blog 10

    In the clearing, empty gallon jugs hang from the limbs of a tree, and a pile of unique rocks are gathered on an old stump. Certain trees are caged, and bird feathers are stuck in the wire. Trees have been axed down,and dragged into odd positions. Bundles of vine lie around the lawn of grass, roped together. Shards of tree bark are arranged under some of the spruce trees. Stones are rearranged into steps. There's a pair of boots and a few plastic bags resting on a rock, and in one tree, hanging from the upper limb, is a bundle of rocks, a railroad spike, and a long piece of scrap metal. The odd object hangs with surreal intentionality. All these changes are inexplicable.

     With no explanation, it all seems so strange to observe. Rocks are tied to tree branches, and materials are gathered in strange ways. It reminds me of Andy Goldsworthy—almost purposeless intentionality. The reason for these choices are hard to comprehend. Near the trail, there's a large limb tied to the upper branch of a young tree, weighing it down—bending its growth away from the trail? I don't know. It's a guess about this unique manipulation to the clearing. Do we all have such idiosyncratic relationships with nature? Do we all bend the trees and rearrange the rocks and gather the most unique stones?

    From our short survey of nature writing, it's clear we all approach the physical world differently. We connect with certain animals more than others. We can despise whole categories of insects and animals. We can love dogs over cats, cats over dogs, or not like pets at all. Some people connect with wild animals in symbolic ways. Some of us love the sun, but hate the bugs. Some of us camp and roll in mud, while others love National Geographic. Some like the ocean and sand while others enjoy bow-hunting. And writers experience nature, then write about it. We tell stories. We share science. We share experience and philosophy. We share religion and worldview. We share understanding and connection. But it's clear we pick and choose our nature. We choose backgrounds and sounds and sights and feelings. We prefer different temperatures and different vistas over others. At times, we have the will to make nature fit our preconceived notions.

    Our views of Nature, as a whole and as multivalent manifestations, are formed by thought, experience, family, religion, reading, and many other influences. When I walk around the clearing, I try to make sense of the random changes, of what seems random—bending trees, hanging rocks, stepping stones, felled trees, bundles of vines, and branches hung with empty jugs. I'm not sure this place will ever make any sense, though, or form a story. It's already a poem, an abstract expression of one person interacting with the physical world.  Similarly, each blog, each reading, each author bends the trees, colors the sky, and rearranges bark to bring others closer to nature.

blog 9

    I came here for something, and I can't find it. I pace around the clearing, inspecting things at random. So much changes from week to week, but is any of it worth writing about? The grass is green from rain, and thorn bushes sprout small leaves. I watch the clouds move across the sky. I run my hand across the bark of trees. I walk around and notice things, I observe changes in the environment, but there's nothing to write about except the spruce planted around the clearing.

    There are spruce trees of different size and species. On the lower edge, a row of spruce trees more mature than those on the upper side. Some of the trees in this lower row didn't make it through the summer. Orange-brown needles hang from dead limbs like year-old confetti. The others stand two to three feet tall with thin, sharp needles.

    Spruce are pyramidal trees with narrow, horizontal branches. I bend closer to the spruce, and the blue-green needles densely crowd each branch. The stiff, sharp needles bristle out in all directions.

For weeks I thought they were all blue spruce, with their color and prickly needles. The color and shape of each tree is nearly the same, but this week some stand tall with growth while others are pruned by the hunger of deer.

    This is the only way I found to tell the species apart. According to tree guides I've read, deer do not eat blue spruce. Beyond the prickly needle, they release a sharp acidic flavor if chewed. The deer choose not to suffer the flavor, but they're able to eat other spruce, such as the white, for starvation food. With a long winter, it's not much surprise that deer browsed on the white spruce.

    Compared to others, these young trees are mutilated. The deer ate needles and twigs, stripping some of the young, tender limbs clean off. Only half a spruce stands with a few random twigs spotted with clumps of needles. I've seen no deer today, but their presence in the clearing is unmistakable.

    Their hunger left a mark on the spruce. Their hunger left a mark on me, and there it is—something to write about. But is it enough to bring to you? Is there more to offer? I wanted to find something, but it wasn't there. Is this enough?  Like the deer, I take what I can get.