In “Walden,” Thoreau writes that, “One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the spring come in.” For me, watching the spring come in is one of the greatest pleasures of life. Sometimes spring comes gradually, and sometimes it’s an explosion. This year in Michigan was the latter, as the birds’ arrival had been held back by a series of snowstorms and weeks of blistering cold. Consequently, the blackbird flocks didn’t show up until March 6th, and then the robins, grackles, and killdeer were right on top of them. (Usually the robins and grackles are a step behind the blackbirds.) One day you go for a walk and see no blackbirds or robins. The next day you go out, and “They’re everywhere, they’re everywhere!”
It is in the course of walking that we are likely to notice many of the first signs of spring. In my case, to assure that the arrival of spring is “official,” I make a point of taking a daily walk past a certain large maple tree on a certain lawn on Toles Road in which the first contingent of blackbirds usually congregates, though this year they surprised me by going first to the house and yard a little over and across the street from the usual place. In fact, the massive Redwing Invasion Force seems to have actually arrived WHILE I was taking my walk. (Back on March 6th--I’m sorry it has taken almost a month to write about this.) As I walked west on Toles, (15 minutes one way), I saw and heard no blackbirds—and I was looking and listening. However, shortly after I turned around to head back home, (going the same stretch of road), I saw and heard great numbers of them in the trees I mentioned, (i.e. Maxine’s place). A few minutes later, I saw my first robin.
The blackbirds are of special interest to me because my March 4th birthday is close to their average time of arrival. Even though the robin is the state bird and Michiganians used to do more to celebrate its arrival, the blackbird is initially the louder, more evident sign of Spring—though eventually the robins do become so ubiquitous around houses and lawns that I refer to outdoors as “Robin World.” A large number of African and Native American traditions attach significance to what sort of things are going on in nature at the time of your birth, and among those peoples it’s very common to name children after such features of seasonal nature. Sometimes special powers are associated, in the belief that children can have some influence over the natural phenomena they came in with, so a winter child might be called upon to help soften the blows of a winter storm, by going out and speaking to the elements. While I don’t claim to have any supernatural influence over blackbirds and robins, I do believe that if we took more notice of what Mother Nature was doing at the time of our birth, we could enjoy at least a philosophical sense of attunement.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Coyote Highway
With the return of the snow season, I enjoy following the tracks of animals as I walk in my yard (2.5 acres) and the surrounding fields. Seeing coyote tracks cutting across my south lawn by the tree margin, and criss-crossing other parts of my yard as well, I’m reminded that they’re still around, as I haven’t actually heard them in a while. If there are any coyotes in your area, the sirens of a passing ambulance or fire truck can get them going, so I stick my head out to listen when I hear sirens, but I haven’t heard the coyote chorus for a year or more.
Following the coyote tracks, I’m impressed with how they are able to work the Michigan grid system. Out in the country, we have “country miles,” where each block is approximately a mile long, with the north-south and east-west running roads crossing each other in a pattern that divides the landscape into squares. Not all of the roads go through, but if you are trying to get somewhere, like to a town that is north and east of you, you can usually work the grid by bearing north then east then north then east, until you arrive in the approximate vicinity you’re aiming for. As for the layout of the individual grid squares, you typically have farm houses and some strictly residential houses fairly well spaced out along the road frontage. There are no sidewalks. The large interior sections are like a patchwork quilt of fields in different crops; these are bordered by tree margins (called “fence rows,” though most are not fenced), with creeks and drains cutting through, woodlots in spaces less suitable for farming (such as sump-like areas), and the occasional pond with its marshy border.
What a pair of coyotes will do (as evidenced by the way individuals’ tracks meet up and separate), is start out in a corner of a field, then split up, each following the fence rows in a different direction, until they meet again in the opposite corner. If there are more coyotes, some might also cut across the field diagonally. The wood margins are a boon to coyotes, because they are an animal highway—again, something you can see by all the parallel tracks. As border zones, they are rich in animal life, including raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, and cats, who may feel more safety in skirting the tree-thick borders of fields. Woodchucks, pheasants, and turkeys will use the margins too, and also venture further out. When not crossing or grazing in the fields, deer like to rest and hide in the wood margins. On my walks, I have noticed an average of two dead deer per mile of road frontage (on just one side of the road—so about eight per square mile), which gives you a notion of how abundant they are. Wandering through the fields, I sometimes come across the spot where some unfortunate bird or mammal met its end, as the coyote pack converged.
