time to read
-coffee and fresh baked things for breakfast
-storm clouds
-raindrops rings on puddles
-poetry/love group
-riding bikes side by side
-thinking about the future
-muddy hands
-pictures
-clean kitchens
-walking down the middle of the road because i forget cars use them
b
-erik
-cuddles
-frisbee
-the stacks of books surrounding that i don't think i'll ever have the time to read
-coffee and fresh baked things for breakfast
-storm clouds
-raindrops rings on puddles
-poetry/love group
-riding bikes side by side
-thinking about the future
-muddy hands
-pictures
-clean kitchens
-walking down the middle of the road because i forget cars use them
b
Thursday, March 05, 2009
wearing hats
this is a remnant of my time in england, which of late has been flitting around the back of my mind. please comment on it... i'd love to hear what you have to say.
(thanks, ans, for encouraging me to post this)
wearing hats
some days i want that brim above my eyes. some days the horizon is too far away, the sky too large, for me to be okay with the scale of my own small body.
between the brim and the ground beneath my feet is a world that i know well, even if i don't always like it.
in this human realm, i usually know how to navigate. usually.
some days it is beautiful down here. sometimes people are exquisite. they reach out to each other, comfort each other; bring laughter and joy and sweetness to lives that can so easily become hum-drum.
i mark these moments in my mind, on my pages, to remind me when those times pass. because they do pass.
on those other days, i tear that hat off of my head, and breathe a long sigh of relief.
as safe as it may seem, it gets crowded under that brim. it gets noisy. it gets tense and heated and competitive. on those days i want the world to be bigger--to remind me that there is still something more. something larger than human fallibility and pettiness.
on those days i want to reach and reach and reach for that horizon.
the height of the mountains, the tangle of trees, the wide-opens of the world call out to me. i am lost looking up into that expanse of sky: my hat lies forgotten on the ground.
b
(thanks, ans, for encouraging me to post this)
wearing hats
some days i want that brim above my eyes. some days the horizon is too far away, the sky too large, for me to be okay with the scale of my own small body.
between the brim and the ground beneath my feet is a world that i know well, even if i don't always like it.
in this human realm, i usually know how to navigate. usually.
some days it is beautiful down here. sometimes people are exquisite. they reach out to each other, comfort each other; bring laughter and joy and sweetness to lives that can so easily become hum-drum.
i mark these moments in my mind, on my pages, to remind me when those times pass. because they do pass.
on those other days, i tear that hat off of my head, and breathe a long sigh of relief.
as safe as it may seem, it gets crowded under that brim. it gets noisy. it gets tense and heated and competitive. on those days i want the world to be bigger--to remind me that there is still something more. something larger than human fallibility and pettiness.
on those days i want to reach and reach and reach for that horizon.
the height of the mountains, the tangle of trees, the wide-opens of the world call out to me. i am lost looking up into that expanse of sky: my hat lies forgotten on the ground.
b
Monday, February 23, 2009
of late
listening to:
yellow taxi, matt costa
by my side, ben harper
extrasupervery, frightened rabbits
tit smoking in the temple of artesean mimicry, devendra banhart
save your day, jose gonzalez
boy with a coin, iron and wine
slipping through the sensors, fruitbats
man-revolutionary!, rogue wave
napoleon on the ballerophon, beirut
have to explode, the mountain goats
shout out loud, amos lee
peace train, cat stevens
lost!, coldplay
old college try, the mountain goats
woods, bon iver
b
yellow taxi, matt costa
by my side, ben harper
extrasupervery, frightened rabbits
tit smoking in the temple of artesean mimicry, devendra banhart
save your day, jose gonzalez
boy with a coin, iron and wine
slipping through the sensors, fruitbats
man-revolutionary!, rogue wave
napoleon on the ballerophon, beirut
have to explode, the mountain goats
shout out loud, amos lee
peace train, cat stevens
lost!, coldplay
old college try, the mountain goats
woods, bon iver
b
Thursday, February 19, 2009
kitchens
one of the greatest joys of living in an apartment is having my own kitchen. it's so nice to have food and utensils and recipes and friends together in one place. kitchens are safe places: places for us to gather together, to celebrate the simple joys of good food and good company. just say the word "brownies" and you'll have a crowd surrounding you, and no left overs (thank goodness).
