Get out of your head with "Beachy Head"

In this post I will expand upon a comment that I made on Danny's very articulate revelation.

As I stated before, Smith is trying to communicate that a life driven by the never-ending quest for reason and knowledge is not the happiest life. Happiness for Smith, "An early worshipper at Nature's shrine," is found in the breathing in of one's natural surroundings and in the overwhelming calm of simplicity that is only found, not with questions, but with pure acceptance (l. 346). The peasants she repeatedly refers to are living this life of acceptance, working with the land, giving back as much as they take, and to Smith, this existence, "Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life," is closest to knowing happiness (l. 207).

Smith knocks those who worship philosophy as some path to salvation with some rather scathing lines: "These are the toys of Nature; and her sport / Of little estimate in Reason's eye: / And they who reason, with abhorrence see / Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate / The sacred freedom of his fellow man" (ll. 55-59). Yet she does not leave her and her fellow poets fully blame free, she even expresses that art's attempts to recreate the overpowering force of nature's fortuitous beauty are futile: "Ah! hills so early loved!... I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold / those wildly spreading views, mocking alike / The Poet and the Painter's utmost art" (ll. 368-371). She too only knew happiness as a girl who traipsed along downy turf and played in the gay colors of nature; no matter how she tries poetically (and does she try ie. every descriptive line of this poem) to illustrate the feeling that comes with being apart of nature, she will never fully be able to.

I was then led to think about Wordsworth's claim that real life is inevitably more beautiful, closer to actualized beauty, than poetry (although he later turns this around). Reworded with Smith's twist, living life in full acceptance of the ways of nature is more real, therefore more valuable than writing, philosophizing, or questioning life. That is hard to accept, considering that we as humans possess the sometimes irrational urge to question everything. I think Smith may have made a valid point that "More happy is the hind, / Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor," and "Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd / What good or evil means," but in making these comments, intentionally ignored an integral aspect of humanity in these people (ll. 193-194, 259-260). As we just discussed in class, these peasants also are subject to the same natural human inclination to question, so they too will never fully be able to resolve themselves to nature. Our ability to pontificate philosophic macro-views (thanks Janelle for the awesome wordage) will never completely surrender to, nor comprehend the minutiae and indiscriminate core of nature.

The Simple Life - doesn't it look grand?

I must confess that I came to this course as a cynic, as a smug and arrogant, somewhat close-minded literary critic who held the view, as most would, that the Romantics were a bunch of flowery, highfalutin, willy-nilly writers who loved nature to an unhealthy degree. Ignorance and literary blasphemy on my part? Yes and no. My “yes” doesn’t deserve an explanation, for I rightly assume that the brilliant students reading this post know exactly who the Romantics are. However, my “no,” of course, deserves an explanation, a pretty damn good one at that. My stance on literature was closely aligned with the two chief theorists of the New Novel—Alain Robbe-Grillet and Nathalie Sarraute. I, as these theorists, believed that any attempt to control the world by assigning it a meaning is no longer possible, and the idea of human depth should be rejected. I was a child of the Enlightenment; I was an uncompromising, militant rationalist. Reason was the highest good—no questions asked. Here was my quick rule of thumb: if anything opposed reason, it should be mocked, jeered and sneered at, ultimately—not taken seriously. It seems comical now, but the only writers I took seriously were the existentialists. So, I ask: how do you think an individual with an almost infinite appetite for such brutish rationalism think of the Romantics? Not too favorably. Why the change of heart? Only a few but forceful words: The Philosophy of Imagination. It’s the philosophy of animate ideas and unrestrained creativity. In my opinion, Blake writes under this philosophy in “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”

As a writer, I’ve been trained to write with economy, brevity, and clarity. And it should come as no surprise that most non-fiction is written in this style. Reading and writing in this manner has shortened my patience for complex, difficult writing with no apparent structure in sight. It has, to say the least, deadened my analytical skills. Mix this with my strict rationalism and you have a literary impoverished combination. Everyone has trouble reading Blake, even scholars (given the creation of his own theology, mysticism, and philosophy, and throwing that on top of biblical theology and other philosophy), but I was having trouble with him beyond imagination. His words, images, and meanings were impalpable, almost non-existent to me. But in class, when I witnessed my professor and my fellow students analyzing “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,” an analytical self awakened within me, one who loved animate ideas and unrestrained creativity, and one who did not find outlandish spiritual ideas laughable—but beautiful. I had begun to mentally participate in the reading. At once, I forgot how rewarding it was to surgically dissect a poem full of imagination. Oh, the ideas: the Hegelian dialectic, the Miltonian references, the Kantian sublimity. Absolutely beautiful.

Man’s perception is less than acceptable. Unfortunately, his imprisoned senses only allow him to see imitations, never originals. Blake wants to do Man a favor by seeking the original and introducing the “new” to him in order to shock him out of his reality. According to Blake, Man is not only a sense-imprisoned being, but also a source of contraries, institutionalized religion, socially imposed forces, and alterable perception. To combat this, he elects to bring religion, divinity, and unalterable perception of a god figure to the level of Man. Although Man seems hopeless at first glance, an unlikely hero close to Man can help--the child. Given their innocence, children are Blake’s best audience. Unlike adults, they are not shocked into paralysis by the “new.” Rather, they are shocked into motion, for they possess ever-expanding energy, imagination, and a malleable mind. Reform is possible for them since everything hasn’t been imprisoned yet. The child becomes the main image for Blake—an essential role-model for Man. There’s a problem, though. Children cannot put their abilities into reasonable use. But Man can. Thus, Blake writes “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” to shock man into an intellectual reform.