What I wonder about is how the coyotes’ adaptation to the grids affects their cognitive maps, that is, their internalized representation of the world and way of being in the world. It is sometimes said that there are no straight lines in nature, but coyotes at least are getting a notion of lines and squares, (though, strictly speaking, they are not hard lines or angles).
The square relates to modern western (i.e. white European) culture, in contrast to others. Black Elk said that the Power of the World moves in circles, and that Indians tried to move with the world by consciously carrying their acts out in a circular motion. (This is borne out by Native American commentators from widely varying groups, as well as outside observers.) I’m not mentioning this to criticize our modern penchant for angles, but merely to make philosophical observations and cultural comparisons on how our man-built landscape has its effect on the wildlife. When I was in American Studies, I actually thought about doing a thesis on wood margins in relation to the grid system, because there are many social and historical—as well as cognitive—implications.
Following the coyote tracks, I’m impressed with how they are able to work the Michigan grid system. Out in the country, we have “country miles,” where each block is approximately a mile long, with the north-south and east-west running roads crossing each other in a pattern that divides the landscape into squares. Not all of the roads go through, but if you are trying to get somewhere, like to a town that is north and east of you, you can usually work the grid by bearing north then east then north then east, until you arrive in the approximate vicinity you’re aiming for. As for the layout of the individual grid squares, you typically have farm houses and some strictly residential houses fairly well spaced out along the road frontage. There are no sidewalks. The large interior sections are like a patchwork quilt of fields in different crops; these are bordered by tree margins (called “fence rows,” though most are not fenced), with creeks and drains cutting through, woodlots in spaces less suitable for farming (such as sump-like areas), and the occasional pond with its marshy border.
What a pair of coyotes will do (as evidenced by the way individuals’ tracks meet up and separate), is start out in a corner of a field, then split up, each following the fence rows in a different direction, until they meet again in the opposite corner. If there are more coyotes, some might also cut across the field diagonally. The wood margins are a boon to coyotes, because they are an animal highway—again, something you can see by all the parallel tracks. As border zones, they are rich in animal life, including raccoons, opossums, squirrels, chipmunks, skunks, and cats, who may feel more safety in skirting the tree-thick borders of fields. Woodchucks, pheasants, and turkeys will use the margins too, and also venture further out. When not crossing or grazing in the fields, deer like to rest and hide in the wood margins. On my walks, I have noticed an average of two dead deer per mile of road frontage (on just one side of the road—so about eight per square mile), which gives you a notion of how abundant they are. Wandering through the fields, I sometimes come across the spot where some unfortunate bird or mammal met its end, as the coyote pack converged.
What I wonder about is how the coyotes’ adaptation to the grids affects their cognitive maps, that is, their internalized representation of the world and way of being in the world. It is sometimes said that there are no straight lines in nature, but coyotes at least are getting a notion of lines and squares, (though, strictly speaking, they are not hard lines or angles).
The square relates to modern western (i.e. white European) culture, in contrast to others. Black Elk said that the Power of the World moves in circles, and that Indians tried to move with the world by consciously carrying their acts out in a circular motion. (This is borne out by Native American commentators from widely varying groups, as well as outside observers.) I’m not mentioning this to criticize our modern penchant for angles, but merely to make philosophical observations and cultural comparisons on how our man-built landscape has its effect on the wildlife. When I was in American Studies, I actually thought about doing a thesis on wood margins in relation to the grid system, because there are many social and historical—as well as cognitive—implications.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Seasonal Decorations & Mental Health
Among the delights of walking in autumn are the foliage and the Halloween decorations, though at this point the trees are bare (though not the lower growing bushes), and the Halloween decorations are being replaced by Christmas decorations. I guess I’ll have to take my own Halloween decorations down shortly. (This consists of a porch display with six differently shaped light-up jack-o-lanterns, a large plywood ghost, 2 plastic hangings of a witch with cauldron and a pair of black cats peeping out of a pumpkin, and a strand of lights with alternating jack-o-lanterns and friendly ghosts.) As with last year, it did seem to me that fewer people were decorating for Halloween, and I wonder if that also means fewer Christmas decorations. When people who previously had a zest for decorating stop doing it, I suspect that they are either overworked or depressed—and that is a reflection of our current economy.
