EcoLit ESem

In Fun Home, Alison's father loves lilac, and it wasn't an unexpected choice. With its pale color and delicate shape, lilacs have been fascinating poets for ages. Originated from Greek Mythology, lilac has been a symbol for love and innocence. Nevertheless, in ancient Chinese poems, poets have often denote their sadness by lilac. Lilac is a flower of beautiful things, but it is so delicate that it could be damaged by slight tearing.

On the site I chose to sit, there weren't lilacs. Most flowers have bright pink or red color, and they could easily be spotted even in cloudy days. They look bright, energetic and exceptional on the endless green field. Their existence could encourage people to move on in their lives.

There is one thing that is same between the campus site I chose and the Fun House--both place have scattered plants that do not make people feel crowded. The plants are there, because they are supposed to be there. The plannings of both places are natural and undecorative.

The circus music flowed from Thomas, yet I am reluctant to join the mass.

The sun embraced me with warmth, yet I am bleak skin beneath.

The grass under my feet was similar, yet unfamiliar.

The moon last night was bright, yet was not right.

The squirrels were leaping back and forth home.

I am sitting on a bench, gazing the blue blue sky. 

In her graphs, Bechdel didn't hightlight the animals and their motions. But I think animals and their ANIMATION are important part of the ecosystem and should be noted.

Reading Fun Home made me very very homesick.

Somewhat Like Alison, I also have a "sissy" dad. He has a driver's license but he never drives, because he doesn't trust his own driving skills. He locks and checks the door and windows before the family goes to bed, because he is afraid of burglary. He only goes to work 3 days a week and work at home other days, because he fears getting into a traffic accident while commuting. I never liked staying at home, for my father always sits on the dinner table and reads all the news involving accidental death to me.

My dad is "death-phobic". Yet, I still adore him and miss his companion.

Sitting. Feeling the wind on my skin. I am cold. Chills shake my being. Focusing on the shivvering trees and branches. My attention sticks to the wind. How can you capture the essence of the wind. Something real, something lifelike. Something that thrives on movement. A picture cannot capture the wind. A video barely can. The freedom the wind brings, not confining it to the pages of a book. The touch of the wind is something bechdel does not capture. One aspect that is untouchable is the physical feel of nature against your skin. Bechdel does not particularly highlight the aspects of nature that people feel on a daily basis when they walk outside. As I sat outside I enjoyed the feel of the wind blowing against my face and the sushine beating down at my back. There is no way to describe the wind and sun other than to experience it.

For the second time, I returned to the Bryn Mawr Labyrinth to observe. I planned to devote myself to the surrounding itself. I wanted to record the vision, the feel, the smell and the sound. I brought so much curiosity with me when I went. I wanted to figure out if there was anything new? What was different as I went at a different time of the day? Any changes happened during the past seven days? However, as soon as I stayed for just a couple of minutes, I could not help thinking about the word "anthropocentric". This is a word that was accused by one of the writers we had read (I can't specify because I don't remember exactly). As I walked around the Labyrinth, sat on the bench, lay in the hammock, the instinct that - what I saw, felt, smelt, heard was really my own perception only - became stronger and stronger. Every time I moved, my experience was different. Even two places were only one meter apart, the fact that one was in the shade, the other was in the sun changed their property drastically. If there was a writing assignment that asks people to describe the lawn under their feet. One might say the grass was wet, it was true because the area was in the shade. The other person could say the grass was dry, which is no less true as well if the area was in the sun. In most cases, what is recorded is determined by the writer's stand point.

Yesterday was Moon Cake day (or Mid Autumn festival). Vietnam and China were the first countries to celebrate this day, on which people can see the full moon from the earth. Nowadays many other Asian countries also celebrate this festival. It is a day for moon cake, green tea and lanterns.