The title of the poem tells all. The marriage of Heaven and Hell must be initiated by Hell alone since Heaven is unalterable and unchangeable. This statement needs a bit of explaining. Archetypally, Heaven and Hell are polar opposites, a perfect example of opposing forces. In Milton’s epic, Lucifer loses paradise, in other words--Heaven. He doesn’t function by opposing forces as humans, so he is capable of attaining the godhead. But God denies his arrogant grab at the celestial throne and casts him out. As a result, Hell becomes a means for change, a means for progression. Thus, hell is alterable and changeable, becoming a dynamic prototype that Man can perceive. At a time of revolution, everyone wants change. And since Heaven cannot change, it becomes an evil and a weakened entity for people. In typical Blake fashion, he inverts the picture and has Hell write proverbs instead of Heaven. And Man is damned for believing that these proverbs contain great insight. Man’s perception of Hell does not suggest that his world is full of demons. Rather, his world is full of energy, capability, possibility, and change. Blake uses the bible as a work of literature, playing with the contraries (He even takes the idea of correspondences and equilibrium and flips them into contraries). In everyday life, Man thinks contradictions are flaws, logical fallacies. But what about existential contradictions? Blake doesn’t think contradictions are flaws at all. Such a position can cause confusion, but it is Blake’s job as the poetic genius to bring Man out of this confusion and reveal what is hidden beneath.

According to Kantian sublimity, Man can understand that reason is bounded and limited with the help of his imagination. However, imagination’s most important utility is to see that imagination is limited itself. Imagination can see its own limitations, which is the bound of reason. Blake seeks to point out the bounds of reason by giving us the original instead of an imitation like Swedenborg would give. Blake’s poem allowed me to transcend my bias for rationalism alone and appreciate the idea that reason and imagination should exist in harmony. This brief and quaint aphorism should prevail: Reason without imagination is a tragedy.

I went to the park to be inspired

ON SUNDAY MORNING, I typically rise from bed, lace up my sneakers, and set off swiftly for Audubon Park. As far as I’m concerned, my only intention is to run, to expend the energies I’ve recaptured from the week’s tiresome demand. Yet, many times, I find myself returning from the trip and, even before hopping in the shower to cool off, depositing in my journal a collection of thoughts and images that I gleaned throughout the journey.

For example, on many mornings I have noticed an elder, plump man who, day after day, sits on the same bench, performing on the same violin for, I imagine, no particular audience. There is something beautiful about him, about his actions. Perhaps it is not so much the man’s sweet-sounding music but rather his determination. He is, like the trees and the grass, always there, and that’s what makes him special.

On both sides of the trail are the squirrels, galloping freely across the terrain, and amongst them, I sense not innocence, but mischief. They’re always looking to make a gain for themselves, like artful dodgers. And, as I realize this, and the ways in which they complete the image of the park, the ways in which the park is not the same park without them, I also see how insignificant and meaningless they are, how the world would keep on turning without them. A paradoxical thought, yes, but nonetheless, a thought.

Whenever I reflect on one of my experiences running through Audubon Park, I tend to come to the same resolution: that I find beauty in the park because I’m not looking for beauty; that I notice things of import without trying to.

I realize that, because this is a Romanticism course, it seems, in all likelihood, a commonplace to quote Wordsworth. Thus, I should admit beforehand, although it probably goes without saying, that I have a twofold purpose in doing so:

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives

In Wordsworth’s passage, I notice a replication of what our class was asked to do, namely, to suspend the day’s formal work in lieu of a lighthearted stroll through the park. Our goal was simple: to find something worth writing about, to try to be inspired.

So, I complied: I showed up; I walked with an open mind; I observed and gathered whatever details I could; and, at the end of the day, I found that I was in no way inspired, that I had nothing to show for the trip, except, perhaps, an empty water bottle.

And with this realization came another: that, in reality, it’s impossible to look or search for beauty in other things. Instead, things are simply beautiful, and we usually come to know that without the intention of doing so. Anything other than this is a contrivance, a fraud, a deceiving of both ourselves and others.

In sum: I went to the park to be inspired, and therefore couldn’t be. I was looking for beauty, and consequently blinded myself to it.

Walking Tour of Audubon Park

The day of the Audubon Park walking tour wasn’t the most beautiful day, it had been somewhat rainy and the air was damp with humidity, not exactly the weather I had been hoping for going into this assignment. I was walking to the park thinking about the multiple times I’ve been there when its nice and wasn’t exactly inclined to walk around just waiting for the skies to open up. But after I got there and began my walk the park seemed more peaceful on that day then it usually does when I’m there. The times I spend at the park are usually on bright sunny days kicking a soccer ball around or going on a run with my room mate, but last Wednesday while I was there without all the distractions I really got a better sense of what the romantics were inspired by. In the quiet park I noticed things I’ve never noticed before, I felt things I’ve never experienced there before. Instead of focusing on myself like I usually am at the park—having fun with friends or running that last sprint—but this time, my senses were on everything surrounding me, making me feel as if I could sit and think about what innocence is for hours. In the time we were at the park I was able to reject thinking about classes and work that I had to go to later, I could just reflect on what I was seeing. One of the things I noticed while sitting on a bench was the way the ducks swam around in the algae. The algae was so thick you couldn’t see the water but as the ducks swam through they left no trail behind them, I would have thought that they would have left swirls around the water, trails of where they’d been, but after watching it was so clear how nature just is, the algae just let the ducks pass without changing. The way nature can just be without complications reminded me of Wordsworth and how we complicate our lives by just being man, but nature just is by just being nature. The thoughts took me back to Wordsworth’s Lines Written in Early Spring, especially the line, “In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts/ Bring sad thoughts to mind.” When I first read that line I didn’t exactly relate, I simply was thinking how when I’m happy I’m happy, but after spending time in the park reflecting I could see how frustrating it is to live in our world of chaos when you connect to nature the way Wordsworth does.

