Eco-Literacy 2014

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/01/opinion/climate-signals-growing-louder.html --
or, 'how much latitude can we allow,' in telling our stories?

I’ve been here before.

There is a sense of excitement that accompanies encountering the familiar, paralleled by discontentment at being unable to articulate the vague and seemingly random connection I am feeling...

I felt it even as we drove to our destination, passing the rooftops of buildings in Manayunk. Manayunk, which according to Wikipedia, literally translates from the Lenape language as, “place to drink.” It was their word for River. I take note of the tall sign that marks a movie theatre. It is also the sign I look for to indicate the entrance to a small outlet containing a liquor store.

“Place to drink” was indeed my experience with Manayunk this past summer, though I recognize that the Lenape Indians and I most likely have different interpretations of the word “drink.” 

I’ve been here before.

We step out of the vans and the sense lingers. Anticipation holds a sense of remaining unfulfilled… Is that what this unease is, being unable to place a finger on how you know a place or why you know it?

"Are we really still in Pennsylvania?" I kept asking. "This place has been here for the past four years?" I found it hard to believe. Wissahickon holds the kind of beauty that in my mind is reserved for mountains of Colorado or West Virginia. Or, at the very least, rural-rural PA. But not Philly. Not Germantown. Not 20 minutes away from the place I've been living for the past four years of my life. For me, Bryn Mawr has never been a place to be connected to nature, to escape from the developed world. I suppose I've tried a couple times - sitting quietly at the labyrinth and lookin at the sunset, pretending the grass around me wasn't perfectly groomed and ignoring Rhoads and the vast athetic fields stretched out before me. The back porch of Batten offers a beautiful view into the woods, but just beyond that is a big road and it's hard to block out the noises of cars zooming past. The stars are somewhat visible at night, but not to a large degree, what with all the light pollution from the city and suburbs. I've resigned myself to a life without much connection to nature whenever I'm at school.

I have to admit, I was feeling a bit down on Friday--you could say I'm not the biggest fan of rain so I was a grumpy about hiking in the weather we were experiencing and feeling tired from a long, grueling week. But once we started walking around together, I immediately felt like a load had been lifted and I could truly feel a sense of peace. I left behind the stressful week I had just had and listened to the rain falling, friendly conversations among my classmates, and took in the fresh, lush smell of the trees and creek. Spending time in Wissahickon, as my "ditch" for the day was exactly what I needed to feel refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to embrace and take on the rest of the semester. 

There was a point on our hike that struck me, where we crossed a bridge and climbed up a hill and looked out at tbe view of where we had just stood on the bridge. So much of life feels like that; so often you get used to one perspective, only to then discover the fleetingness of any one 'phase' in life, and promply move on, only able look back at where you were, but never again experience its perspective. Makes me think of Joni Mitchell...

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

I'm walking through the trails- conversations in the background fading away in the distance as my lense focuses more and more on what my eyes lock on to. It fascinates me how perspectives can differ so much on where you stand, everything dependent on an angle. As I walked through the Wissahickon Valley, I'd take several pictures from different angles. Some were standing up, others squatting, and even making weird neck movements. Every picture captured something different. We take for granted light and air, the simple things in life yet they're what makes us exist. They're what made every scene uplifting...every picture different...every experience worth breathing. 

When I arrived back at Bryn Mawr after our trip to Wissahickon and saw one of my friends, the first thing she said to me was, "So I heard you got lost."  She was jokingly referring to the first part of our walk, when jccohen and I, absorbed in our cameras, fell behind to the point where Hummingbird had to call and ask where we were.  We kept pace after that point, and I fell into conversations with various groups of people, but the trip felt somehow different after that- not better or worse, just like there was an an after where I was engaged in conversation and community, and a before where I was silent staring through a lens.   

"I've had thoughts but not written anything. I am happy and at peace, though, so it's alright. I am tired and don't want to find problems." That's all I wrote in the pocket notebook I carried all day with me on our trip in Wissahickon. I feel like I always push myself to try and find issues with things; keep myself from totally enjoying an experience. But cynicism is exhausting, and I was truly happy during our trip - I don't want to steer away from that. Perhaps, though, I don't know how to write about happiness?

Being content isn't triggering enough to get me to write. Is that okay?

Would we be in school if everything in the world was right, and everyone was happy? Would we learn about economics if the system was working smoothly and had no problems? Can you write a novel without the conflict, struggle, and difficulty that lead to resolution, or some sort of conclusion?

I don't really have much to say.