February 7, 2015 - 16:40
I decided to visit my site yesterday at sunset, which was lovely, and it's interesting looking back on it now and reflecting the next day. I can't say whether it is harder or easier, better or worse, having had a night to absorb and reflect on my short visit. I climbed down the hill behind Batten to my site, over clumped and frigid leaves that crucnhed satisfyingly beneath my feet as I walked, and then over frozen snow trodden over only by animals (and me). I was watching the ground carefully as I stepped, attempting not to fall and observing all the animal tracks in the snow. There were prints from deer and raccoons and other unidentifyable animals. It was interesting to see that the only human footprints were mine from a few days earlier - clearly this was not a popular spot for others to visit. I kept trying to place my feet very flatly, spreading out my weight and not breaking through the snow, but sometimes it didn't work and I fell right through. When I got to the edge of the creek, I climbed down onto the dark frozen sandy bank and sat down in the dirt. I sat there for maybe 10 minutes, prodding at the frozen ground, inspecting pebbles and rocks and wondering where they came from and what they've seen, watching the water flow with the current, and inspecting the thin ice that had formed at the edge of the water. It was peaceful and calming, but at the same time, frustrating and sad. I listened to cars whiz past in the distance and saw bits of trash in the water and around the grounds, and it seemed to shatter the lovely happy facade of the place.
After those 10 minutes I began to feel restless. I didn't know whether I was supposed to just sit still for that whole half hour, but my body couldn't do it. I'm used to moving and exploring and sometimes I find it hard to stay still in one place for too long (a good and bad thing I suppose). So I got up, hopped onto some rocks in the middle of the creek and began to rock hop downstream. I passed trees that had toppled across the creek that I had to climb under, a concrete wall along the bank at one point, and countless twists and turns. I went as far as I could, still walking on rocks in the middle of the creek, looking closely at interesting ice formations and the dead stillness of the creek. Sometimes I'd pass places where the ice was so smooth and sheer that it looked just like still water. I poked it with my foot and watched ripples emanate from the ice sheet. I saw a lovely patch of ice with rocks poking up through it, of which I have a picture included. When I could go no further, I climbed back onto the bank of the creek and began to make my way back to my starting point on land, this time inspecting all of the dead branches and trees and leaves. Some of the dead, curled leaves on the trees reminded me of little bats - I've also included a picture of these bat leaves with the sun setting behind. It was amazing to me how little life was around. It almost made me feel like I was intruding in an abandoned sacred place that was meant to be still, quiet, and undisturbed. Before I finished my outdoor excursion, I looked back up at the house and saw how different it looked from this perspective. When I'm in Batten, the house feels like the center of this place, a large space filled with warmth and friends. But looking at it from down at the creek, it looked almost cold and lonely, apart from everything, yet still sweet.
It's hard for me to put a lot of the things I felt during my time outside into words, I guess partly because I was trying not to think in words while I was down there. I tried to focus on the place I was in and everything I was seeing, feeling, hearing, and smelling, without using words. As we know from our discussions, words are slippery and sometimes unneccessary, and this felt like one of those times. So the question I have for future times outside now is, how do I appreciate my time outside beyond words and language, and then somehow translate that experience back into words here?
