Hope Siegel – The Nature of Nature 2019

Barn Swallows

This chapter acts as foreshadowing to the long sad process of Williams’ mother’s death. She introduces the bird by saying that her mother is finishing her six month chemotherapy treatment and that, with life slowly going back to normal, she’s starting to take her mother’s continued life for granted again. She says she once saw a barn swallow stuck in a wire fence and she wanted to save it, but she knew the bird was going to die. She decides to free it from the fence, and the bird, exhausted from fighting to free itself for so long, dies. She says that suffering is caused not by dying, but by resisting death, foreshadowing that fighting cancer is going to cause a lot more suffering.

The barn swallow is notable for making its nests almost exclusively in man made structures. They’ve been noted to form a symbiotic relationship with ospreys as they nest close together. The osprey help defend the swallow nests to help protect their own, and the swallows will chirp loudly and alert the ospreys to intruders. They were also once called “a useful friend to the farmer” by ornithologist Arthur C. Bent in Life Histories of Familiar North American Birds because, as an insectivore they helped cull the insect population (this was of course before the widespread use of insecticides in agriculture began to threaten their food source. They also love to fly. They can do almost any task while flying, including eating, drinking, and even mating in the air.

Cows And the Farming Industry

I love cows. I think they’re one of the most beautiful creatures. When I don’t know what to draw, I draw cows. Standing in David Klines barn, watching the cows watch us from the roped off door of the milking room, I was standing in the barn thinking “man if only I had my notebook on me I could sketch these cows.” And these cows seemed to have an intelligence to them. I watched as one of the calves inside complained there was one cow that would call back to them, as if in conversation. Their brown eyes seemed to watch me watching them, as if asking “So are you going to feed me or what?”

I’ve always kind of romanticized farm life. There’s something about the image of a corn fields rolling out over the hills under a blue sky that captivates me more than undeveloped forests. And there’s privilege inherent in that image.

I discovered a couple years ago that I’m allergic to horses. I don’t know if its the horses themselves or if its the dust from the straw and fecal matter, but walking into the barn I started to sneeze within minutes. I wouldn’t last one day on a farm. But it’s easy for me to say that it’s beautiful and that this is the most perfect existence because I don’t have to live with it day in and day out and keep my eye on the changes in the market and the environment and watch my cows die. I don’t have to think about the state the animals I’m eating lived in or the state of the farmers who grew them if I don’t want to.

David Kline talked a lot about his organic farming practices and how his farm runs. You could tell that there’s pride in the way he runs his farm. You could tell by the way he talked about it that he felt confident that his animals were well treated and that his product was quality. He seemed fulfilled by his work, and that’s all we can really hope for in a job.

I think a lot about the way chicken farmers working for Tyson don’t get a say in how they raise their chickens because of the way Tyson sets them up. I think a lot of places would like to farm like Kline, but I don’t think they see a choice. Organic farming can be costly and its hard for non factory farms to compete with the massive amount of food that factory farms can produce–Kline said as much when he was talking about his organic co-op.

From the porch looking out

Down from the kitchen on the back porch is the hill to the parking lot. It rolls down a 45 degree incline to a cement curb which holds the cars in place and holds the leaves as the fall into a plaster cover of reds and yellow. The ivy leers from above me, leaking up from the north side of the house to the lattice siding. Looking past the parking lot is the thin tree line which hides the church camp behind, all I can make out is the compost bin and the plastic play area. Beyond that a line of houses which I cannot see from here, rows of houses lining the warped and weathered Burbank road. And houses and houses and houses, until finally the fields take over.

Eclipse

In 2017, a week before my sophomore year began I went out with my mother, father, and grandfather to the smokey mountains to view the total eclipse. We set out under a small shade tree in a small clearing and my dad and grandfather began fiddling with the plethora of telescopes and cameras, making sure that they all would be set and ready to go before the few minutes of total eclipse that we would get.

My grandfather had seen two eclipses before that point, but wanted to see as many as possible. And in that moment when the burning hot sky turned to a dulcet chill I realized why. It was an eerie twilight. Neither dark nor light, with a beautiful corona bursting out above me. We watched the moon slowly make its way in front of the sun through a solar telescope, watching the sun rays tremble back beneath the dark silhouette of the moon. And as it reached its totality, the world went still as a hundred voices simultaneously stopped and sucked in a breath. The bugs and the birds were silent, and it was as though the whole world had stopped.

Tulip Tree

I was walking behind Bornhuetter Hall when I found some strange shaped leaves on the ground. I looked up to find the source: a tall deciduous tree whose leaves were just starting to change yellow.

Not being the best at plant identifica-tion, I decided that this would be good practice because the leaves are kind of uniquely shaped. So looking at a leaf guide I found that this was a Liriodendron tulipifera or a tulip tree. So called because the shape of its bloom in spring and the shape and color of its leaves. According to the Ohio Department of National Resources: Division of Forestry, tulip trees are native to the Eastern United states and one of the fastest growing shade trees. They also serve as a drought indicator, dropping their interior leaves when the soil is too dry.