these past couple of weeks have been an interesting adventure. i have found myself frequently overwhelmed by things, being back at linfield: questions about my experiences in england leave me stumbling for words, large groups of people leave me nowhere to focus, multiple conversations happening at once leave me mute. it is wonderful to be back, no doubt about it, but it is a different place then when i left. i'm a different person than when i left. and the result of those truths is that i find myself simultaneously at home and a stranger.
kitchens are somewhere that i feel at home and "at" myself, always, no matter what. i know what to do there. i move easily between spices and oils and vegetables. i can look at a bunch on ingredients and imagine possibilites: i can create things without inordinate effort. it's a free place, a quiet place, and a productive refuge that permits me to create an environment in which the things i most desire--conversations with close friends, shared laughter, "mmmmms" and "yummies"--can be achieved. kitchens are places of inherited and lived love: they are my mom's place and my grandma's place, and my place too. i share it with those i love most, and to me there is just something so special about beating butter and sugar for cookies while you joke with a friend.
i turn to the kitchen for solace. there i beat away my stress with a whisk amidst eggs, and sift through my thoughts as i sift flour through my fingertips. i find joy in the smells of fresh baked goods or sauted veggies. it is my release lately, and though it may not be good for my waistline (or those of my roommates), it's been keeping me sane. and sanity is good i think.
so, if you can't find me these days, don't bother to call. stop by my kitchen and ask what's in the oven. you might even get some.
b
these past couple of weeks have been an interesting adventure. i have found myself frequently overwhelmed by things, being back at linfield: questions about my experiences in england leave me stumbling for words, large groups of people leave me nowhere to focus, multiple conversations happening at once leave me mute. it is wonderful to be back, no doubt about it, but it is a different place then when i left. i'm a different person than when i left. and the result of those truths is that i find myself simultaneously at home and a stranger.
kitchens are somewhere that i feel at home and "at" myself, always, no matter what. i know what to do there. i move easily between spices and oils and vegetables. i can look at a bunch on ingredients and imagine possibilites: i can create things without inordinate effort. it's a free place, a quiet place, and a productive refuge that permits me to create an environment in which the things i most desire--conversations with close friends, shared laughter, "mmmmms" and "yummies"--can be achieved. kitchens are places of inherited and lived love: they are my mom's place and my grandma's place, and my place too. i share it with those i love most, and to me there is just something so special about beating butter and sugar for cookies while you joke with a friend.
i turn to the kitchen for solace. there i beat away my stress with a whisk amidst eggs, and sift through my thoughts as i sift flour through my fingertips. i find joy in the smells of fresh baked goods or sauted veggies. it is my release lately, and though it may not be good for my waistline (or those of my roommates), it's been keeping me sane. and sanity is good i think.
so, if you can't find me these days, don't bother to call. stop by my kitchen and ask what's in the oven. you might even get some.
b
________________________________________________________
kitchen dance
(for erik)
there are knives here
and spoons
the smells of onion
cooking in butter
and the spices that are
lined up
along the counter
you are here too.
you dice the peppers
and i watch the pan
we move amidst each other
with an ease well known;
the fruit of daily, well practiced.
we play our roles well here,
and together lay the table with
all kinds
of dishes
and eat.
and afterward at the sink,
our lips meet over the bubbles--
clean aftermath of another kitchen dance.
kitchen dance
(for erik)
there are knives here
and spoons
the smells of onion
cooking in butter
and the spices that are
lined up
along the counter
you are here too.
you dice the peppers
and i watch the pan
we move amidst each other
with an ease well known;
the fruit of daily, well practiced.
we play our roles well here,
and together lay the table with
all kinds
of dishes
and eat.
and afterward at the sink,
our lips meet over the bubbles--
clean aftermath of another kitchen dance.
