MY aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew -- Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc únselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.
I was first introduced to Gerard Manley Hopkins in my Victorian class this semester. Hopkins is an interesting poet who finds that poetry is like the music of speaking and thinking; his unique techniques and sprung rhythm make him a revolutionary figure in poetry. Hopkins was a Roman Catholic Priest with a surprisingly earthly view of divinity. One fascinating thing about Hopkins is the spiritual impetus behind his poetry, and the literary techniques he formed so that his writings would frame his view of God. This view found that every living thing is infused with a unique, flowing self that comes from the divine. "Each mortal thing does one thing and the same" - a sacred act of what Hopkin's calls selving. Each and all "fling out its broad name." God shines through the ordinary. The human sense of inscape is responsiveness to the divinity in creation, an is called instress. The holy breathing of particular selves. Much of Hopkins poems try to capture his human perception of selving beings and to find the sacred power that animates the diverse lifeforms of the earth.
Binsley Poplars is one of those poems that echoes in your mind, winding into your thoughts at the most unexpected moments - tossing a plastic Kind bar wrapper into the trash, ordering a stack of paperbacks. "Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve..." Unselve. When a life form is ended then an opportunity for human insight is "pricked" so that no "eye at all" will be able to see what was. The end of life forms, rural scenes, and local communities is - what is it? People have many answers for the end of particular things. For example, tigers. A villager, who has lived under the constant threat of being lower on the food chain than Shere Khan, will fire away at the threat. Other people vote with their consumer dollars for Endangered Species Tiger chocolate bars. Both wish that tigers could find a place in the wild- away, away. But does anyone wish that the tiger will completely disappear from the earth, its burning bright self lost? “What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?” What human eye will be left to see?
Hopkins thanked God for “dappled things” in another poem, because while the sacred is constant, the earth is wonderfully diverse. I find a strange parallel to the beauty of diversity in the science of energy and matter. Paul Hawkins in The Ecology of Commerce describes the second law of thermo dynamics, which finds that "chaos and entropy" result when energy scatters. Nature is able to defend against chaos through an organization of diverse life forms that exchange energy in their complex relationships, what Hawkins calls negenthropy. He comments, “Only life prevents entropy from extending to nature: the intricate, mysterious interaction of organisms that captures sunlight and evolves into higher levels of order and complexity.” Most human industrial systems are reducing the diversity of life. In another chapter he continues to say, “Given current corporate practices, not one wildlife reserve, wilderness, or indigenous culture will survive the global market economy.” What about the scene in rural ConwayArkansas? UCA is trying to fell a portion of the forest on the Jewel Moore Nature Reserve so that it can advertise special, select housing for fraternity and sorority students. Future UCA students will not “guess the beauty been.” My good friend Patrick likes to bird watch in the nature reserve, and has recently eyed a pair of owls. I hope to see them too.
Last night at the climbing gym, my strength to tackle tough problems was not thriving because my energy resources had flowed into the paces of school, the tracks of my anxiety shortcomings, and journeys of inner curiosity and conviction. My veins were probably popping from too much coffee and too little water. As a the name of a boulder problem I never ascended said, I needed to “Eat more fruit :)” Yet, while I was not making calculable progress in my climbing, I was saturated in the movement. I was in my favorite climbing mode, the one in which the movement becomes a dance. How to describe the love of movement and being in the body? Grace and control, technique and forced explosions, all wrapped up in a synesthesia of sense in which I swing to the music of air behind me and crimp into the intense reality just with fingertips. My skin is left behind, but my blood flows stronger.
That night they pulled out the slack line, which disrupted my sense of movement. I resented the rope, because I could not hop on the thin string and find a place to step in the crazy world it created in my perception- balance in body and mind on top of the helter skelter. When my foot pressed into the rope, my leg jiggled and the convulsions jogged upward through my spine bones. My instincts frozen, I failed to stand up. I hate falling. (a constant overcoming for me as Climber) So I watched others- how they fell-their shaky steps, the focus of their eyes. Some seemed to own the air as they tripped down the line. Wayne Robin made me laugh with his crazy tricks. He tried to help me and explained wonderfully the best tips for positioning your body and focusing with mental clarity. My neurons replied to the task and sent this imperative: “Legs, turn to jelly.”
