Sylvan Solidarity

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.

Shared Night

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.

Pebble Wrestle - Congrats Wayne Robin

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.

Tonight, I am Holed Up in those Peanutt Butter Summers

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?”

Artwork of Warning

I remember vividly snagging Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 from the school library.
That night I pulled out the my Christmas stocking flashlight to illuminate the cave under my quilt, confident that if my Dad came to check on me that my light could be extinguished before he discovered I was reading past my bed time. My eyes reddened with sleep as the horror of the book numbed my raw nerves; burning fires consumed libraries in my dreams that jolted me awake from between the pages. It was a powerful, and I hated it. Terrible, terrible book. The reading was a vital lesson in my experience of literature, for it was my first experience with reading and then feeling the power of an artwork of warning. It affected me like the Shakespeare’s character of Aaron in Titus Andronicus when he places corpses on their friend’s doorsteps, carving in their flesh to never forget. Perhaps this is overly dramatic, but it led me to a similar question what vile hole of the imagination this book came from? It has been many years since I read the book but I now care for it deeply, because it respects the life imbued in literature by warning of the dullness and chaos that fester when people lose touch with the voices of meaning. Literature is valuable for myriad reasons, and books that are artworks of warning are vital to our humanity because they make us feel the importance of our virtues, values, and very souls.

Recently I learned that the word nigger has been taken out of a version Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Fin. Not only does this desecrate the author’s workmanship and deny the historical dialect, it says disturbing things about our society. Nigger is a powerful word that causes a reaction. If we censor books or ban books, then we are well on our way to burning libraries as well. Attempting to burn words we despise makes our aversions into ghosts that will not leave our dreams. I would rather read powerful words that give me something to reflect on, confront face to face, and improve. Why are we so afraid of hearing our fears voiced aloud? Artworks of warning are powerful because they awaken our feelings, inspiring action to preserve or create something good. Fear leads us to beauty and to love.


“I grew up fostered alike by beauty and by fear.” – William Wordsworth

Dirt Sticks with You

Spring and Spring Break twirled my steps with the breeze, leaping into the first day of break to feel the air and sun before plopping down into rich dirt for a day enjoyed gardening. Norb had invited me to join him at his house for prized hours of working in the dirt and discussing mysteries of life and living. His garden is a beautiful place in which to be. Rather wild. Flowers and vegetables and trees are in full bloom, the roots of several nestling colorful stones collected from creek beds and various states. Garden tools peep from the sheds like old friends. One of my favorite parts about gardening with Norb is his wonder of the soil. After aerating the soil with a shovel to prep the bed, he paused and gazed fondly at the dirt for a bit, saying, “Isn’t just beautiful.” Indeed, the earth was loamy and delicious as coffee grounds. An egg shell peeped from the dirt every now then- a testament to good compost.

“Norb, how long have you been nurturing this soil?”

“For ten years now. When I moved from my earth house I had piles and piles of dirt. And when we moved, I told them that I was taking it with me.”

The earth was so precious to him that he could not leave it behind. In my Environmental Anthropology class that soil is alive. There are thousands of living organisms in just a handful of soil! Once you begin gardening, how can it not be treated with reverence and awe?

Later in the day, I drove to Little Rock and joined Wayne for another gardening session at Little Rock urban farms. We worked on inoculating shiitake mushrooms logs, drilling holes and hammering in fungi spawn that would, in time, produce piles of delectable gourmet mushrooms. Seeing how happy Wayne was learning and working at the farm confirmed for me that even though things has been a dulling, anxious busy lately, we will have calmer days and are learning to balance the more tempestuous ones.

However, the joys of gardening still held surprises for the day. Melissa, my stepmom, called to tell me about Nana’s new kittens. Eventually, we began talking about spring planting in the first Pitts’ family garden. She said that Anna had fallen in love with the garden, and while Dad was whisked away on his business trip, she tended the garden without being asked, frequently sneaking away to water the budding seedlings. Love of the soil is relatively new to me, but it is becoming a growing part of my life and the experience of those I love. It is a present retreat that offers a time of peace and reflection, but it is also a learning experience that is filled with the hope of a meaningful lifestyle that enlivens my life with meaning. Still more wonderful, it is twining it roots into my home, becoming a shared experience with my family and partner Wayne.

I still have much to work on and work through, but as Dr. Anderson says, “This too shall pass.”

Thankfully, I will carry my dirt with me.