Places

A fountain quite hidden at the back of the park, that one day we/you should visit. One night it had the illusion of being filled with water from far away, yet upon closer inspection it was empty. It reads: Given to the Little Children of New Orleans by Sara Lavinia Hyams. MCMXIV . ((Left))

This is the 'Labyrinth," the "Maze," or the "Mayan Mind Maze," where we witnessed the barefooted woman walking slowly, meditatively, through its twists and curves; along its paths. She seemed to have been worshipping or paying homage to the vegetables in the middle (squash, zucchini.. possibly a Fall harvest prayer). Poems surround. ((Right))

I loved the walking tour of Audubon, it is one of my favorite spots in this city. Every time I go I see new things about the park, as cliche as that sounds. It is such a truly enchanting place, I wish I would go more often. I certainly felt like Wordsworth this particular time I was there; englufed by nature and carrying it with me when I went back to the chaotic world. The walk was certianyl like the escape that Wordsworth spoke about in The Prelude; it brought me back to quiet, serene and slow paced life and simple pleasures. There is no fuss with nature; it just is. This made me think back to a major theme of Medieval poetry (from my Medieval Literature class) of just being. This along with Wordsworth's escapism and englufing feelings are what I thought about the entire walk. Nature is to just be to me; to simply live. I feel like with the fast paced world we live in and my own life most definitely, there is little to no time to just be. I can't remember the last time I could simply sit and reflect about anything and everything. The walk in Audubon for me was a chance to stop time and not necessarily do anything. While many had their notebooks out, I chose to just walk, sit and look. Words scribbled on a paper would never capture what I saw or felt; a memory was much better served for me. I wanted to enjoy the walk and not worry about writing things down, what I would write in my blog or anything else in my life. It was escapism at its best. As I walked back to my house after, I still felt this strong connection to the nature that I had just seen and been in and it reminded me of Wordsworth going to the dance and still feeling so overwhelmed by this nature he had been in earlier. It was something I kept with me for awhile after.

This oak

Wordsworth writes in a way that converges past memories and present circumstance to inspire the formation of something new. Memories are tricky in that they poke their head out when you least expect and at times can be quite baffling. I am revisited by a certain smell, a flash of a woman's face, a broken starfish in my childhood hand. The memories themselves don't always mean anything to me until I connect them, as Wordsworth does, to a current situation. Strolling through Audubon Park my eyes are immediately seduced by oaks. Powerful, peaceful, begging for our limbs to be intertwined as I map out which route I would take to climb her. I always examine the best way to climb a tree upon first meeting. Sit. Lay. Close your eyes. This tree becomes every tree I have ascended before, becomes the cuts and bruises of my youth and the hiding places of my adolescence. I am transported back in time, and I can smell the pages of a new book I just purchased and devoured under an oak in City Park so many years ago. I trace the course bark with delicate fingertips, feel the folds of age upon this tree. This is my tree. Right now this tree exists for me and no one else. I image my hair is Spanish moss, my skin dark and brittle, legs extending below the ground. How sturdy, how certain. I think of those who were here before me, sitting under their tree, reclining to their memories. I am reminded that I am human when a sneeze explodes from my lips. I feel my lips, my face, my skin as I have just done to the oak tree. Lying here, outside my body, I am free to lose myself in a sea of daydreams under the constant shade of this live oak.

Seeing, and Doubly Appreciated

Seeing, and Doubly Appreciated

I have walked the small fields, gravel paths, and monuments of wood, concrete, and metal so many times that I feel as though I should have memorized them all by now. Yet, nature, akin to man, is ever-changing. No matter how many precious moments, grand events, or meaningful silent conversations one may have with another, one can never be fully known or memorized; not even by oneself. Shadow-laden mud bogs, created after the rain but remaining for days longer than you’d expect. This park is full of mysticism. Over the five years I have lived here, I have come to know the park (the Land as my friends and I sometimes refer to it) intimately, and think of it often. We walked along the lava (the pedestrian/bike path), and all felt the need to return to the grass and the earth. The tree we came upon as an interested group seemed to be a cathedral made of stained glass made of soft wood, as I looked up at its spiritual antiquity. Wishing I had taken off my shoes, I climbed up the beautiful and primeval tree, holding its shaking branches (no possibility of them breaking crossing my mind) and longed to walk it like a tightrope; (looking down from a height seems more daunting than looking upward at its mighty stature.) The bark was cut into pieces, attached together, as though it were a carefully placed mosaic. The small separations between them were jagged, but the bark itself was soft. A small pool of water was wedged between a coming together of parts of the tree, and two lizards were bathing in it, or drinking in it. They seemed unbothered by my presence. If Black Widows really do possess a blindingly red and metallic diamond on their back, then one was lingering less than a foot away from me in her delicate web. I proceeded cautiously, rapidly, and flew down to the ground. The squirrels seemed to have multiplied since my last visit. (“It has been so long since I have been here…”) A silent man walking by was rummaging around in a pocket of his running shorts with such concentration that he may have been walking on auto-pilot. He withdrew his hand, empty, and looked down at it with a satisfied smile, as though he had found what he was searching for. He held up his head and calmly continued walking on the path, gradually veering off to the grass. I visited the park on Sunday, again, because I was inspired again to return to the place which I considered a second home and an escape from college so many years ago. I went with a friend who, like me, tirelessly strives to notice everything. The purple and black flowers we saw near the ‘turtles’ fountain’ stuck out against the bigger pink and orange blooms. We walked on dirt paths curving around the right side of the park, far away from the gazebos and the pavement; next to the houses on the border. The thick black mud had footprints of animals past, cleat-marks of accomplished runners, and milk-chocolate colored twigs sticking quite vertically out of this ground at certain places. The sky slowly began to turn grey that day, signaling the oncoming sunset. Walking through a gathering of at least twenty people, green parrots in the trees above them, squirrels creeping towards the food they were cooking, we came up the darkening orange sun peering through the silhouetted trees. Gnarled. The pink highlights which soon appeared lower in the sky were Sharpie marks, thrashing through the otherwise gentle scene. We threw red wine on each other, I lost my wallet, I laughingly threatened her with a corona beer bottle, we came upon a man who could back-flip into a handstand, and we laughed and wrestled each other to the ground. To become one with nature, one must laugh and join its wild nature (no pun intended). To breathe it in; to drink it in.

romantic frame of mind

I surprised myself last week. I actually started enjoying the Romantics. It’s not so much their poetry or the diction, but the frame of mind from which the poetry is flowing; it is like a meditation with words.