One of my close friends came over to talk. She said that she had never figured slack lining out, her body had yet to master that. Later, she joined a romping and laughing group at the slack line. I watched. She palmed the back of the rope and pushed upward to stand on her leg. Her arms rounded like a dancer mid leap, and her chest spread into the air. I could see her leg muscles rippling beneath her pants. She caterwauled off the rope and stumbled out of view under the Frankenstein wall. Yet, I had seen her body suspended in air as her eyes shined in self-sufficient flight. Do you realize the beauty of your face, my friend? After watching her for awhile, I went to the rope, grasped the back, and became a titan for moment on my jelly legs. By the end of the night, I was able to walk three steps on the line. My friend’s energy nudged my own body to take a risk, and now I can’t wait to keep practicing at the gym. I have found that this is often the case with this particular friend. She pushes me as a climber, because her style is very different and frighten ting to me. Yet watching the wonderful energy of her movement quickens my practice of dynamic and graceful movement. In other areas of life she inspires me and challenges me as a thinker, a feeler, and to be healthy and thrive. I am grateful for the moments we can know each other.
The possibility of dissolving- sweetly blending, my heart with the surrounding dark energy. For a moment, but I am distracted by a burnished crescent whose presence is magnified by the darkness.
Moon feels strange tonight. A honey gold moon and radiant. Yet, not fluid. Moon is sharp, made more so to me because of her scarcity power in tonight's sky. The night quickens my sense of illumination- first the heaven glows, then a fire, and then streets of buzzing lampposts. For tonight, the city pollution steals star beams, so Moon walks the air above, bereft her dancing sisters.
Slowly, I sense a rounded shadow pinned by her two points. Eclipse came to mind, yet not quite. A beautiful whole emerges in the shadow-land.
My friend Patrick has been organizing the Environmental Alliance to pick up trash at the Jewel Moore Nature Reserve. Today, a small group of us picked up plastic bags, old pencils, and junk food wrappers to clean up a place that we respected as a haven for animals and people on campus. Patrick pointed out a sumac tree, which he claimed would produce berries in August that he could not wait to brew into a lemonade tea. The nature reserve has provided me many hours of solitude, a place to read, and to walk with friends. Oh, how I love walking through the path on a moonlit night. I wrote my first published story there, and climbed one of its pines during my first week dating with Wayne Robin. During my freshman year, I blackened the leaves in its paths as I shared angst with a mentor about about new and terrifying ideas that had expanded the wild order in my mind. I am thankful for the Honors College Group that is working to make this small wild land, which is special to so many, a permanent part of the UCA campus. I want to encourage everyone to come to the Bear Hug for Nature next Thursday at x-period for a demonstration of solidarity on our campus. We will create a powerful voice for the special trees, prairie grasses, sumac, and birds that live in this corner of the Natural State. Treehuggers, it’s time to bear hug and never let the Nature Reserve go.
The perfect cool air of the night defied the regulating dorm box buttons. So I fled the dorm to watch the breeze in the leaves and laugh at the bubble-gum pink and tang orange tulips planted by UCA maintenance in dirty red-tinctured mulch. A copy of Wordsworth’s The Excursion and Michael Pollan’s Second Nature were my evening companions, the first being part of my thesis research and the second, an indulgence for the last weeks of the term. It seemed a more appropriate diversion than my former facebook days, for my excitement was clicked by the universal refresh of spring. I settled in the student center courtyard and after reading for an hour or so a boy walked up to me, and asked, “What are you reading?”
“ A book by Michael Pollan called Second Nature.”
“What is it about”
“Oh, about gardening and its relationship with nature.”
“ I just wanted to ask. I saw you sitting out here at night, and guessed that you were reading something about nature. I was right.”
He smiled. Without another word, he turned and walked across the courtyard towards the library. I am not sure what he meant by the encounter, nor can I quite assess its affect on me, other than a gentle confusion. His voice kind, almost jolly. I wonder if he too sought the fresh air that winds and dances in the spaces between halls and dorms, blowing dogwood petals over the pavement.