Knitting, Giving, and Conway Cradle Care

One of my proudest achievements in the past year was a class project that helped raise awareness about teen pregnancies in my community. The organization that we selected was the Conway Cradle Care, which is a non-profit group that provides day care and parenting classes for teenage parents as well as encouraging them to enjoy community service. Many of these young girls and boys, with the help of Conway Cradle Care and others in the community, are pulling together their resources to create a meaningful future, one that is not only for themselves, but also for their child. The teenagers who participate in the Conway Cradle Care project are becoming parents amidst the bog of identity insecurities attributed to the adolescent experience. My involvement with Conway Cradle Care focused on the community and the teenage parents. A few friends and I organized an event in the courtyard of my university to raise awareness about teen pregnancy. To do this we made a large chain of our hand-knitted items, and pinned a little fact to each. We passed out pamphlets about the organization, and told how volunteering helped these students and their children continue their education. We showed how the success of the parents and the infants was good for the community. My favorite part of the project was more personal. My friends and I knitted hats for the mothers, children, and volunteers at the Conway Cradle Care so that they would have a special gift at their Christmas party. Many of the parents were struggling financially, so I hoped that a warm hat would fill a practical need while also giving them a unique thing that they would be proud to wear.
While reflecting Conway Cradle Care project, I am learning that, as a maker, I have to ultimately trust the recipients. Giving is a release. This is a positive action that helps me grow as a maker and adds to another person’s experience. However, this act of giving becomes a problem if the release is only done on a physical level, and I existentially cling to my work. My knitting is a gift, and I have to remember that the recipient is capable of using it in a way that best suits their needs. There is a difference between giving and then thoughtfully considering the act of giving, and giving with a naïve expectations. Giving knitted items should be a complete act of mind and body and thoughtfully considered. The imparting of a gift is freeing, because then both my hands and imagination have grown with a new skill of giving that can be applied to a new project.
I learned how to be a better giver when I looked at the pictures from the Conway Cradle Care project and saw my as-yet favorite hat on beautiful, little girl. The hat was upside down. The angle of the hat made it look lumpy and awkward, and not in the least like the fanciful, autumnal cap I had my sister model for me over Thanksgiving. The sweet child’s face was not happy, and I began to have doubts about my creation. I felt that it should have been pink or have a more traditional round shape, and maybe then it would be a better match. The picture did not match the expectations that I had for the experience of giving. Then I caught myself, and realized that it was only image. And this image came to represent the disappointment of unrealized expectations. These are emotions that do not promote a spirit of giving. Remaining existentially tied to a creation is not only arrogant, but in the end, taints the beauty of giving. The expectations of giving should not form strings that are tied to the maker’s ideals, but rather, they should lift the recipient’s own motivations and creative power. My knits should be given in excitement about another’s experience. That is why the gift was given in the first place, to uplift the spirit of another. One of my friends chuckled when he saw the picture, saying, “Don’t worry. They will figure it out.” I hope that they will find learning and joy because of my gift, even if it is in a small way.
A positive attitude of giving is productive and necessary. Giving hand knitted items is like motherhood. My knits are soft, colorful, and designed to both please aesthetically, nurture with a spirit of care, and fill a practical need. However, I must realize that my knits are born into a life of their own after they pass from my hands. Coupled with a concern for others must be flexible expectations, so that the experience of giving can be thoughtful and produce future inspiration rather than judgmental stagnation. This can be painful when the gift, the product of many hours of labor, is not used in the way that I expected. One of the giving skills that I learned from the two projects and will carry on to future service is that you have to balance time with making the gift carry something that makes it special. For example, I did a simple, beautiful pattern for one of the infant hats, but made it special by using a fiber of exquisite texture, the heathery softness of bamboo yarn. My last hat for the Conway Cradle Care Project had tassels that would dance with the light footed meanderings of a child. These details, while unimportant to others, helped me to find meaning, especially for projects where the recipient is unknown. However, the picture of the little girl showed me that I will need to do some charity giving where I can create a knit that is tailored to the recipient’s preferences. I also enjoy giving notes with my gifts, because writing accomplishes the following two things: 1.Notes personally communicate care and goodwill. 2. Writing allows me to find closure with the project and process my reflections internally.
In light of the Conway Cradle Care Project, I will be more sensitive to the positive and negative aspect of the giving experience. I was shocked to realize that giving well takes great courage; the investment is personal and emotional. Helping people have better lives is one the most amazing parts about living, because it is an experience that involves construction, creativity, learning, and caring. I want my gifts to help others experience those emotions. The success of giving to others should be thoughtfully examined and learned from, so that future giving will bloom into new and better paths. But first, I have to release the gift, move on, and let it take its part in the lives of others. I loved knitting for others so much that I have based a New Years resolution on the experience. My goal for 2011 is to knit several hats and scarves for charity, and to continue helping others through knitting, writing and volunteering..