plants, bugs, snowflakes and landscapes
Today I've been working on a type of writing I really dislike. The kind you have to do to get jobs, the kind you have to do to get into grad school, the kind that reminds you that you really don't know why you want to go back to school well enough to describe it to someone else. So I wrote a draft that I would consider to be an okay start, but it was utterly uninspired.
When I said it out loud in my head I realized that was the only thing I'd gotten right all day. Where can I find inspiration for this "statement of purpose for graduate school"? I suppose I should find it hiding within the outdoors. After all, I do love plants and bugs and snowflakes and landscapes.
So here goes...
I suppose it was my upbringing that led me to love the outdoors. I grew up on a ranch in rural Oregon, where the pines grew tall and the soil was volcanic dust. We would play in the trees, collect plants and bake mud pies in the hot summer sun. Then the aspens would begin to turn; the leaves a golden yellow marking the fall. The wind would rock the trees to sleep, and winter would roll in.
The winters brought us sunshine and snow and cold clear nights full of stars. We would build snow forts and snowmen, and hide in the caves under the trees.
The spring would come late, and the ground would gradually thaw. My dad and I would plan and plant a garden. The aspens would dress themselves in a bright coat of green, and the daffodils and crocus in the garden were the first to peak their heads through the frosty ground to daylight.
The spring also brought with it our annual trip to the desert. Our family wandered about on the red stone in Zion, the cliffs of Capitol Reef, through the canyons of Lake Powell, and through the vast stretches of nothingness in Canyonlands. We slept under the stars, played with scorpions, stinkbugs and lizards; we watched the ravens soar on the warm currents rising up the canyon walls, and we watched the bats feed at dusk. It became my home away from home. I knew the trees; the trees I consulted each year to measure of the harshness of the previous winter. It was in this landscape that I began to think about our relationship with the land--or our lack thereof.
I wondered why the government allowed clear cutting and grazing of livestock. I wondered why people tore through the desert with trucks and 4 wheelers, cutting into the biotic crust that holds the desert together; why they scratched their names in the rocks and left their trash behind. I wondered why they wanted to be there at all.
I remember the first time I learned about Glen Canyon Dam. I remember the feeling of frustration I had when I realized we had intentionally flooded the canyons, burying history and ecosystems in the name of progress. I longed for the canyons below the murky water and wondered what it would be like without us. I read the accounts of John Wesley Powell. I read Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire and the Monkey Wrench Gang. I wanted people to stay out.
I found Abbey's words comforting, his anti-human perspective welcome. Much like Abbey, I felt selfish about the desert. It was mine because I knew it, because I understood the harsh reality of life there, because I appreciated its subtlety. I wanted to protect it from progress, but I still wanted to be part of it. It was the words of Aldo Leopold that offered a solution to my conflicted perspective. What we really needed was something more than just excluding humans from our landscapes; what we needed was a new way of thinking: a code of ethics regarding our relationship with the land.
What I didn't understand, and still wonder about today, is what happened to our relationship with the land. I grew up amongst farms and fields, mountains and coyotes. I grew up with the tribes and the farmers. We drank water from our well and peed in the woods. I've been sniffed by a fox, and followed by a mountain lion. I've fallen asleep to the song of the coyote.
How could people forget their place, I wondered? I realized then, that many people grew up without a place. Without a garden, without wood to warm their houses, without the caw of a raven, without so much as a patch of dirt to build a mud pie from. I realized, that without that place, without the garden and the mud pies, there was no relationship, there was no land, and there was no place.
I imagine that my passion for plants would have been there without my backyard in the wilderness, without my desert. But I imagine my perspective would have been different. I feel a sense of obligation to protect the land that taught me respect, the land that taught me about plants and ecosystems and what it feels like to have frozen fingers under the bright stars of the desert sky, and how satisfying that feeling is: the feeling of being alive.
It is because of this feeling, these experiences that I want to work towards a restored landscape. But we can't restore the landscapes without also restoring our relationship to that land. Through research and teaching I hope to instill in others the urgency of our situation, the importance of our relationship with our place. I hope to inspire others to explore and respect our land, to live and learn from it, to protect it.