As a walker, I recall a past walk on a bleak winter day, where a single string of Christmas lights in an otherwise undecorated cul de sac in Holt was enough to give my spirits a boost. It may be that as an Asperger’s Syndrome person, I am extra-sensitive to the environment, but that would go for a lot of other people with neuro-processing disorders, including schizophrenics. It also goes to show that subtle interactions can take place between a homeowner and a walker, or other persons just passing through, so you can have an effect on other people’s mental health. Little things you do can affect people you don’t even know.
These things also affect drivers, because in late fall and winter, when many of us leave for work in darkness and come home in darkness, the sight of lighted decorations in the neighborhoods we pass through certainly adds cheer. I leave my Halloween lights on throughout the day, so that it will be easier for me to find my way home at night. (Out on these long stretches of country road, with no distinguishing landmarks that you can see in the dark, it is easy to overshoot your house.) However, I also turn them on on days that I don’t go in to work, and I leave them on through the evenings, as my public service. As I concur with Thoreau’s observation that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I feel that anything we can do to help offset depression is worth doing.
As a walker, I recall a past walk on a bleak winter day, where a single string of Christmas lights in an otherwise undecorated cul de sac in Holt was enough to give my spirits a boost. It may be that as an Asperger’s Syndrome person, I am extra-sensitive to the environment, but that would go for a lot of other people with neuro-processing disorders, including schizophrenics. It also goes to show that subtle interactions can take place between a homeowner and a walker, or other persons just passing through, so you can have an effect on other people’s mental health. Little things you do can affect people you don’t even know.
These things also affect drivers, because in late fall and winter, when many of us leave for work in darkness and come home in darkness, the sight of lighted decorations in the neighborhoods we pass through certainly adds cheer. I leave my Halloween lights on throughout the day, so that it will be easier for me to find my way home at night. (Out on these long stretches of country road, with no distinguishing landmarks that you can see in the dark, it is easy to overshoot your house.) However, I also turn them on on days that I don’t go in to work, and I leave them on through the evenings, as my public service. As I concur with Thoreau’s observation that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I feel that anything we can do to help offset depression is worth doing.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Late October Walk in Cemetery
I couldn't walk today because of rain, but earlier this week, I walked in the Mason cemetery, and the background music was the calls of jays, flickers, and white-breasted nuthatches. Ordinarily, when walking in cemeteries, my attention is drawn to specific things, whether they be individual tombs or inscriptions on tombstones, or features of nature, such as the roots of trees or shelf fungus. However, this time I attempted to take in the big picture, to de-focus on the near-by objects , so I could view the cemetery as a whole, and take it in as a unit.
Scanning the landscape, it is obvious that the oldest part of the cemetery occupies the higher, hillier part, and the newer sections are laid out on the flatter peripheries. I especially noticed the height and massiveness of many of the Victorian monuments. The density and verticality of these monuments suggest the buildings of a city, and of course, a cemetery is often referred to as a necropolis, a “city of the dead.” In the modern necropolis, the newer sections are more like the suburbs, (with their smaller monuments, some of them just flat plaques). Making comparisons to the current and Victorian eras, I wonder if the Victorian era was a more exuberantly optimistic period, because ordinary people could still be a part of world-changing discoveries, and that now our energies and expectations are more reined in, making us a diminished people, to correspond with our diminished tombstones. (It’s not that you can’t explore, and discover, and build, and create anything today, but you generally have to be a member of a highly specialized elite, with officially recognized degrees and licenses.)
If we are living in an age of greater restrictions, that might also restrict the expression of our “chi,” the life energy generated by our minds and bodies. If you live with a greater sense of “possibility,” would you radiate a stronger energy field? One of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed walking in older cemeteries is that tall standing stone monuments seem to project power. Perhaps there are feng shui principles here, with the monuments drawing up earth energies. Credo Mzulu Mutwa, in his book on Zulu shamanism, mentions that people in Africa respect tall standing stones because of the earth energies they channel, and that these stones have a very high polish because of thousands of years of human’s rubbing or anointing them. Of course, if one entertains ideas of earth energies, one might also entertain the possibility that tombstones radiate other metaphysical energies because of their association with the dead, and that a very expressive tombstone might also be able to convey a sense of the presence of the individual it commemorates.
