A Look at the Past, and Another at our Sad, Sad Future

Today was a day of adventure. This week has made me adventurous. It could be the sudden release of Nature's death grip holding Winter to us; the rising temperature, the warm rays of copper and pink, the simple fact that instead of grey clouds, one can look upward and see the rolling blue of the sky above. Perhaps the promise of rebirth and renewal that Spring brings has made me feel refreshed myself. In any case, life has been amazing me.

The local river flooded, as it does every year. Of course I had to go down and check out the scene, regardless of the fact that it was dark outside, and last year I nearly drown when I fell in and succumbed to the swift-moving current. This year I returned unscathed, and came back with some pretty awesome pictures. I went back to the river in the daylight, and it was even more awakening. Fish were jumping, the sky reflected in the bobbing crests, the trees seemed to shake with anticipation of greener tomorrows. Then I was introduced to a little trail where the railroad tracks cross the river. It blew my mind. This cement path led to a network of trails winding through beautiful collages of trees and brush that followed the river. I could walk those trails all day and never see the same spot twice until I turned back. There's a man-made dam where water pours through as if being squeezed from a bottle, beds of rocks and fallen timber that make picturesque waterfalls, and a serenity and peace I haven't encountered in quite some time.

I revelled in the blue of the sky. All Winter I saw grey. Grey clouds, grey snow, grey sky, a grey world. And suddenly it seemed Nature opened a box of crayons and scribbled my world blue. At the park I climbed all over the children's wooden play-castle. Across tire-bridges, up chain-link ladders and moving stairs, to the highest tower. I wanted to be a part of that sky. I recently saw the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, and its color and grandeur took my breath away. But nothing, nothing, competes with the way a perfectly blue sky makes my spirit soar and my heart smile. My bedroom is blue.

Nature has a way of surprising and amazing me. When each season reveals itself to me, I feel as if I'm being transported to another world. Winter- full of crystal white icicles reflecting rainbows across powdery-white fields and streets. It's as almost as if each snowflake is made of magic, and when the snowfalls are deep enough, that magic escapes in the form of snowball fights, ice skating, and lopsided snowmen. Spring- teeming with intense blues of the sky, finally unveiled by the Winter clouds, and the pools of water reflecting that same sky back to you, until you're not sure which one is real. The promise of life as flowers begin to push their way through the soil, and animals shake the winter off their feathers and fur and begin building a home and a family. Summer- a bursting brilliance of color, the vivid flash of purple lightening in a Summer storm, greens and pinks and oranges of flowers and birds singing in the lazy heat of the day, calmed by a burning sunset of bronze and gold, turning rusty and pink before giving way to the light of one million stars, twinkling with the fireflies. And finally, Autumn- Nature's crayon box. Every color on display, from dancing leaves to the last bloom of a fiery red rose. Nature sighs after the work of the seasons, and a cool wind shakes the last few revellers from their branches. The world seems to be holding her breath, waiting for the next move in some cosmic game. Fields turn out shades of orange and yellow and red, the fruits of Summer's torrential rains. And it all begins again, the cycle never changes, but each time around is an entirely new doorway to someplace else, someplace new.

Sometimes in life I get so wrapped up in the comforts of technology that I forget how much Nature provides. I cling to my cellular phone, computer, television, and car, (who is affectionately called "The Tank,") as if these items will protect me in the event of flood, famine, or volcanic eruption. I forget that I can step outside and meet people face-to-face instead of talking to one another through wires and waves. My shoes become more fashion than function, and it takes a moment to remember how I used to love jumping into puddles. I angrily jab my fingers into the buttons of the television remote when nothing appealing is on, when instead I should look around outside, at anything, the bugs, the deer that so appropriately named my road, the passing clouds, the swirling of the stars. The interactions of all these things around me have proven to hold my attention and fascination much longer than any television station has. Sometimes, a person needs to go outside and experience Nature for the first time all over again.

Which brings me to the actual start of the blog. I recently came upon a remarkable quote about Nature, and one's need to experience it. I researched the quote and found it was a paragraph from an anonymous editorial published in the New York Times on October 25, 1967. It was titled "The Walk." That's all the information I could find. For once, the Internet had failed me. For the one-time low-cost of only $4.95 I could have the article emailed to me in a PDF file from the New York Times website. That's a lot of Ramen noodles, my friend. So I extended my search to the University Library. Luckily, they carried back issues of the New York Times. Unfortunately, only the issues from the year 2000 on were available on paper. My search led me to tall, wide, cabinets with remarkably long drawers filled with spools of microfilm.