Walking the park called me to be reflective, how perfect for the romantic frame of mind. I had forgotten how delightful it is to just entertain yourself with ideas. The heat demanded me to slow down. to think,. “Do not get too ahead of yourself Colleen, you might pass out” (literally and figuratively). The sounds too, and everything that is moving about, invited me to be present to myself in the moment. Sitting Buddha like at the center of my own universe—a wooden park bench, a tree branch, a blade of grass—thoughts and memories like a train pass through, slowing down to wave a nod of awareness but not to stop, the weight is too cumbersome for the time being. We of all the living things in this park have the ability to reflect and ponder, and when like a tree I can be still enough to detach myself from the weights of obligation, and observe, the reflection is most healing.

This weekend I was again compelled to reflect and write my own experience in slowing down and meditating, and I laughed at how “romantic” this was. I returned to Wordsworth, writing about the fragmented man. (yes I actually returned to Wordsworth…wow haha) He speaks so eloquently about the man divided from himself, from other men, and from nature, and how it was poetry that collected those fragments, and was able to regroup them. This struck a chord for me days after initially reading it, after thinking about all the changes going in within me, leaving home, moving to New Orleans, and starting as a student again. I have been more reflective and fragmented since moving here than I’ve been in five years, and the reflections turn to endless pages in my journal, just like the Romantics. HAHA! I eek out meaning and transformation from this writing, if it can be found, but mostly it is to understand more fully my ideas, my thoughts, where I am and who I am. I feel like a romantic! Haha! I am not seeking answers from these reflections, but I really do believe that it is through writing, that we piece our fragments together again, and feel connected to ourselves, and thus this literature begins to take on new meaning for me.

Right now I am nesting myself into this new environment, and I observe deeply the subtle movements of my classmates, the geese, the runners, and turn to awe at the endless life growing and changing and dieing and being reborn on every second on a cellular level. I am gathering myself inward to make myself strong. I am collecting all the pieces to create more fluidity. I am the constant on this continuum on this park bend under this tree. I reinvent myself. I am the thread at the center of the large rope at the center of the universe; other threads dance around me like a meditation. Small cracks appear in my exterior life, and through those cracks I invite my poet to reconnect with this sensory reality, tiptoeing back into terrestrial life, healing a fissure between sensation and obligation.

Walking Tour Reflection

I would love to be the exception to the rule and be the Wordsworthian child, as the speaker explains it in “Ode: Intimations of Immortality”—that beacon of innocence and immortality, that mighty philosopher of lost truth, that being who has access to the glory of his origins. Unfortunately, I know that I’m a part of human life that is “a sleep and a forgetting”; the adult life of “earthly freight” encompasses my existence. And nature isn’t dreamlike “appareled in celestial light” to my senses anymore. These facts alone cause me to ask: how can I gain access to this realm that the child experiences? I may have found my answer while walking around Audubon Park. In my judgment, the child isn’t the only being on earth that has access to this pure, more glorious realm. During my walk, I couldn’t help to think that wildlife itself has access to it. I observed the egret’s unassuming persona and soft, mischievous walk: she lunged her head forward slightly and retracted it with equal slightness. The ducks and geese were at peace in their habitat as well. It didn’t seem like they forgot the “glories” from whence they came. Perhaps if I were in these animals’s presence more, I could be closer to the Wordsworthian child’s state of being.

Blake Inspired

Varying shades of gray, clouds hovered ominously over the park, the heavens unable to be seen. Standing by the fountain, I contemplated what direction along the concrete path I would travel around the park. However, I suddenly remembered Blake’s insistence on creating originality; attempting to recreate something proves a waste of both time and energy. Abandoning the predictability and safety of the cement, I made a new path for myself through the park, a path not traveled by anyone else.

As I walked into the sea of green, I immediately noticed a number of dirt paths emerging along the ground, grass worn down by the abundance of joggers. Throughout life, people constantly travel the same paths and never question the sense of security these laid out journeys provide, numb to the surrounding beauty. Starting off on one of these emerging paths along the main track, I veered off upon encountering a trashcan and began meandering around the park, the home of countless beings. Silence growing, my thoughts grew louder and incredibly clearer as I penetrated into the heart of the park. No radios booming. No horns blowing. No people barking. Reality began to take on a new character.

Eyes set up above, the clear skies battled the encroaching clouds undoubtedly filled with rain. Good versus evil. Light versus dark. Soul versus body. Yet, cut and dry divisions do not exist, and the colors created between these polarities in the sky combined to create a soothing pallet of pale blues and grays. The sun didn’t bear down upon my pale skin nor did the rain arrive while aimlessly walking. Other than the stubborn humidity, the conditions were fair.

Undoubtedly distant, the chirping of a bird nonetheless sounded familiar, a sound that felt like home. Branches intertwined, the mighty oaks throughout the park formed a shelter from the impending weather, their leaves appearing content no matter where they were located on these monuments dedicated to Nature’s unquestionable creative ability. Some bathe in the sun while others keep cool in the shade. Nature never fails. Man does.

People often fail to question the paths laid out before them, surrounding wonders remaining undiscovered, desires unfulfilled. As I observed joggers make their way around the main track, anxiety roused by the idea of repetition took root and began growing inside me. How can the track be demolished? The cycle broke?