When I said it out loud in my head I realized that was the only thing I'd gotten right all day. Where can I find inspiration for this "statement of purpose for graduate school"? I suppose I should find it hiding within the outdoors. After all, I do love plants and bugs and snowflakes and landscapes.
So here goes...
I suppose it was my upbringing that led me to love the outdoors. I grew up on a ranch in rural Oregon, where the pines grew tall and the soil was volcanic dust. We would play in the trees, collect plants and bake mud pies in the hot summer sun. Then the aspens would begin to turn; the leaves a golden yellow marking the fall. The wind would rock the trees to sleep, and winter would roll in.
The winters brought us sunshine and snow and cold clear nights full of stars. We would build snow forts and snowmen, and hide in the caves under the trees.
The spring would come late, and the ground would gradually thaw. My dad and I would plan and plant a garden. The aspens would dress themselves in a bright coat of green, and the daffodils and crocus in the garden were the first to peak their heads through the frosty ground to daylight.
The spring also brought with it our annual trip to the desert. Our family wandered about on the red stone in Zion, the cliffs of Capitol Reef, through the canyons of Lake Powell, and through the vast stretches of nothingness in Canyonlands. We slept under the stars, played with scorpions, stinkbugs and lizards; we watched the ravens soar on the warm currents rising up the canyon walls, and we watched the bats feed at dusk. It became my home away from home. I knew the trees; the trees I consulted each year to measure of the harshness of the previous winter. It was in this landscape that I began to think about our relationship with the land--or our lack thereof.
I wondered why the government allowed clear cutting and grazing of livestock. I wondered why people tore through the desert with trucks and 4 wheelers, cutting into the biotic crust that holds the desert together; why they scratched their names in the rocks and left their trash behind. I wondered why they wanted to be there at all.
I remember the first time I learned about Glen Canyon Dam. I remember the feeling of frustration I had when I realized we had intentionally flooded the canyons, burying history and ecosystems in the name of progress. I longed for the canyons below the murky water and wondered what it would be like without us. I read the accounts of John Wesley Powell. I read Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire and the Monkey Wrench Gang. I wanted people to stay out.
I found Abbey's words comforting, his anti-human perspective welcome. Much like Abbey, I felt selfish about the desert. It was mine because I knew it, because I understood the harsh reality of life there, because I appreciated its subtlety. I wanted to protect it from progress, but I still wanted to be part of it. It was the words of Aldo Leopold that offered a solution to my conflicted perspective. What we really needed was something more than just excluding humans from our landscapes; what we needed was a new way of thinking: a code of ethics regarding our relationship with the land.
What I didn't understand, and still wonder about today, is what happened to our relationship with the land. I grew up amongst farms and fields, mountains and coyotes. I grew up with the tribes and the farmers. We drank water from our well and peed in the woods. I've been sniffed by a fox, and followed by a mountain lion. I've fallen asleep to the song of the coyote.
How could people forget their place, I wondered? I realized then, that many people grew up without a place. Without a garden, without wood to warm their houses, without the caw of a raven, without so much as a patch of dirt to build a mud pie from. I realized, that without that place, without the garden and the mud pies, there was no relationship, there was no land, and there was no place.
I imagine that my passion for plants would have been there without my backyard in the wilderness, without my desert. But I imagine my perspective would have been different. I feel a sense of obligation to protect the land that taught me respect, the land that taught me about plants and ecosystems and what it feels like to have frozen fingers under the bright stars of the desert sky, and how satisfying that feeling is: the feeling of being alive.
It is because of this feeling, these experiences that I want to work towards a restored landscape. But we can't restore the landscapes without also restoring our relationship to that land. Through research and teaching I hope to instill in others the urgency of our situation, the importance of our relationship with our place. I hope to inspire others to explore and respect our land, to live and learn from it, to protect it.
posted by humble bee at 5:07 PM
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