Monday, February 02, 2009
this other life
this morning i moved my boxes of stuff out of our storage room here at home, in preparation for my move back to linfield. i found myself hefting boxes and wondering to myself "what on earth is in this thing??" the weight of those boxes surprised me... it is the weight of a life that i haven't been living for a very long time now. it's so strange to feel like a stranger looking at my own things again, and yet i'm finding the weight of that realization to be a good thing.
coming home was like slipping back into a pair of well-worn shoes for me. it was comfortable; molded to my shape. coming home was what it was supposed to be--namely, a homecoming. for the first time in months i feel completely at ease in my own skin. i have fallen back into my normal routines of early bedtimes and wakings, i eat yogurt for breakfast and dress in scratchy wool sweaters inherited from friends. i drink tea and read books and listen to my quiet music, and turn off the t.v. every time i get the chance. i talk to my mom about the garden and animals and both our growing passion for sustainable agriculture. i read pages of wendell berry, and finding my thoughts written in his words, i am filled with joy. i know without a doubt that i came home at the right time. things were falling apart in the place where i was; i had been gone for long enough, and it was time to come home again.
there is a weight that followed me here though, and it is the weight of the realizations i have had since being gone. the past five months have been months full of soul-searching and struggle for me, and it is only now, in the quiet of my wood-heated living room that i am finally confronting them in all of their heaviness. the weight is good. it is the result of an understanding i have come to with this place that i come from, and to which i have longed to return. it is the heaviness of the new knowledge that is in me, after all of my recent experiences. it is the realization that i am growing up, and all that that entails (i hear of people i knew in elementary school who are getting married, or who are pregnant, and i think to myself "aren't we too young for this?"). it is the weight of hopes and fears for the future, and my combined timidness and excitement in facing them. it is the anticipation of returning to this life, and the load of musings that accompany such a reunion.
so once again i find myself a stranger to myself... i am so changed from the person who left this country in september. and yet, miraculously, i know myself better for it. the estrangement is a realization of who i am becoming, and that is something special. i feel more confident in myself, more settled in my convictions, more comfortable with the uncertainty of my life. it's like i'm growing into myself. and maybe growing up a little bit too.
and so, this morning i will pack up my things for the hundredth time in what feels like only so many days, and walk forward into my future. on my shoulders is the weight of this new understanding. in my mind and heart there is a clarity. it's time to return to this other life, and make it my own again.
coming home was like slipping back into a pair of well-worn shoes for me. it was comfortable; molded to my shape. coming home was what it was supposed to be--namely, a homecoming. for the first time in months i feel completely at ease in my own skin. i have fallen back into my normal routines of early bedtimes and wakings, i eat yogurt for breakfast and dress in scratchy wool sweaters inherited from friends. i drink tea and read books and listen to my quiet music, and turn off the t.v. every time i get the chance. i talk to my mom about the garden and animals and both our growing passion for sustainable agriculture. i read pages of wendell berry, and finding my thoughts written in his words, i am filled with joy. i know without a doubt that i came home at the right time. things were falling apart in the place where i was; i had been gone for long enough, and it was time to come home again.
there is a weight that followed me here though, and it is the weight of the realizations i have had since being gone. the past five months have been months full of soul-searching and struggle for me, and it is only now, in the quiet of my wood-heated living room that i am finally confronting them in all of their heaviness. the weight is good. it is the result of an understanding i have come to with this place that i come from, and to which i have longed to return. it is the heaviness of the new knowledge that is in me, after all of my recent experiences. it is the realization that i am growing up, and all that that entails (i hear of people i knew in elementary school who are getting married, or who are pregnant, and i think to myself "aren't we too young for this?"). it is the weight of hopes and fears for the future, and my combined timidness and excitement in facing them. it is the anticipation of returning to this life, and the load of musings that accompany such a reunion.
so once again i find myself a stranger to myself... i am so changed from the person who left this country in september. and yet, miraculously, i know myself better for it. the estrangement is a realization of who i am becoming, and that is something special. i feel more confident in myself, more settled in my convictions, more comfortable with the uncertainty of my life. it's like i'm growing into myself. and maybe growing up a little bit too.
and so, this morning i will pack up my things for the hundredth time in what feels like only so many days, and walk forward into my future. on my shoulders is the weight of this new understanding. in my mind and heart there is a clarity. it's time to return to this other life, and make it my own again.
b
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
the via dell'amore (or, travels in italy)
traveling in italy is something of dreams really. so many individuals study guidebooks and watch travel shows for years, dreaming of their perfect italian vacation: anticipating tuscan vistas, good wine, to-die-for food, cheerful italian hosts, and tiny cars. italy is one of those places that is built up all of your life: everyone talks about how amazing it is, how you'll never want to leave, etc, etc.
