EcoLit ESem

Today I changed my sit spot. My new place for musings is now behind Goodhart, at the recommendation of Zoe. (Thanks, Zoe!) I realized that I needed to freshen things up a bit, and venture to a place I have not been yet. The cloisters, while beautiful in their own mysterious way, do not offer the natural diversity that the nature behind GH affords, only green grass and gray walls. I was pleasantly surprised when I happened upon the tall arches and hights of GH, which displayed a saturated polychromatic view of dying plants.

Recently, after doing some sleuthing into BMC's earlier history, I happened upon a tumblr blog dedicated to old Bryn mawr photos. Here is the link: http://vintagebrynmawr.tumblr.com 

This website is humorous, but it also gives easy access into the lives of Mawrters past. Please enjoy this while on your hurrication from classes! The photos really made me think about how much has changed, while also how much has remained the same. For instance, aside from a few new buildings on campus, the scenery is almost identical. I think I saw one or two photos that could have easily been taken where I sat today. The timeless and uniform qualities of the architecture really struck me, especially as I sat today comparing my spot at the cloisters to my new one at GH. 

For anyone who has/will look at these photos, what sticks out at you as the biggest difference/similarity? 

So a Shadow, a Farmgirl, a Pilgrim, and a dark Alice in Wonderland visited the cloisters late last night. With the Halloween spirit hanging heavily in the air, creepy, scary, and downright ridiculous were the words of the night.

Visiting the cloisters with other people as well made me feel safer, since I visited them during nighttime once before, but it was still too quiet and eerie. There was inexplicable creeking of the castle, and the darkness of the grassy area of the cloisters was gloomy. But even with all that gloom, the cloisters became a place full of laughter and joy once my friends arrived and we played music and did silly dances and took funny photos. So I guess that the perception of a place really changes when surrounded by people - I usually associate places with the people that are there, and thus infuse the places with the energy the people bring with them.

On a side note: I noticed that Thomas Hall's facade included what looked like Baltimore gneiss (it was dark - that's what I could tell from the limited amount of light there was), which tells me that it was one of the older buildings on campus, since the other 2 older buildings, Merion and Taylor, also have Baltimore gneiss, but the rest of the buildings on campus have Wissahickon schist.

Change is good. Society seems to be perpetually changing our politics and regulations to save itself from regression, or being left behind in a world that is constantly modernizing. Most of the time, our adaptations to the changing times  are advantageous, and have rendered the United States one of the superpowers of the world. On the news, we brag about technological innovations, advancements in our education system, and refreshed activism in social issues that reflect the benefits of change, and our positive relationship with it. Therefore, today I decided to walk around and choose a new spot where I would journal for the remainder of the semester. Surprisingly, I found great difficulty locating a new spot. I wasn't afraid to step outside of my comfort zone; I even tried writing in the garden next to Haffner. However, nothing I tried felt "right". I missed the familiarity of my old spot next to the pond behind Rhodes, and I was frustrated at myself for it. I convinced myself that if I changed up my old routine, I would see the results in my writing. I found myself forcing a change that didn't need to happen at all. In the end, I returned to the pond, and tried writing again. Watching the pond in the rain allowed me to clear my head of all my frustration, and the writing soon flowed in after. I realized that, while change is good, you shouldn't force it--so for now, you can still find me at Rhodes every Sunday, writing behind the pond. 

It is amazing how the use of rocks dates back to the origin of human history and is still applied nowadays. In history I have learnt about the many durable evidences of tools and buildings made of rocks and stones. It is not surprising that such an abundant, indigenous, long-lasting and useful material is still used in this time, especially with human expanding knowledge that can be applied to use specific type of rock for specific purpose of construction. However, what struck me is amount of work that makes a stone building and its beauty. In order to build up the castle-like Rhoads where I am, people had to excavate an area to form a quarry, rocks were then delivered to the construction site from the quarry and then cut and grinded to become perfect rectangular blocks that can be stacked into straight walls. Laying rocks is also an art as each pattern has its own characteristic. It create individuality for the building itself.

I used to think of nature as layers of randomness. Without the interference of human, trees grow up wherever conditions allow, weeds cover the area… But is randomness a pattern? If one lays rocks of different shapes on a wall or in a unexpected and undersigned pattern, the wall might turn out not ugly at all. Indeed, many buildings nowadays apply this as a  “random pattern”. And if language can be used to place an order onto the natural environment, then yes, randomness can be a pattern.

past senior row on Wednesday morning, when I saw

a red-tailed hawk (entirely undisturbed by me) making her breakfast of a squirrel.

"There is no time" (Rachel Carson)

Time was short.
(I didn't "leave" myself enough of it.)
Time was long.
(I counted the rings on fallen trees.
150 years apiece.)
The stones in the graveyard evolved.
From Wissahickon Schist (surely?) to marble (really?).
How long will that last?

Regretably, I have missed the deadline for this post by not one, not two, but five days. With all the hustle and bustle of going home for break and the preparation that entails this fell through the cracks. It fell way, way, way through the cracks. I am extremely sorry that I am so late.

The moon bench will never feel the same having been to Harrinton House. I find myself questioning everything around me. Where did these trees come from? What part of the world are they native to? The trees I found beautiful for weeks before now seem eerily out of place. I wonder what this land looked like before the white settlers began to alter it. 

Before going to Harrinton house everything about Bryn Mawr all seemed to be in perfect harmony with itself. Bryn Mawr just seemed to belong; it seemed perfect for the land on which it is situated. But now I can't help but question all of it. I still find Bryn Mawr extraordinarily beautiful, but having been to Harrinton House and learning about the evolution of the land I view Bryn Mawr in a different light. I wonder what it looked like before it became Bryn Mawr College. Were there still squirrels? What kind of flowers were here? 

Regardless, Bryn Mawr is here. And it belongs. And we belong here. We may not have started here, but a lot of things on the Bryn Mawr campus didn't start here, and although they may have started as foreigners, the campus wouldn't be the same without them. 

                After visiting the Harriton house Thursday, I decided to approach this week’s serendip posting from a more “historical” standpoint. That is, what did my spot next to the pond behind Rhodes look like 100 years ago? In order to do this, I also needed to alter my ecological perspective of my place—and effected this alteration through the removal of students and buildings that are now Bryn Mawr College.  Bryn Mawr College was founded 126 years ago, and although some aspects of the college have remained the same, I imagine that things must have been much different back then. I pictured the pond next to where I sat, more carefully kept, without the fence surrounding the perimeter. I could see women in dresses strolling along the hillside, books in hand—maybe engaging in small talk with a peer as she descended down to the edge of the pond. Of course, there are none of the mowers to assail the quiet, and no computers in lieu of a worn, leafed through book. Instead of other academic institutions, I like to picture a more rural surrounding of my place. I can see fields looking past the pond to the left, and can make out the outline of the Harriton farm if I narrow my eyes and look to my right. The air is clean, and laden with the smell of wassail and dry leaves; I can see bursts of crimson and orange scattered across the ground and on the muddy surface of the pond.