Consumed by the thick air, I began to sweat as I gazed upon a slew of squirrels meticulously scanning the earth for food, their suspicious eyes repeatedly locked on my figure. Hopping. Nibbling. Jittering. An ugly, lone duck with what appears to be deep red rubber around its beak waddles away quickly as I approach; another does the same. However distrustful Nature may be of man, he remains the best mirror for its perfect reflection regardless of the fragmented image that results.

Mud, grass, and rocks all comprise my path as I now stroll along the water’s edge, a balancing act at times, a potentially sprained ankle lurking. Distancing myself from the life giving waters, I pull back the trailing branches of two willows as if I’m opening the curtains to greet a new day. Feathers on the ground, moss covered branches and humming bugs await me through the foliage. I hear rustling and see now that the barefooted man jogs in the grass. Now this looks natural.

As I approach the street, increasing distractions—screaming children, speeding automobiles, and squeaky streetcars—drown out my thoughts though never completely fading. Jotting down a few notes, I reflect on my trip around Audubon, the path that I had created to escape into a natural world so close, yet incredibly foreign. Imagination now confronts reality, and reality imagination. As William Blake stated, however, “Without Contraries is no progression.” Though I encircled the park, I ultimately went forward.

Nature, God and Romanticism

I should begin by admitting that I did not do the walk in Audobon Park at the assigned time. I came to the park meaning to, but went and returned my backpack to my room and ran into some friends on the way back to the park and ended up talking to them for two hours instead. I figured I could go back sometime in the next few days and it wouldn't much matter. Besides, it was a drizzly, overcast day and I think Audobon is most beautiful in the sunshine, particularly at either dawn or dusk. So I went back this morning and walked and prayed in the park, finding the beauty and wisdom of God apparent in the chirping birds and overhanging trees and the water meandering so slowly and elegantly. 

    Right there I've admitted an important difference between myself and a lot of romantic poets. I am a very religious person and I credit the beauty of nature to the creativity of God. I don't think it exists for itself. I do agree, at least in part, with the romantic idea of man as a part of nature. While I reserve a special place for man in creation, I am also think its obvious that all that makes us dignified as human beings: our intellect, will, emotions and passions, are stem from natural, physical process of neurology. As such, I'm skeptical of all ideas which posit a mind body dualism in man or see the body as a prison for the mind or soul. Blake probably wouldn't have liked me very much. But human beings are physical creatures and as they naturally find comfort and beauty in nature. Christians would use the word "solidarity" to describe it. So its easy to understand how the romantics, even those who were atheists or agnostics, found meaning in nature. It relates perfectly to human emotion and struggle. Everything in nature is birth and death, growth and decay, sorrow and joy. Every thing is a cycle and every part of the cycle is beautiful, even the most painful. As I walked along the path in Audobon about an hour ago, I took in the beauty of the morning all the while realizing it must be coupled with the pain of night. It's like the story we were told in class. The leaves on trees in fall are red because they're beautiful. Through all sorrow and hardship there is beauty. Nature is evidence of this and the romantic poet knows it. 

I especially loved G's post because I was also on the retreat experience that she talked about and I also found night out there in the woods kinda scary and attractive at the same time. I went into that retreat with a difficult problem I was facing in life which I really had to wrestle with this weekend. I found most of the great conversations I had with God and most of the intense introspection into my heart happened alone at night when the darkness surrounded me. Maybe its just that I'm an English major and am constantly looking for metaphors and outside expressions which mirror the turmoil of my mind. But I finally made some peace with things late Saturday night and the light of Sunday morning brought a newness and a joy with it. All the while I was made more aware of the nights to follow in life, of all the struggle and sorrow that I will have to face as I walk through this world, which I would sometimes rather avoid. I know, though, that I can't avoid it and ought to embrace it. Like the cycles of nature, the struggles of human existence are substantial, but they are always beautiful and worthy of romantic poetry. 

A Heart that Watches and Receives

Witnessing the Tree of Life, for the first time, was interesting. As I walked towards it, I could tell that the tree was fairly large, but for some reason my mind took a while to register the enormity of it. It was not until I stood under its branches that I realized its size. A falling branch would be enough to kill me, or seriously injure me at the very least. I wanted to climb it, and I wanted to stay safe at the same time. Its branches were so warped and abnormal that it seemed otherworldly to me or maybe like something that did not belong in New Orleans.

It is difficult to put emotions into words.

Descriptions might come easy, especially since we are so used to dissecting what we see so that we can understand it. Even though we may not describe it in words. But when it comes to how we feel over certain things, specifics are usually too vague, generic or complicated. Yet, at the same time, we as humans would rather be able to express ourselves as best as we can, so as not to seem like a fool when speaking to another.

 

Perhaps, when seeking to describe what we see and feel we lose sight of the simple beauty in all things. Something that is likely to come up as we grow older, and our minds “more” intelligent.

“Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.”

-Wordsworth; Tables Turned (28-32)

While Wordsworth himself gives good advice, it is strangely hypocritical in the fact that he would mention “Enough of Science and Art” when poetry is a form of art, and many of the lines in this poem speak of the beauty of nature. Either Wordsworth did not realize this (which is unlikely) or he expected himself to be an exception to this rule. 

Nature

Despite that I am often always preoccupied with several tasks; it is a rarity that I am able to set aside time to behold and appreciate something as beautiful as nature. So when given the chance to experience Audubon Park, I took it. As I slowly walked along with several others, I tried my best to observe the entire park. Many of my “unofficial” tour guides, which included Professor Schwartz as well as my peers, pointed out the beauty that was not always apparent to me in the park. One of the “hidden” beauties included the newly planted trees that were planted in efforts to restore tress in the park. Another hidden beauty was the stone-encrusted tree. While I did not consider these trees as great aspects of the park, I have realized their importance.


