Reflections: In One Form or Another

Since I arrived in Highlands, I have been taking in everything to the fullest. I spent the first few days wandering around getting lost in the botanical gardens, avoiding social interactions, and trying to get my footing in a new place. I remember sitting down on the learning pavilion over the lake and scratching a swirl into a rock I'd found on my walk. I sat quietly and scraped away at that rock for the better part of an hour before showing up for our first house meeting. That night, I played several rounds of Banagrams with my new housemates, unknowingly cementing strong friendships which I hope will last for a long time. All of these memories from just one little rock. Since then, a pile of rocks from our various adventures all over the Southern Appalachians has been accumulating on my bedside table. An especially jagged quartz rock from a survey looking for salamanders. A thick slab of mica from our first day working in the stream on our Capstone project. A silvery-grey rock that I shaved into an arrowhead while splashing around in the river at Tremont. A handful of large garnets from a hike to Secret Falls. Each rock is a memory, something that I scooped up on a whim, and attached meaning to.

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Collecting rocks isn't the only method I've employed for reflecting on my experiences, though. During my time here, thanks to both our writing class and my own nerdy ambitions, I have written a collection of poems with topics ranging from the Bartram's plant list, to a misconception about ostriches. That poetry unit in English class which most students dread was the crown jewel of my pre-college experience. Having spent many hours of my childhood reading the rhyming dictionary, I have always found writing poems as easy as writing any other piece. After the past few weeks, I now have in my possession a poem describing the plant bloodroot, one reflecting on my experience kayaking down the Chattooga river, an impromptu piece about my bedroom ceiling, and my personal favorite - a prose on the myth that ostriches bury their heads in the ground.

A Prose on the Ostrich and Associated Lies

An ostrich struts in the semiarid plains

Into the woodlands, too

Pulling up the green grasses

And the roots of plants

Shearing the shrubs

And plucking berries

Nipping up the occasional lizard

He stands eight feet high

Eyes scanning the earth before him

His strong legs holding up

The largest living bird

His stride up to three times

The author of this prose

He gazes down at an unsuspecting shrub

His long eyelashes haughty

He is a proud father

And a mate to many females

And yet…

We have this perception that he cowers

That he hides from the cackling hyena

From the maned king of the plains

From the spotted speedster

From hunting dogs and prowling leopards

That he hangs his head in shame

Digging it down into the ground

Leaving his body exposed to the threat

Submerged in the dirt

Vulnerable and spineless

With only the ants to whisper their condolences

We write stories about him

How he hides in the face of danger

We illustrate his moments of terror

In comic strips and cartoons

We say “Any fool can turn a blind eye

But who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand”

The truth is he sees nothing

For he is not in the sand

Nor is he listening to the whispers of the ants

He does not hide from the hyena

Or cower away from the lion

Or snivel at the feet of the leopard.

He does not bury himself

Or block out world

He does something that almost seems worse

After all of this pomp

Can you guess?

He runs

He runs far away as fast as he can

Like the road runner from the coyote

He makes his escape

But what if

You wonder

What would happen if he couldn’t run

If he was cornered

Alone and afraid

Perhaps an injured leg?

Well he does something else then you see

Something almost worse than what we assume

He falls, thwuuummpp, pllllopp, fluummmfff!

Flops onto the ground and attempts to melt

To disappear into the grasses and roots

Which he dines on

He draws on the possum for advice

And wishes to be the chameleon

We have made it seem so different though

When the ostrich dug their nest

We saw it and thought it was an act of fear

Spreading the rumor

Through words that twisted the truth

We laughed and found it entertaining

Just like many things

We framed the ostrich in this way

We made it the way we believed

We wrote stories

Made an adage or two

We made a mistake

And now we know better

But many still remain ignorant

Our innate need for sharing

Clouding truth sometimes

And although the ostrich

Is not the biggest myth

I must admit to feeling betrayed

By the adage

And by spoken word and written

By the cartoons and stories

By the photos and captions

That the ostrich and I

Were both duped

That I actually deigned to believe

The words that I read

Bloodroot

Into the River

Above our Heads

I enjoy looking back at these pieces wondering, (especially with the ostrich prose) what I was thinking when I wrote it. Where was I? Who was I with? What is it really about? I won't lie, sometimes reading and annotating poems can be boring, especially when your teacher is making you do it, but when you can write them and make them your own, their appeal doubles. Maybe even triples.

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Everyone loves pictures! You'll often see people posing for selfies in front of famous landmarks, or trying to get that perfect aesthetic photo of their morning coffee. For years I never really felt the need to take pictures of myself or the people who I spent time with. I might take the odd picture of an especially vibrant sunset, or my dog making a particularly funny face, but for the most part my camera roll is completely void of people. I never felt the need to document my life until I came to Highlands. I have never experienced anything like this program. I never expected to spend an entire semester of my college career bunking in a cottage with fifteen other people, going on hikes and playing in rivers for class credit. Making random forty minute trips to the Walmart down the mountain to stock up on junk food. Driving through Cook Out then playing freeze tag on an empty baseball field. There were so many things to remember so quickly that I started taking pictures. Pictures with the people who I felt close with seemingly overnight. So whether it is through rocks and stones, poems or pictures, I know that I'll always remember the amazing people I have met, and the awesome things I have tried and learned.

-LM