as is so often the case with things like that, italy wasn't what i expected. i saw glimmers of that mythic italy that so many people are in raptures about, and i won't deny that it was surreal to be surrounded by landscapes that i've heard about all of my life... but italy was humble. it was just another country in reality. of course it had it's unique elements, and yes italian is a charming language to listen to, but i found myself feeling like it was a little overhyped. i won't deny that i felt a little teensy bit let down, but i will assure you that those sentiments did not ruin my time there. italy was beautiful, and i had wonderful experiences there. it was impossible to not have an amazing time there, really, given that i was traveling with erik--finally together again after months apart. i knew that no matter where we went or what we did, that this trip would be something we would always remember. and it was.
we started in venice, arriving in the foggy, freezing cold city at 6 am after taking a night train from innsbruck. we walked out of the front of the train station and were met by deserted streets and the sound of lapping water; the fog was thick enough that we could only make out the vaque outline of an enormous and enormously beautiful bridge over a canal: it was totally surreal. are we really in venice?? we dropped our bags at the hostel, and then spent the morning wandering. we found narrow alleys that clipped your elbows and alleys you had to duck down in to walk though, bridges, and churches, and lots of dead ends. the great thing about venice is that you probably will get lost, but eventually some alleyway will dump you out somewhere big... like the piazza san marcoso, which we found entirely by accident. being out before the crowds was amazing, because we got to watch this beautiful city wake up, gradually filling with the chatter of the local fish merchants and veggie stand owners, before the entire city braced itself against the tourist onslaught. it was wonderful to get a glimpse of the real venice.
other highlights of our time in venice included being accosted by a rose-seller in san marcoso after dark, our first taste of gelato from a backstreet gelateria, taking long walks on the waterfront, and repeatedly getting lost in the mazes of streets. venice was my favorite place in italy. i loved it's packed little alleys, tiny coffee bars, hidden piazzas, and of course the canals and gondolas. it is haunting in it's slightly decrepit beauty; particularly in the hours before visitors to the city lift their heads from the pillow, and the narrow lanes are full of the chatter of old friends and neighbors and not camera lenses.
foggy canal view on our first morning in venice
a nearly deserted piazza san marcoso
picturesque gondola ranks along the waterfront
piazza san marcoso with a pigeon
how bizarre and beautiful: a city built on water
as is so often the case with things like that, italy wasn't what i expected. i saw glimmers of that mythic italy that so many people are in raptures about, and i won't deny that it was surreal to be surrounded by landscapes that i've heard about all of my life... but italy was humble. it was just another country in reality. of course it had it's unique elements, and yes italian is a charming language to listen to, but i found myself feeling like it was a little overhyped. i won't deny that i felt a little teensy bit let down, but i will assure you that those sentiments did not ruin my time there. italy was beautiful, and i had wonderful experiences there. it was impossible to not have an amazing time there, really, given that i was traveling with erik--finally together again after months apart. i knew that no matter where we went or what we did, that this trip would be something we would always remember. and it was.
we started in venice, arriving in the foggy, freezing cold city at 6 am after taking a night train from innsbruck. we walked out of the front of the train station and were met by deserted streets and the sound of lapping water; the fog was thick enough that we could only make out the vaque outline of an enormous and enormously beautiful bridge over a canal: it was totally surreal. are we really in venice?? we dropped our bags at the hostel, and then spent the morning wandering. we found narrow alleys that clipped your elbows and alleys you had to duck down in to walk though, bridges, and churches, and lots of dead ends. the great thing about venice is that you probably will get lost, but eventually some alleyway will dump you out somewhere big... like the piazza san marcoso, which we found entirely by accident. being out before the crowds was amazing, because we got to watch this beautiful city wake up, gradually filling with the chatter of the local fish merchants and veggie stand owners, before the entire city braced itself against the tourist onslaught. it was wonderful to get a glimpse of the real venice.
other highlights of our time in venice included being accosted by a rose-seller in san marcoso after dark, our first taste of gelato from a backstreet gelateria, taking long walks on the waterfront, and repeatedly getting lost in the mazes of streets. venice was my favorite place in italy. i loved it's packed little alleys, tiny coffee bars, hidden piazzas, and of course the canals and gondolas. it is haunting in it's slightly decrepit beauty; particularly in the hours before visitors to the city lift their heads from the pillow, and the narrow lanes are full of the chatter of old friends and neighbors and not camera lenses.