I vaguely remember microfilm from when I was too small to go to school; my mother was trying to find a picture of some aunt who was photographed for a story on the War Effort for WWI. I believe she felt microfilm was kind of ancient herself that day. The 8-track tape of print, long forgotten, but much loved microfilm held the answer I was looking for. This dusty, seldom-frequented corner of the third floor became my best friend. Armed with the information I had, my actual best friend Annie, and a pen I sought out to read "The Walk" in its entirety and take a copy of it home with me.

Microfilm machines remind me of the inner workings of a 35-millimeter camera. After staring at the machine for a few minutes, a gentleman sitting beside us showed us how to load and operate the viewer. It is literally pictures of each page strung together like a filmstrip or camera negative, and a machine with lights and mirrors to enlarge and wind the image to something of a readable quality. Operating the viewer is actually quite simple, and soon we were lost in 1967. I found myself indulged in full-page advertisements for television's showing of "The King and I- Now In Color!" and classified ads tempting readers with apartments whose monthly rates resemble today's cost of filling one's gas tank.

Finally, after much scrolling, we found it: "The Walk." This short editorial was eloquent and poetic. I felt like the author knew exactly what I had been feeling lately- the tug of the outdoors, the need to see the sky and feel the Earth beneath my feet. For fear of violating some sort of copyright or other legal standing, I will not post the editorial, but I am more than willing to share it with anybody who asks. I feel as if I had it memorized before I finished reading it. I wish the author's name was known, for I would have tried to find this person, and thank him/her for such a beautiful look into life.

It would be amazing to take a walk with the author of that editorial. I want to hear more of what the person has to say on the subject, and if his/her thoughts and feelings expressed in the article have changed at all over the past forty years. I want to walk where he/she walked, see the same things, and find out if the words of the editorial become more true with each step.

Above the editorial was another anonymous blurb, a short piece written on violence in the Middle East, an editorial titled "Time Is Running Out." This editorial caught my attention only because of current affairs taking place in and around Iraq, and the effect those affairs have had on the people here. The article begins "[New] violence in the Middle East serves warning that time is running out for a political settlement of the Arab-Israeli conflict." Does this sound familiar to anybody? Can anybody relate this sentiment to any multi-country conflicts going on today? Proof that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, we are all victims of both ignorance and the hamster-wheel of lessons long forgotten, if ever learned at all.

Upon successful printing of both articles there was much rejoicing- quietly at first, since I was in the library, but then much more joyfully robust once outside the comforting confinement of hushed reading and clicking keyboards. Amazingly enough, the day was not done with me. Oh no, there was much more to show.

Post-library we remembered another errand, and were off on another adventure. On the road to pick up stir-fry vegetables Annie and I encountered an enchantingly comical sight. In the midst of our quaint little downtown we encountered a brazen purple car perpendicular to us at a stoplight. This was not a subdued purple or periwinkle; there would be no mistaking this color for deep blue or faded maroon, this car screamed "PURPLE!" to everybody within 100 yards in any direction. I own purple shoes, and until today I thought they were fairly flashy. Not only did this car display a vibrant purple color, it was adorned with two white stripes running from the tip of its hood, across the roof of the car, and all the way to the back of the overly-large and ostentatious purple fin. These stripes continued down the back of the trunk of the car, as we saw when the car rounded the corner away from us a few moments later. As the car was patiently waiting for a green arrow, something flashing in the fading sun caught my eye. This car's front wheels had spinners. Nothing says "Pimp my ride" quite like the dizzying effect of free-spinning hub caps. Bling bling, dawg. I would have loved to catch a glimpse of the driver and other occupants of the vehicle, but I was to be thwarted by the darkly tinted windows which further enhanced the "Pimp Daddy" motif of the vehicle. For whatever reason, after the car turned the corner at the light, it turned around, and somehow ended up being the car driving directly ahead of us as we passed through the light. Only then did the full extent of our amusement with this vehicle reach its peak: the car was a Dodge Intrepid. The Intrepid is not a car that one "pimps out." It's a sensible-type car that adults drive to the grocery store and allow their children to borrow because it's safer than the Jeep. Typecasting, I know, but the absurdity of this car proved a source of amusement for several miles.

As if the day hadn't proved itself to us yet, the local music store gave us a treat. Known for witty puns, the letter-board sign usually trumpeted lowered prices on guitar lessons, or marching band instruments for rent. The sign changed every few months, and was never of much consequence. Not today. Today was to be remembered. Giving my open eyes further proof that some days life is in love with me, the sign read "We fixeth thine broken music stuff." If there were a cake of life, that sign would be the sugary icing.

There's a common saying that goes along the lines of, "Some days you're the dog, and other days you're the hydrant." Well, today I was neither. Maybe I was the sky itself, witnessing all that life was offering me, oblivious to the "bigger picture." It's nice to be the sky, all dressed in blue.