Over the week-end, just like Amy, I went to the bug-infested, swamp-smelling wilderness. While there were several hiking trails, a lake, and a dry, yet humid climate that only Louisiana seems to possess, there was also the presence of man-kind. Not only was man physically there, but present was also log cabins, a swimming pool, and the ranger’s house which contained two television satellites both of unequal sizes. Yet, while one can argue that man’s presence, in some sense, alters truly experiencing nature, it should also be noted that a human presence, or multiple human presences, can not always be negative.

“Let Nature be your Teacher,” seemed to be Wordsworth’s message to me this past week-end. To my surprise, not only did I learn from nature, but it gained the title of “Official Tour Guide.” While I was in the wilderness, I often reflected on things such as family issues, the true meaning of friendship, and love. While I often reflected on these topics during the day, it was during the darkness, that I found myself truly overcome by nature. I wondered why, when walking back to my cabin in the dark without a flashlight, I felt so afraid. Of course the immediate response was that I was alone surrounded by darkness with no light. However, as I thought more, I realized that it was because I was surrounded by woods. Even if I had a flashlight handy, my vision would be limited to only where the light shined. If I was driving in a car, the headlights would only permit me to see so much. The difference between night and day was obvious, during the day, everything was visible, and yet, nature was still surrounding me. At night though, nature seemed to overpower me. I then wondered if Wordsworth and the other Romantics felt this way. Through their poems, it really seemed that the overpowering was a great one, almost a blessing from nature to man, or even a type of revenge.


Over the week-end, I learned how to leave my cell phone and electricity behind to acknowledge wilderness. Without these distractions, I was taught to fear wilderness. Through this fear, I learned to appreciate nature. My week-end away allowed me to view the stone tree in Audubon Park, not as a disturbance of nature, but as a beautiful tree aided by man. I was also able to see the newly planted trees as man’s way to aid the growth of the park. For not only did a man, John Charles Omsted, help to construct the park, but it was also nature, Hurricanes Katrina and Gustav, that helped destroy it.

an afternoon in 'auto-bon'

"A heart that watches and receives"

The first few steps I took into the grass I didn't really know what to look for. I started by jotting down things I noticed around me. A squirrel's leap from the ground onto a low hanging branch. Certain thoughts I had about flowers. The setting sun and the clouds covering it. As I began to realize these observations and process them, I found myself admitting that these situations weren't plain and arbitrary. I saw children skipping down the track and saw the future. I heard laughter coming from underneath a certain gazebo. The kind of laughter that, without even looking at its source, convinces you of its worth and almost has you laughing as well.

A little further down the path I noticed a particular tree with dead leaves lying all around its base. Dead, brown, and probably even rotting leaves.

In Virginia, the leaves are beautiful when they die.

In a park where almost every tree, bench, sculpture, and exceptionally large ditch has a name and plaque in commemoration of something or someone, I found myself thinking of the reds, browns, and yellows that leaves take on when they fall from their tree and the colorful blanket they create on the Earth. Seeing that clump of brown leaves reminded me of this and I wanted to see Nature be beautiful as it died. Surely I wouldn't ask a mauled antelope to do the same.

Perception. The all-important factor in ... well, everything.

If keeping the name of a loved one on a bench helps sooth a soul in pain, then so be it. To each their own.

All around the park there were tools working for the preservation of life. The track to facilitate running, the plaques to keep the names of the dead on our tongues, the preservation efforts in the park (No Fishing signs, etc... this may also have something to do with the fact that more than likely the fish are not edible), golfing to ease the mind, and even the aforementioned brown clump of leaves will eventually be a well of life for worms or another tree or ants perhaps. Civilization does not let go of much. We like to remember things and know where we came from. That's all well and good, but these are factors of our Earthly realm. We don't know where we were before our first breath in this world. We don't know where we're going after our last. One thing is for sure. While breathing, we remember those who take breath, took breath, and will take breath. My point is, could we be spared the sorrow of a lost loved one if we simply accept our position of mortality on this Earth? Why do we seek to be made immortal by the actions of this life and in doing so make mortality impossible? Once born, we make impressions on our surroundings that are permanent even after the spirit leaves the Earth. Regardless of time or accomplishment. In fact, I'd wager the soul cries its hardest in losing a young loved one.

I've heard the notion that a person isn't dead until the last person that remembers them passes away.

Again, perception.

The living care for the dead longer than the dead care for themselves.

Of course, it's possible that the dead miss the living just as much as the living miss the dead.

This blog is getting harder and harder to write as the night goes on. The "noon of thought" and scary noises.

My entire experience in Audubon is actually too much to write about. I conversed with a man about his grandson who plays in band over at Tulane. I thought it was interesting that this man who I'd never seen in my life was so eager to share the name of his family. Here, he perpetuates the life of his grandson by spreading his thoughts. He also asked me if I was there to study or look at all the pretty girls running.

The last thing I'll mention was my game with a squirrel. Now, I'm not crazy, but I'd like to think that we played hide and seek. I followed him around the tree a few times until finally he got savvy and jumped to the top and looked back to make sure I wasn't behind him. Now this was surely just a defense mechanism on his or her part. But again, perception, and so hide and seek it was.

Leaves falling from trees = birth and death of humans

the cyclic nature of Nature is apparent in our surroundings. this is plain to see, but for some reason humans want to complicate it. we want to live forever and keep it all. i'm not saying that i'm ready to die tomorrow but i know what's going to happen when i hear that bell toll ...

well, kind of.

I'm no Blake, but I like to scribble.

"We walked the path in dreary light"

We walked the path in dreary light,

the soft earth hugging our feet.

A hand to hold, a look so bold,

And all alone out of sight.

As time went on from that day,

We grew and loved and taught.

Time gave what it had, but to our dismay,

All we had was ill wrought.

Back again, our bench still there,

But you a distant dream.

Memories float through summer air

Remembering what we once seemed.

As I sit our old trees grow still

And yet again that sun falls dim.

As hard as your companionship I will,

My only companions are earth’s woody limbs.