Here is a link a video of the Pebble Wrestle, a bouldering competition that Wayne Robin and I enjoyed with many of our friends in March. Wayne loves the outdoors, and finds climbing to be his sport of choice. Rock climbing is his passion. Crimping on rock challenges Wayne as an athlete, builds his critical thinking, and connects him with a unique community of people. In the context of pragmatic philosophy and supported by the opinions of John Dewey, Wayne compares climbing to an art form of “experience.” The connection with the rock demands the immediacy of experience. A climber must sense and judge the nature of the rock with both the sense of touch and sight, should constantly asses of the current states of the body so that breathing and rests are utilized with optimal precision, and apply mental creativity and boldness of the mind to work through and commit to cruxes. Homeostasis between mind, body, and environment is as crucial as strength to make it to the top of a climb. Not to mention, if luck will be a lady tonight. For Wayne and me, climbing exercises the virtues of self-improvement and control, connects us to nature and other people, and is a healthy, recreational activity. Albeit it is a strenuous activity… the cramped shoes, tired and achy bodies, finicky weather, intense fear involved in all adventure sports, and dehydration can make us at times, irascible at best. Yet, climbing is something we look forward to even as our skin is repairing from the last day on the ropes. “I’ll give you a catch” is the common phrase a person gives to a climber seeking a belayer, and it requires the service of their attention to protect the safety of the climber. As a couple, rock climbing definitely builds our trust in one another.
Congrats Wayne Robin for winning your division in the competition! I am proud of your climbing success, but I thank you for your thoughtful approach to our passion.
I miss the sultry summer weekends when the Pitts clan would load the car with peanut butter and wind an hour through the hills to Gunners Pool or Blanchard springs. It was so nice to cool our heals for a few days along the creek.. The long weekends were full of memorable events that would be lovingly retold at campfires in the years to come and bring good, warm laughter after the chill of more ghostly tales.
One such story occurred when my sister Anna’s pigtails were only tiny solitary curls that threatened to wisp away from their bands. With a certified national park junior ranger badge pinned on her fanny pack, she was eager to discover the woods around her, especially the critters. Overhearing a conversation between my Aunt and Uncle Ricky, she attempted to add a new natural curiosity, asking, “What is a hillbilly?” Ricky, twisted his beard between his freckled fingers, plopped forward on his coveralls, and said, “Well, Hillbillies…they have lawng, shaggy hair and are reeeeal dirty. Make their home deep in the woods, holed up away from people. They don’t wear shoes; sometimes they spit. Yes, hillbillies, they are loud, and boy, can they whoop and holler! “Anna’s eyes mooned inwardly for a moment, then she replied, “Do they live in a hole or a cave? Do they hibernate?”
Often during these weekend nights, the call of my uncle’s lured other camper’s from the safety of their own hearth to join the community of our fire. They would tap their feet and talk about days how these days spent sure are fine. On this particular occasion, a rowdy gaggle of college students had escaped into the woods for a taste of wildness in the moon light. The fiddles had just had just twiddled the last strains the last notes of “Buffalo Waltz” and had leapt into a livelier tune when the visitors came. A red-eyed girl and her boyfriend stumbled to the fire, the red plastic cup in the girl’s hand sloshing as she conducted the air with the grand purpose of her arm. She smiled, and said, “You won’t mind if we listen to the music for a bit?” Not waiting for a reply, she tried to jam her cup into her boyfriend’s hand, which jostled the bottle already palmed. To our surprise she began a jig. She kicked her legs and brandished her arms in wild and stormy waves, blowing out an occasional, “whoopee!!!” At one point she chortled and made to leap over the fire, but was saved from her ritualized when the boy snagged her shirt with the finger tips that could be spared from their holds on the bears. My uncle ended the song quicker than usual, and after it was completed my Dad, thanked the pair for the pleasure of their company and politely hinted that it was time for the children to be put to bed. The girl babbled loudly as they stumbled into darkness, and my family discussed how family campgrounds were inappropriate places for these wild revels. My step mom, hugged the kids close, her tight lips suppressing the chagrin that her babies had witnessed these worldly and reckless ways. Anna, quiet until now, tugged on Dad’s sleeve. “Were those….. hillbillies?”