I visited the longue behind Rhoads South in the evening, after coming back from Haffner’s Mid Autumn festival, with a cup of hot tea and a piece of moon cake (grilled moon cake with lotus seed paste and salted egg yolk – my favourite!). The night was cold and I was lucky to have the cup of tea as a companion. I like the feeling when I hold the cup, take a sip and let the flow of warmth travel inside my body, in contrast with the cold outside. Thanks to the tea I could have been able to stand the night’s cold.

     Sitting next to the pond behind Rhodes made me a little homesick for Vermont. Tonight, the air isn't heavy like it's been lately, and much less sweet like it's been after the rain. The day before I left my homestate a friend and I hiked up to a clearing in the Appalachian Trail to stargaze. We had forgotten to bring his blanket from his car, so we had to deal with sitting on the wet grass. We must have sat there for hours, talking about the huge leap we were both about to take, and listening to the frogs in the pogue. The view from the pond behind Rhodes reminded me of this scene, and as I reminisced this last meeting, I couldn't help but feel nostalgiac for my home. Where I live, I can step out the door and I'm surrounded by green, and the piney smell that accompanies it. Hiking the trails behind my home has become a ritual that I enjoy; I find that I'm immediately happier once I can get away from the business of my day. Sitting in my "spot" tonight had a similar effect--it offered a hiatus from the stress of everyday life as a Bryn Mawr College student. Not to say that I don't love my life here, but I wouldn't be lying if I said that constantly working, running, and studying hasn't taken its toll on me. Lying on the damp grass and listening to the frogs in the pond brought me back to Vermont for a while, a retreat that I was surprised to find I needed. 

This is a photo of the pogue. I usually run on the trails that surround the glacial pool. 

Blazing heat grazing my skin. Then sudden coldness, the hairs on my arms standing up. And repeat. Countless times. I am at the cloisters and I am listening to the Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone soundtrack on my MP3 player. The sounds of "Hedwig's Theme" flutter through my earphones, first softly, then powerfully, as I take a deep breath of fresh air. The blanket I am sitting on prevents me from touching the grass, but I can still feel it under the blanket with my hands and bare feet. There is a soft breeze coming from some unknown place, welcome when the sun is out, unwanted when gray clouds cover the sky and a chill runs through my bones. Although I am a person that generally likes the cold and cloudy, today I feel grateful for the sun and warmth, for it was more inviting than my stuffy room. Being out in the open gives me a clear head and focus, helping me with my task at hand: self-guided meditation and purposeful muscle relaxation. I have been so stressed out this whole past week that I have rarely had the time to stop and take a cleansing breath to relax. Therefore, I decided that when I visited the cloisters this week I would focus on unwinding from the busy week and spend some time on myself. Even though the course is titled 'Ecological Imaginings' and it may not necessarily immediate allude to paying attention to oneself, I feel that I am just as an important part of the environment and the ecosystem that we call 'Bryn Mawr' as any bird, squirrel, insect, or plant.

I barely touched the soil. I sat on a tree branch and listened. I listened to the back and forth of bugs. Conversing with others, trying to scare others away, or making noise just because they could, I don't know. All I know is that they spun a song that only I, under their willow tree, could hear. This afternoon, I parted the vines that the falling willow branches formed. I decided which of the four large branches to sit on, and then I listened. I expected the shade of the tree to make the chilly day even more goose bump-inducing, but the enclosure that the willow's branches formed made me more cozy, so I didn't notice the chill as much as I had walking to the tree. After I sat, I walked around the tree, as if to pay respect to all of the tree's attributes, not just the one branch I sat on. There are initials gashed into the tree's exterior, some hearts, some that seem to have been made by lovers, and others by one person trying to stake his or her claim on the tree. I saw a pool of water that has been there every time I have paid tribute to that willow, stagnant in a basin that a root has opened into. I decided that I will work my way up the branches. Today, even though I was sitting in the tree, my feet were still firmly on the ground. Next Sunday, I'll go higher. I'll slide and climb and jump my way onto the highest position I can sit in by the end of this project. Along with observing the word under the tree, I'll also become more adventurous, inch by inch, and Sunday by Sunday.