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.
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.
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