Site in the Snow/Sleet

hirakismail's picture

I visited the site in the snow/sleet and at night. These were two major changes to how I am used to seeing the Pond, so I found this to be a new experience. The water was dark, the trees were barely lit up by the lights from Rhoads dorm, so I did not venture out on the rock bridge this time. I did however stand at the fence and freeze. The cold has a way of waking me up, and it was snowing and the wind was very strong. I was so distracted by all these elements that I could barely pay attention to the site itself. It's been such a long time since I've seen snow, and coming from Arizona originally, I only really get to experience it when I'm here. So I was ecstatic, couldn't stay still, or pay attention to my surroundings much. The one thing I did notice though was the water. It was glistening in the surrounding lamplight and it literally looked like it was casting its own light rather than reflecting projected light. Once I noticed the water, I paid more attention; it was easy to see the rain drops cutting into the water, melding with it, and moving it. The water levels grew slowly higher and it was so so cold. I remeber feeling so overjoyed and all of my surroundings were friendly this time, rather than intimidating like they were during my Thoreauvian walk in the night. I thought of Sara G.'s post about how we project our own feelings onto our surroundings, perceiving our surroundings through the tunnel of our emotions. That felt just about right; I feel like that was precisely what was happening in this situation. The leaves were swaying, the night was stormy, and everything seemed to be dancing along with me. All I felt like doing during my observation was humming and dancing. Not much of a observation but more a participation. Maybe this was what we were trying to get at? Or what I was trying to get at, this entire time? I feel like I've finally gotten to the point where I feel like I'm a part of where I'm sitting, standing, exploring, dancing. Before it felt very detached, like I was watching a film, something I could only remotely be a part of. Now, with the changing weather and the oncoming cold, I feel more and more like I'm walking into the familiar, being taken in/tolerated/included, whatever you want to call it, by the surrounding earth. It feels wonderful. Much better. Much more like home. And my way of being at home at Rhoads Pond has come about by moving within it, like any of the animals that live there, like any of the reeds/plants/trees that are moved by the wind, like the water which is constantly being moved by this same wind. And now that the wind is strong and cold and powerful enough for me to actually perk my senses up and pay attention, I am feeling like a part of that story. Now to retain that feeling in daily life would be exhilerating. A whole deluge of senses, of experiences, of life would be opened up. I think I'm falling in love with Rhoads Pond, more than I thought I could.

Next time, I'll walk the bridge at night.

It's a dance

a sway

a turn of the head

the leaf, the stem,

the water rippled silvering

what could I do but join?

It's a song,

a whistling

a rush of leaves

cacophony,

what's there to do but join?

This is where music comes from,

this turning of the world

This is where dance is borne

roiling of the water

What story does it tell?

What story does it live?

What's there to do but hear?

So large

all-encompassing

greater than I'll ever know

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