Scanning the landscape, it is obvious that the oldest part of the cemetery occupies the higher, hillier part, and the newer sections are laid out on the flatter peripheries. I especially noticed the height and massiveness of many of the Victorian monuments. The density and verticality of these monuments suggest the buildings of a city, and of course, a cemetery is often referred to as a necropolis, a “city of the dead.” In the modern necropolis, the newer sections are more like the suburbs, (with their smaller monuments, some of them just flat plaques). Making comparisons to the current and Victorian eras, I wonder if the Victorian era was a more exuberantly optimistic period, because ordinary people could still be a part of world-changing discoveries, and that now our energies and expectations are more reined in, making us a diminished people, to correspond with our diminished tombstones. (It’s not that you can’t explore, and discover, and build, and create anything today, but you generally have to be a member of a highly specialized elite, with officially recognized degrees and licenses.)
If we are living in an age of greater restrictions, that might also restrict the expression of our “chi,” the life energy generated by our minds and bodies. If you live with a greater sense of “possibility,” would you radiate a stronger energy field? One of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed walking in older cemeteries is that tall standing stone monuments seem to project power. Perhaps there are feng shui principles here, with the monuments drawing up earth energies. Credo Mzulu Mutwa, in his book on Zulu shamanism, mentions that people in Africa respect tall standing stones because of the earth energies they channel, and that these stones have a very high polish because of thousands of years of human’s rubbing or anointing them. Of course, if one entertains ideas of earth energies, one might also entertain the possibility that tombstones radiate other metaphysical energies because of their association with the dead, and that a very expressive tombstone might also be able to convey a sense of the presence of the individual it commemorates.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Jay World's Resounding Echoes
In the Spring I refer to all outdoors as Robin World, but in the Fall it is transformed into Jay World. Though robins are still around, they’re less seen and heard, while the jays are heard continuously—whether you’re in the country or the city--as they are getting wound up for migration. Although jays are with us throughout the year, at this time of Fall, they dominate the sound environment. Even if you are working in an office with closed windows, you may still hear their raucous, cacaphonic calls—a nice reminder that there’s still a living world out there.
I always experience a bit of a thrill when I hear or see the sounds of fall migration, because it alerts me to this massive movement in nature, and I believe that the birds in flocks are very excited, in addition to the sense of urgency that drives them forward. Of course, for jays, it isn’t the perilous long-distance journey that some other birds undertake, though the jays’ excitement is the most audible. Our local blue jays just go down to
My most memorable viewing of the jay migration, as well as the hawk migration, took place in front of my Dad’s big picture window in his beach house on the north
By the way, sometimes in addition to their usual semi-obscene shrieks, jays will also make metallic whistling calls. The quality of these calls may vary from a sound not unlike a rusty swing-set, to a more refined flute-like sound. Because these calls are unfamiliar and somewhat un-jay-like, some people don’t recognize them and find it hard to believe that jays are making these calls, even when you point it out to them. I heard some metallic jay whistles just yesterday, as I am fortunate to sit near a window. For over six months, I’ve been working in Berkey Hall, on
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Quest for Canopy
My lunchtime walk is a problem, because although as I have said, the whole MSU campus is an arboretum, it's hard to find enough continuous tree canopy to stay in shade, and I've been getting too much sun on my face and arms. When I take my 15 minute breaks in the morning and afternoon, I walk around in circles in a small park-like area with mature trees. However, to walk to the International Center food court for my 1 pm lunch (15-20 minutes one way) I can't avoid a lot of sun. Even if I skip lunch and proceed to the shady walk along the Red Cedar River, I still have to cross open spaces to get there. I don't walk in a straight line, but tack from shade spot to shade spot. Every time I can get under tree canopy, I experience an immediate burst of relief, which is all too quickly gone as I pass through the pool of shade and back into the blasting sunlight. It would be nice if future landscapers would consider this problem.
To appreciate the importance of trees, consider what it would be like in an environment were there are none. We can build things like canopies and overhangs, but there's a limit to the feasibility of providing enough man-made shade, and it's just not the same as tree shade. I think it would be very disturbing for someone like me to be transported to some dessert place without tree shade, yet there are people who grow up in such environments.
Thinking about differences in the natural environment and the built environment, as I was climbing the stairs in the parking tower, I saw a squirrel in a third story stairwell, sitting atop a trash receptacle, munching on an apple core it had fished out of the garbage. I initially thought it odd to see a squirrel so at ease in this steel and concrete structure, (though it's an open structure and there are nearby trees). Although the squirrel can see that a parking tower is not a tree, he probably doesn't concern himself with distinctions in what is natural vs. what is man-made. His concern is, "Is this a place where I can find food?" The squirrel's conceptual world is so different from ours that a lot of the distinctions we would make are of little relevance to him.
