I've been working for the past few months on a graduate seminar called, "Writing the Environmental South." What appears on this blog is the result of something that began as field research for my "major project." I designed the project around a local stream that runs through by neighborhood and behind my house. The stream is called Pumpkinvine Creek, and it is a fairly significant local feature of the landscape in Paulding County, a far-flung northern suburban area of Metro Atlanta.
I enrolled in the seminar because of my interest in the topic. I have always generally considered myself an environmentally "aware" person (to employ and overly-used phrase), but during the course of this ecologically-oriented seminar, I began to really see my surroundings differently. I was familiar with the landscape around me, but I didn't really understand how one place was topographically-oriented to other places, and I had even less awareness of local issues that had been or were involved in environmental planning and governance. In attempting to sort out how the Pumpkinvine creek is grounded in certain aspects of the local landscape or had shaped some others, I started to look at my environment from a different perspective. My observations became deeper and more purposeful, and I soon even began to imagine how the creek might view us—humans—in relation to its situation and surroundings.
As my exploration of Pumpkinvine Creek deepens, I have become sensitive to experiencing more profound feelings about this creek. At times the emotions are provoked by the giddy, childlike ridiculousness of trying to catch a frog. Occasionally, some places along the creek cause an onset of wistful melancholy. However, I overwhelmingly find that I am truly reinvigorated by the time I spend at this creek.
And tragically, on one occasion thus far, I was beset by fury, and I'll admit, even a little fear.
Frankly, the Pumpkinvine has become my "floating friend," and my urgency to visit the creek makes me believe that it is because of the secrets we have shared. I know I have pour my heart into the Pumpkinvine at times, and it has patiently endured my need to spiritually spill my secret into its waters. I am continuously called to creekside confessionals where together, the creek and I go strolling, moving side by side with our own silent thoughts. This connection is formed in a language without words, and it is written in the patterns of our existence.
Honestly, at times, the creek really kind of distracts me.
It's sort of like being infatuated with the cute, single neighbor who amazingly, you just seemed to notice. Now suddenly, there always seems be this need to take a stroll down the street. Perhaps a "chance" encounter might provide the opportunity for a bit of friendly conversation. After all, it's good to stay on friendly terms with the neighbors; you never know when it might come in handy.
Well, maybe that comparison is a little too creepy, but I don't think the creek suspects I'm stalking it—at least not yet.
Still, I think that analogy can be useful in trying to describe how we might re-envision our connection with our "natural" neighbors. We fail to really see them, or for that matter, we forget to look at all.
