Unexpected Self-Reflection

I sit on the stone ledge in the cloisters, trying to jot down everything I see around me: worn-out grass still fighting to stay green, copious amounts of mud where the grass lost the battle to weather and wear, wet stone walls that look like they're crying in the rain, and a stone fountain, which is actually much deeper than I originally thought, empty except for a tiny puddle of rainwater. Today is the last time I visit my site for a site-sit, and I honestly don't know how I feel about it. On one hand, I will enjoy not having to get up earlier on Sundays to do this, but on the other hand, having to visit the cloisters weekly somehow worked for me.

I'm not sure exactly what I got from my site-sits alone, but one thing's for sure: I realize there is not way I can view nature without any interference of how I'm feeling at that moment. I'm trying so hard to appreciate nature when all I can think about is "the Greasepaint crew are taking apart the set of Reefer Madness right now; I'm gonna miss them" while I hum the melody of "Mary Sunshine" to myself quietly. I don't think I can ever consider myself an ecological writer because, for my own taste, I'm not being objective and rational enough, something that I find incredibly irking.

I sigh with resignation as I pick up my cup of Winter Solstice tea, which has gone cold because I forgot all about it thinking of yesterday. This was definitely not a productive site-sit in the typical sense: I did not have some revelation about how wonderful nature is and how much I love it, but I still think it refined me as a person. On that note, I bid the Ecological Imaginings lens on the cloisters farewell.