To appreciate the importance of trees, consider what it would be like in an environment were there are none. We can build things like canopies and overhangs, but there's a limit to the feasibility of providing enough man-made shade, and it's just not the same as tree shade. I think it would be very disturbing for someone like me to be transported to some dessert place without tree shade, yet there are people who grow up in such environments.
Thinking about differences in the natural environment and the built environment, as I was climbing the stairs in the parking tower, I saw a squirrel in a third story stairwell, sitting atop a trash receptacle, munching on an apple core it had fished out of the garbage. I initially thought it odd to see a squirrel so at ease in this steel and concrete structure, (though it's an open structure and there are nearby trees). Although the squirrel can see that a parking tower is not a tree, he probably doesn't concern himself with distinctions in what is natural vs. what is man-made. His concern is, "Is this a place where I can find food?" The squirrel's conceptual world is so different from ours that a lot of the distinctions we would make are of little relevance to him.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Places Where Memories Connect
Not long after my previous entry about interactions with trees and features in the landscape, I came across some tidbits of information that tie in with this theme. I had written about how universities and other institutions can have natural and architectural landmarks around which memories form, so while out walking in the area of MSU’s Beaumont Tower, (a structure which houses the carillion, and which is in a park-like section of the old campus), I was approached by an elderly couple who asked me if I knew the location of “the Engagement Rock.” They looked perturbed, like they had once known its location, but now they were disoriented. They said that the Engagement Rock used to be a destination for lovers, and it became a tradition to propose marriage at the site of the rock. I had never heard of an engagement rock, but luckily, Wikipedia has a feature on it. It turns out that it is the same object known to contemporary students as “The Rock.” It was moved from its former location to a spot alongside Farm Lane, were it sits at the top of a grassy lawn that slopes toward the Red Cedar River. The current practice is to paint and repaint the rock with sports slogans, cartoons, humor, and other topical and pop culture references. I don’t know whether anyone but old timers know it as the Engagement Rock. There is nothing romantic about its current location or status. Nevertheless, there are still people around for whom The Rock holds memories of their own lives’ landmarks.
I had also been writing about how it would be interesting to know if George Washington had ever climbed a tree. I don’t know about climbing any trees, but he actually intervened to save a tree, and the tree is still standing. I’ve been listening to the audiotaped version of Cokie Roberts’ “Founding Mothers,” and she relates that when George Washington went on his southern tour, he stayed at Hampton Plantation in South Carolina, where his hostess was Harriot Pinckney Horri, (whose family had extensive connections to the Revolution, and who is also the author of a notable cookbook). “As he prepared to leave Hampton, the president commented on a young oak near the house. Harriot explained that it interfered with the view, and she planned to cut it down. Commenting that man cannot make an oak, Washington entreated her to keep it, and so she did. The Washington Oak still stands at the Hampton Plantation historic site. If only it could talk.”
Also, I was watching some of the television features on Michael Jackson, aand his love of trees was mentioned in two different segments. In one, he was shown inviting a reporter to climb a tree with him. In another, he mentioned that he liked to climb high in trees, and when he sat there, looking down, he got all kinds of ideas for his music compositions. If any of Jackson’s home sites become tourist destinations, one can assume that if there are any good climbing trees on the site, he must have been in them.
I had also been writing about how it would be interesting to know if George Washington had ever climbed a tree. I don’t know about climbing any trees, but he actually intervened to save a tree, and the tree is still standing. I’ve been listening to the audiotaped version of Cokie Roberts’ “Founding Mothers,” and she relates that when George Washington went on his southern tour, he stayed at Hampton Plantation in South Carolina, where his hostess was Harriot Pinckney Horri, (whose family had extensive connections to the Revolution, and who is also the author of a notable cookbook). “As he prepared to leave Hampton, the president commented on a young oak near the house. Harriot explained that it interfered with the view, and she planned to cut it down. Commenting that man cannot make an oak, Washington entreated her to keep it, and so she did. The Washington Oak still stands at the Hampton Plantation historic site. If only it could talk.”
Also, I was watching some of the television features on Michael Jackson, aand his love of trees was mentioned in two different segments. In one, he was shown inviting a reporter to climb a tree with him. In another, he mentioned that he liked to climb high in trees, and when he sat there, looking down, he got all kinds of ideas for his music compositions. If any of Jackson’s home sites become tourist destinations, one can assume that if there are any good climbing trees on the site, he must have been in them.
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