foggy canal view on our first morning in venice
a nearly deserted piazza san marcoso
picturesque gondola ranks along the waterfront
piazza san marcoso with a pigeon
how bizarre and beautiful: a city built on waterflorence was our next stop in italy: more of a stop-in really, as we were on our way to cinque terra for the remainder of our time in italy. but, we spent an enjoyable afternoon and evening there.
florence is in the heart of tuscany, and it was there that i saw brief glimpses of the fabled italy of the guidebooks and travel shows. the city is surrounded by rolling hills, topped with olive groves, open fields, and those tall narrow trees you see growing in windrows along roads in photos of the tuscan countryside. the city itself was overwhelming after the intimacy and car-less-ness of venice. the buildings were huge, the cars and mopeds fast and loud, the people imposing in their fashionableness. but, we enjoyed wonderful hospitality in our hostel, splurged on a traditional italian meal with all four courses, and played i-spy with a gorgeous tuscan sunset when we took a long evening walk. and then there was the cheerful man in the gelateria we paused at on said walk who dug extra long to find me a pink plastic spoon for my cone, giggling all the while. :)
cherry red moped!
this street was really steep, but lead to a pretty hilltop lane
picture of the sunset through a hole in a gate: i was too short to see it over the walls that unfortunately lined our hilltop walk
florence is in the heart of tuscany, and it was there that i saw brief glimpses of the fabled italy of the guidebooks and travel shows. the city is surrounded by rolling hills, topped with olive groves, open fields, and those tall narrow trees you see growing in windrows along roads in photos of the tuscan countryside. the city itself was overwhelming after the intimacy and car-less-ness of venice. the buildings were huge, the cars and mopeds fast and loud, the people imposing in their fashionableness. but, we enjoyed wonderful hospitality in our hostel, splurged on a traditional italian meal with all four courses, and played i-spy with a gorgeous tuscan sunset when we took a long evening walk. and then there was the cheerful man in the gelateria we paused at on said walk who dug extra long to find me a pink plastic spoon for my cone, giggling all the while. :)
cherry red moped!
this street was really steep, but lead to a pretty hilltop lane
picture of the sunset through a hole in a gate: i was too short to see it over the walls that unfortunately lined our hilltop walkour final destination in italy was the cinque terra coast, where we had booked a hostel that was in fact a full apartment--something that erik and i were really looking forward to. we would have a chance to go to the market, and bring home our bounty to create our own meals. we would have a space to call our own for a few days, one that we could use as a platform for adventuring, and as a warm haven to spend lazy evenings whiling the time away. our time together there was full of relaxation, stormy mornings, steep stairs, wandering walks, and seaside air. it was the perfect ending to a long trip, a long period of displacement that had simultaneously torn the ties i had in england and begun strengthening the ones i felt to home.
the principle impression of cinque terra that stuck in my memory is how old it was. the town of riomaggiore, where we stayed, was full of old plastered buildings clinging to the sides of even older cliffs, over an even older sea. the steep hillsides above the town were domesticated as terraced farm fields (reminiscent of peru, or maybe china), full of oranges and grape vines. the streets were steep and their stones were rough; the boats near the little harbor were wind, salt and sea-worn but still carefully painted in bright blues. the demographic of the town was almost entirely over the age of 40. this was a place that had been there for a long time, and you had the impression that the way that life is lived there has changed little over the years. this town lived in isolation until the years just after WWII, when a footpath was built to the neighboring town of manarola. people here grew up together, married each other, and were buried in clifftop cemeteries by their children who married each other. the flavor of this little town was rich and hearty, and i felt lucky to sample it.
because of the reality of traveling in the off season, many of the wonders of the cinque terra weren't available to erik and i: we had planned to do a lot of hiking between the towns, but almost all of the trails were closed. luckily, on our second to last day the "via dell'amore" was open, and we paid our five euro to walk along this richly historied path, marveling at both the sea view and the human traces (in the form of grafitti and padlocks) that lay in layers along the way.