We walked the path in dreary light,

And dreary light stayed there,

The waters sing, the wind still clings,

But all alone and out of sight.

----As I walked around Audubon park, memories came back to me of all the times I had been in that park. I remembered running, picnics, late afternoon parties with friends and one question came to mind; When was the last time had I been in Audubon? It may be a bit personal, but the last time I was there was with a old romantic interest a very long time ago. So as I scribbled down some thoughts, all I could think about was how the world had changed so much around me and yet Audubon was still the same. I hadn't visited the park for a very long time and so much had changed. My expectations, my direction, my life. Yet Audubon remained exactly how I left it. It made me feel appreciative, awed and sad.

It was sad to know that we are ever changing, ever in this state of growth. It was sad to know that we will never be the same as we were a year ago, a week ago or even a day ago. Nothing will be the same. Amongst all the past dwelling and the reminiscing the park was beautiful (despite the deep humidity after the rain). It made me happy to know that I could come back there and trust it would be waiting.

As Wordsworth said, "Those walks, well worthy to be prized and loved,/ Regretted! that word too was one my tongue,/But they were richly laden with all good,/ And cannot be remembered but with thanks/ And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart;/Those walks, in all their freshness, now cam back,/ Like a returning Spring...If ever happiness hath lodged with man,/That day consummate happiness was mine,/ Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative" ("Book Fourth" line 131-141).

Wait .. where's Nature?

Let's suffice it to say that I missed the Nature Walk Tour the class went on. Because of this, I decided to take my own walk in Audubon Park on Friday, after the torrential rain stopped. I headed to the park around 4 PM, with my Norton Book, umbrella and notebook in hand. I dodged street cars, normal cars, people on bikes, women with strollers, men with dogs and little screaming kids being chased by other little screaming kids. I guess everyone needed a little outside "nature" time after the rainstorms. Every bench, at the front of the park, was over taken by preppy moms, chatting to one another while watching their loud children swing, fall and eat dirt. I hopped around puddles and wet benches, before finally finding one dry enough to sit down on and read.

In Book Fourth, Wordsworth talks about his circuit of the Lake. It was as if Nature, herself, rejuvenated him and gave him, " .. consummate happiness" (ln 140) I continued reading this passage, constantly being interrupted by panting runners, barking dogs and chattering families. Maybe I was in the wrong place? Taking clues from Wordsworth, I grabbed my things and began my own leisure circuit around the green swampy water that I imagined was a lake.

There were gorgeous flowers arranged in rows, trees that lines the beaten path and mosses that draped perfectly over large branches. Birds flew overhead and ducks splashed in the water. The aforementioned rain had left an earthy smell that seemed to match the serene landscape before me. For a moment, I felt like a true Romantic, understanding Wordsworth's lines in Book Twelve:

And on the melancholy Beacon, fell

A spirit of pleasure, and Youth's golden gleam; (ln 265 - 66)

Finally, I felt at peace and actually inspired. I had made it to the wooden pavilion and settled in to write some notes and read "The Tables Turned". All the sounds seemed to meld together and create a beautiful soundtrack, that could have been sold for some major cash as a sleep time record. Thoughts of book reports and balancing equations were far behind.

Enough of Science and of Art

Close up those barren leaves'

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives. (ln 29-32)

I was relaxed and felt the breeze and listened to the wisdom in the songs of the birds. At least until the sounds of the real world came crashing back in. Two dogs decided it was obviously mating season and chose to expand the Circle of Life. The cars honked and bikers yelled to one another. A huge beetle scurried across the wooden floor near me and the rain started to fall. Maybe Nature was a little too much for a city girl like me, so I (quickly!) gathered my things and headed for the safety of my air conditioned, rainless and kid-less dorm room.

Park vs. Wilderness

Considering that I just spent nearly three days in the Wilderness with little electricity, no air conditioning, ‘soft’ water, and nearly fifty other sweaty humans who when they step out of said ‘soft’ water smell just as bad (if not worse) than before, I cannot help but contrast this with our Walking Tour of Audubon Park. The park was beautiful to be sure, but man’s mark could not help but be noticed; the grass cut weekly, a concrete slab placed around perfectly selected giant oak trees (suitable for climbing) with a giant golf course smack dab in the middle. A leisurely stroll across placid ground. The Wilderness in its naturalness is far less selective: the tallest ‘whispering’ pines, so numerous in quantity, spring up where they may surrounded by shrubbery five feet high. Rocky, soggy ground that seeped into my tennis shoes after being forced to trek what seemed like twenty miles through the beating rain and tortuous sun. Killing flea-like bugs with my Norton textbook. Wilderness far more miserable, yet so much more ‘experience-able.’

But with these differences came so many similarities. I was accosted by butterflies (Who knew they were such violent creatures?) nearly ran into several giant spider webs, smelled muggy lagoon/lake water, and got blisters. Most importantly I noticed that nature never fails to make one experience and feel, no matter their orientation or degree. This may sound contradictory taking into account that I found Wilderness more experience-able. However, you can be calmly smirking at a fat squirrel on an old tire in Audubon Park or you can be sweating to death in the middle of nowhere, but the senses are involved in both cases, equally affecting one’s mood. (Aha! Blake was onto something with his ‘senses’ talk…)

After this week, I can understand why the Romantics were drawn toward nature. Being able to experience nature forces a person to step away from their comfort zone; you can learn so much about yourself. By doing this you start to see day-to-day life more clearly in a way entirely new.

I cannot express this better than Wordsworth:

“One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good

Than all the sages can.”