Image result for tree identification by leaf

Sources:

Ohio Department of National Resources: Division of Forestry

http://forestry.ohiodnr.gov/tuliptree

The Distiller of Celestial Dews

“Perhaps on that spring morning when Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden Walden Pond was already in existence, and even then breaking up in a gentle spring rain accompanied with the mist and a southerly wind, and covered with myriads of ducks and geese, which had not heard of the fall, when still such pure lakes sufficed them. Even then it had commenced to rise and all, and had clarified its waters and colored them the hue they now wear, and obtained the patent of heaven to be the only Walden Pond in the world and the distiller of celestial dews. (pg. 250)

Can I just say how much I hate the phrase “distiller of celestial dews?” And this may be an immature point to focus my post on, but it is a terrible phrase. The sound of it makes my skin crawl. “The distiller of celestial dews.” It is the epitome of pretentious, purple prose quotes that make people look at this book and sigh in absolute defeat before even reading the damned book. For as much as he talks about living simply, nothing can simply be. Walden pond can not just be a pond, it must be gods perfect little pond. And remember this is after Thoreau has pointed out that Walden pond was not a grand area: “The scenery of Walden is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it or lived by its shore…” (pg. 247). To read the chapter you would think Thoreau had ascended to enlightenment at Walden pond (and perhaps he believes he did).

It bothers me because I think there are simpler sections (like the part where he loses his axe at the bottom of the lake or the part where he can see the ripples on the lake from one insect all the way at the shore) that explain the idea he’s trying to get across in a much more accessible way. He is saying the water is clear and calm and that that is a rarity in more civilized water sources.

Perhaps you might be saying that “she’s just mad because she doesn’t understand ‘art.'” And yeah, maybe I don’t get why you would want to slog through the beginning of the chapter with abstract imagery that seems to draw me away from the place in question. Maybe there are people for which these images connect better for, but for me it just leaves me lost reading and rereading the same paragraph.

Can I Just say that I hate mosquitoes

The standing water is murky–a tan-grey color–and water striders tap along the surface.

I could tell that I was approaching water before I could see it by the number of mosquitoes on my arm. Two meant it was just down the hill, three meant it was around the corner, and eight meant I was standing in it.

When I was a kid my parents took me camping in Michigan. About five minutes after stepping out of the car we were over taken by this cloud of them. I remember all of us were running in circles slapping our arms and faces. I don’t remember how it stopped, I remember the days after. My eyes had been bitten so bad that they had swollen completely shut. I couldn’t see for most of that trip, so if you ask me how Lake Michigan looks I can’t honestly tell you.

As I sit here writing this they’ve gathered close. My reaction has tempered a bit since then, but I can feel one poke through my skin.

I think often of a sanitized nature. My home is near a protected wetland and some of the rich neighbors spray their lawns for mosquitoes. My family recently drained a man-made water feature that had become such a breeding ground that in order to stand being out there we’d have to stock it with feeder fish to thin the larva. There’s still mosquitoes, but it’s considerably better.

I think it’s hard to be out in nature, let alone to think of your place in it, amongst mosquitoes. I think its beautiful in theory, but I kinda can’t stand it. Rude to say, I know, but when I leave this place the sunburns and poison ivy and mosquito bites will stay with me. I cannot contain nature to nature walk, and so I pass the trees. I ignore the deep rich black of the bog. I leave behind the pristine fungal caps. Snapping quick pictures of each to consider later. I think it’s me. It’s my fault I can’t enjoy this place because I’m a suburbs kid and I have a bad hip from sitting at my desk all day. I think it’s a place better used by other people who can appreciate it better.

Perhaps this is the problem. We want the postcard. We want to focus on the trees and the wildflowers, but they live in a bog. Like it or not the bog smells and the bog bites. In nature, we realize that our comfort isn’t guaranteed and that’s the point. For Johnson’s Woods, the inhospitable parts of the land kept it safe from agriculture. It was kept safe in part by the very feature that leaves me itching my knuckles as I write this. We can’t really have the post card without the world around it.

Johnson’s woods is a beautiful sight. It’s truly stunning to see the great old tree alive in front of you, and the great old corpse sitting beside it adorned with a crown of mushroom caps and a skirt of lacy fungus. But Johnson’s woods is also a smell–the smell of greenery and decay and stagnant water. It’s also a feeling–the feeling of hot sweat rolling down your back in the heat and of mosquitos swarming around you and the poor chipmunk under the boardwalk. Mosquitoes kind of suck, but that’s the cost of these trees.

Under the Porch

I live in a green house on College Ave. I think I like living in a house. There are very few alternatives, but out of the options on campus the houses are distinctly preferable to Holden. I’ve been inside Holden before to move someone out and in the hour or so I spent moving things from one floor to the entrance, I, for the first time, understood what it was like to feel trapped in a place. For me, someone whose schedule and interests rarely permit her to leave her desk, a porch is a rare pleasure. It is a gift, I think, to sit on a porch in the rain. Able to listen to the world and feel the cool air swirling around you, and keep your socks dry at the same time. It’s nice inside, but its not the same. You can’t feel the shifts in temperature in the air. You can’t smell the rain as it falls. It’s too distant to remove yourself from your work.

My freshman year I got rain boots that were a size too small. When Autumn came, and the rain was too cold to justify walking out in my flip-flops, I would pull on my rain coat, squeeze my feet into those rain boots, and sit out in the courtyard to listen to the rain. I looked ridiculous. The knees and the seat of my pants were soaked through from how I was sitting, leaving me cold and uncomfortable. People walked by on their way to swipe into the dorm, giving me a questioning look. And granted I felt ridiculous. So I would often get up and start walking. There are brick paths all around this school, marred with holes from where seniors have pulled out their souvenirs. I got to know them well on my walks, and I learned how to side step the hydroplane from oncoming traffic (the roads, it seems are worse than the paths).

I think it’s human nature to want shelter. No one wants wet socks. But a porch is a liminal shelter. It allows for a more complete immersion into an aesthetically natural environment. The shallow end of the pool where you can dip your toes in–or simply hang your legs over the side into.