we left the cinque terra feeling like it is somewhere we should come back to: sometime when the air is warm and the gelaterias are open, and windows are flung open to crystal blue skies, not shut to chilly grey winds. when we can spend an entire day (not 25 minutes) climbing stairs and pausing for views along the trails linking the towns.
someday, we'll be back.
looking up at riomaggiore from the tiny harbor
looking north along the cinque terra coastline
hanging out on the tiny rocky beach just south of riomaggiore
a glimpse of the grafitti along the "via dell'amore"
it's a tradition to lock a padlock with you and your love's initials on it at some point along the via dell'amore: the result is long chains of locks all linked together. kind of beautiful really.
a view of manarola from the via dell'amore
all of the defining features of the cinque terra in one photo: blue and white boats, sherbet colored cliffside homes, and terraced fields above
the kind of views you get when you wander off the beaten/legal pathway (this is manarola)
the principle impression of cinque terra that stuck in my memory is how old it was. the town of riomaggiore, where we stayed, was full of old plastered buildings clinging to the sides of even older cliffs, over an even older sea. the steep hillsides above the town were domesticated as terraced farm fields (reminiscent of peru, or maybe china), full of oranges and grape vines. the streets were steep and their stones were rough; the boats near the little harbor were wind, salt and sea-worn but still carefully painted in bright blues. the demographic of the town was almost entirely over the age of 40. this was a place that had been there for a long time, and you had the impression that the way that life is lived there has changed little over the years. this town lived in isolation until the years just after WWII, when a footpath was built to the neighboring town of manarola. people here grew up together, married each other, and were buried in clifftop cemeteries by their children who married each other. the flavor of this little town was rich and hearty, and i felt lucky to sample it.
because of the reality of traveling in the off season, many of the wonders of the cinque terra weren't available to erik and i: we had planned to do a lot of hiking between the towns, but almost all of the trails were closed. luckily, on our second to last day the "via dell'amore" was open, and we paid our five euro to walk along this richly historied path, marveling at both the sea view and the human traces (in the form of grafitti and padlocks) that lay in layers along the way.
we left the cinque terra feeling like it is somewhere we should come back to: sometime when the air is warm and the gelaterias are open, and windows are flung open to crystal blue skies, not shut to chilly grey winds. when we can spend an entire day (not 25 minutes) climbing stairs and pausing for views along the trails linking the towns.
someday, we'll be back.
looking up at riomaggiore from the tiny harbor
looking north along the cinque terra coastline
hanging out on the tiny rocky beach just south of riomaggiore
a glimpse of the grafitti along the "via dell'amore"
it's a tradition to lock a padlock with you and your love's initials on it at some point along the via dell'amore: the result is long chains of locks all linked together. kind of beautiful really.
a view of manarola from the via dell'amore
all of the defining features of the cinque terra in one photo: blue and white boats, sherbet colored cliffside homes, and terraced fields above
the kind of views you get when you wander off the beaten/legal pathway (this is manarola)we left the cinque terra on a sunny morning that promised far better weather than any of the past few days. too bad for us, but we were able to take advantage of the rays in pisa. we arrived at pisa's train station just before noon, and didn't need to be at the airport for a couple of hours. and what else do you do in pisa in a few hours, but visit the leaning tower? so, erik, myself, and all of our bags trekked to the other side of town for a sunny picnic under the leaning tower. we passed time laughing at tourists, eating the last of our italian salami and bread, and soaking up the warm sunny rays. a perfect end to italy: even better, given that we spent our last euros on enormous gelatos on the way back to the train station. yum. :)
we contented ourselves with taking a picture of the tourists taking the classic leaning tower picture... and i think we were the only people in a 200 meter vicinity who weren't taking this picture, minus the guy who was asleep on the steps nearby
it's a tower and it leans. wow. it's one of those anti-climactic things...
but the sunshine was wonderful :)
as was the view on the flight back to england. farewell europe!
b
we contented ourselves with taking a picture of the tourists taking the classic leaning tower picture... and i think we were the only people in a 200 meter vicinity who weren't taking this picture, minus the guy who was asleep on the steps nearby
it's a tower and it leans. wow. it's one of those anti-climactic things...
but the sunshine was wonderful :)
as was the view on the flight back to england. farewell europe!b
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
