I've lived my entire life next to the woods. Now I’m going to a college close to my home, and I’m still close to the woods. Since I commute, I even drive through them everyday. I wonder how that has changed me. Am I more comfortable with nature? Does nothing about it surprise me anymore? I don’t know if I can say that; sometimes it still jumps out of nowhere and confronts me (admittedly I’m not in the straight-up back country, but whatever).
A few weeks ago, I was walking by the well-foliaged canyon that cuts through the center of my campus. Everything was a bit murky as it was quite dark, the day’s rain had left a wake of fog and I was a bit sleepy-eyed myself. I was heading back to my car, and thus to my home, to my warm and welcoming bed. The anticipation drew me out of myself; sure, my body was wandering — but my mind had already gone ahead of me. My grey matter was relaxing into the beckoning softness it sought.
When I was a lot younger, there were a few baby trees growing around my house. I’m talking like three to five feet tall, green, spry and full of energy. I would find one, pinch its tip and bend it all the way to the ground. In my chubbier, less animated days, I would assert my authority over that bent piece of liveliness by plopping myself on top of it. There I would stay, stilling that young bundle of potential energy in spite of its love for swaying about. Then, awkwardly rolling to the side, I would release it and return it to its proper state. Thus did my mind come back to me; the memories holding me were jarred loose in a split second:
Next to me, not 15 feet away, a shadowy ball of raccoon had dropped from a tree. We stared at each other for a hot second. Her bright eyes asked me, “The hell you doin’ here boi?” My eyes returned the sentiment. The moment was embodied and personal. But it was also short. She had business to attend to and so did I. We parted ways.
I reached my car and began the short trip home. I was a bit jittery; not in a nervous way, but in the way that one gets after having a surprise encounter with a friend when you thought you were alone. Therefore I was a bit more alert than usual. And with good reason.
About halfway home, a small and rather flustered deer jumped right in front of me. I did some steery things that made everything fine, but now the deer was trapped between my car and a fence.
The poor creature didn’t want to get back in front of the brightness of my headlights, nor did he want to let me pass, nor did he have sufficient momentum to hop the fence. So he went in front with me following from behind; we understood the nature of our relationship, and our stroll was dignified, even if it was a bit anxious. The fence ended, and my friend darted back into the darkness. I did the same, though I darted in the direction of my bed (I was still hella tired).
Sometimes I forget the relationship between all of our stuff and all of nature's stuff. I think of humankind as a sort of leveling force on nature. We destroy and then replace. While this is true to an extent and a very helpful way of thinking about humanity and the environment, the idea has its limits.
At the end of the day, our vast sheets of concrete and armies of landscapers have merely put a layer on top of a world that still exists. We romanticize virgin wilderness, and rightly so. But it still exists after we invade it, even in a small college campus in Oregon. All we do is put a shell on top.