- “Tables Turned,” lines 21-24

A Walk in the Park

After walking through Audobon and reflecting, i noticed that i was becoming very irate with the nature that was almost unnatural in a way...every plant i saw that was put there and placed strategically by man was annoying me in a way that i couldn't quite put my finger on at that moment. So i continued to walk and think. I came to the conclusion that the nature that made me smile and feel warmhearted were the random trees, flowers, etc. However, the nature that made me particularly upset was the certain formations that were put there by gardeners.  I found myself thinking what is so natural about the unnatural way that man is creating these formations of gardens? I felt that the fact of nature is contradictory in some ways.  I linked this form of thinking to Wordsworth's "Lines Written in Early Spring."  He repeats the lines Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?  These lines were sort inspiration to my thoughts of not only what man has made of man, but what man has made of nature as well. How can we call a manmade natural thing nature? Because a part of it is, yet there is an unnatural way that it got there... hmmm...enjoying the beauty of nature is so easy for me, but sometimes, it makes me infuriated in a saddened way because man chooses to try to control nature as it does its own species.

i jotted some thoughts down in my notebook:

How much power does nature have on man?

Or is the power nature has more than that of man?

Let the flower grow where it will be happiest.

Let the tree flow lopsided towards the sky.

Experiment - finding your way

“Let nature be your teacher” says William Wordsworth. So I did a walking tour and was curious what would happen, ready to learn. Would something happen at all? Doing a walking tour today is an experiment: we live in a different world than the Romantics did. Although the park is round the corner there is still the traffic that you can hear. And it is just a park, not the overwhelming nature in its full size as I experienced it when I was hiking in the Alps. There you are alone – except for your partner(s) – and you can hike without seeing anyone else for hours. This makes it easier to get a feeling for nature and the surrounding. But okay, the park is the closest place to go. And maybe this could be the first thing nature teaches me: no matter where you are, you can learn when you are ready for it. The second challenge: to enjoy the tour and not thinking about it as a waste of time, not thinking about the lot of work you have to do, not thinking about anything else. Just enjoying the moment, thinking of where I am. Right now. Nothing else matters, nothing else should matter.
In the park. First of all: confusion. What to do, where to go? So I just started walking, trying not to think too much. My gaze wandered from one place to another one. I am still impressed by the oaks. So big, so old, so strong. Despite, or because of it, they are beautiful in their own way. I know that there are different types of oaks but I do not know the difference. Does it matter?
Then I saw the new planted trees. They were small. Hard to imagine that they will become as big as the other oaks. Was it Wordsworth again who said that nature is a perfect circle in itself? If this is the case, I wonder why humans (have to) act by planting new trees? Seeing this I had to think about something at home. In Germany, I live close to a wood. A terrible storm destroyed a lot of it; the hills looked bare, hurt and vulnerable. Some places were not afforested again to see what nature would do. One year later, these places were full of foxgloves. You saw a sea of flowers in every tonality of purple. It was a wonderful view. This picture in my mind led me to think about Blake: you have to destroy in order to create something new. And so did nature.
The best way to get in contact with nature is to touch it. Feel the bark of a tree, smell the different odors. I got the impression that seeing, watching is not enough. I need my other senses as well. I climbed a tree. This was another challenge. Do I have the heart to climb this way? Am I brave enough to climb at all? By experiencing nature, I experience myself. This feels good!
Close to a bench is a flag in-ground. It says:

"Stand at the crossroads and look;
ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
and you will find rest for your souls.” (Jeremiah 6:16).

I was on a walking tour so I tried to pay special attention to a lot of things. Would I have seen the flag otherwise? “Ask where the good way is” – I do it every day, every day I try to find my way. And so, nature reminds me of it - although the flag was man-made. But I was ready to learn, so I experienced. Is it this what nature teaches us?

MEDITATION W_LK

First off, I do not want to come of as overly cynical, I am grateful that a place as beautiful as Audubon Park exists for us to enjoy, but I stumbled upon something on my walk that was simply too ironic to ignore.
This archway reading "Meditation Walk" (the A is now missing), marks the entrance to the Heymann Memorial Conservatory, which was a botanical display initiated in 1884 along with Horticulture Hall. In 1898, a golf course portioned off a great expanse of the free space in which the display existed. Upon meeting this archway, I laughed at what I saw through what was supposed to be the portal to a peaceful world of tranquil outdoors reflection. The scene I witnessed: a group of hard-boiled-egg-bellied men on the aforementioned golf course, waddling to and from their golf carts, adjusting their khakis, groaning about some new lawsuit as they lined up to tap their little white balls; all this framed with the iron-working of the arch. The mood was anything but meditative; nature only existed as a putting green. This could very well be these men's only contact with nature, "getting out for 9 holes"; the thought crossed my mind that if there had been electrical outlets in the tree trunks, these men surely would have plugged their laptops into them.

I sound rather biting, but at that moment, I felt angry and I wanted to criticize these men straight to their face. Alas, I was on a meditative walk in "nature," I was not there to talk to people, so I continued on my way wondering how that archway had become so inane, about "What man has made of man." The park today is a far cry from the same area which would have been experienced by the romantics. It was difficult to see those oaks, the same oaks that they saw, in the context of joggers who only had thirty minutes to get in their workout, in the context of casual utility. These trees no longer stand as focal points or entryways into worlds of imaginative bliss, but as the backdrop to the daily grind, simply something nice to glance at as you come round your third lap. We have filled our lives with the unnecessary and the transient, to the point that we do not even have time to be with ourselves, in our own minds. The romantics took the time to get out of this world and into the world of nature which does not care whether or not you have only written four pages of that eight page paper. In nature, everything comes into focus, the frivolities of man made reality peel away like layers of cheap paint. All our stresses, our commitments, the schedules upon which we base our everyday are constructs, things that could be dropped in a split second and the world would continue. Something I briefly jotted down while I paused on my walk:

Men hold fast to sentiments
that will not save them.
The shaggy tree that leans just so,
the grass that nips at its roots,
the duck that guides
the green blades to water's edge,
they will all eventually die.
Never to come back,
never to be mourned,
never aware they were there at all.
Men hold fast to sentiments
that will never save them.

Not a good poem, but definitely a reflection of my immediate sentiments during the walk.