The Mortal Moment: Trekking the Pilgrimage of Existence

Addison's Walk

Hello again everyone! So currently I'm in Oxford which has been a blast and a personal check mark on my bucket list. I love J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis though I'd have to admit that I'm more of a Lewis buff and  my little brother Tanner the Tolkien buff. Yesterday our Oxford tour was conducted by "Dashing Fred" (his real name is obviously just Fred but the nickname is very deserved). It's lucky that he was so energized and fun because the two hour tour was conducted almost entirely in the rain. But it was lovely.

The Lamp Post!

We got to see the door and lamp post that inspired C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. That is probably what I would designate my most intense nerd moment of the day. We also stopped by Magdalen College where both Lewis and Tolkien taught. Today we actually went back and walked Addison's Walk where J.R.R. Tolkien and Hugo Dyson discussed the truth behind myths, eventually leading to the conversion of C.S. Lewis, an adamant atheist, to Christianity. As many may know, C.S. Lewis is one of the most influential, modern critic, writer, and essayist of Christianity. And it all began with a friendship between Tolkien and Lewis. So here are some pictures! 

The Door is carved with the lion that became Aslan
 and the gold figures are what on the side posts are what became Mr. Tumnus

The Garden Passage in Nash's Home

The Gardens in Elizabeth Nash's Home

Anne Hathaway's Cottage

Before Oxford I spent a couple of days in Stratford upon Avon where we saw the Royal Shakespeare Company put on Hamlet, Titus Andronicus, and As You Like It. I didn't personally go to Titus Andronicus because of my weak stomach and all-to-good memory. We also took numerous tours through the homes of Shakespeare's daughter Suzanne, granddaughter Elizabeth, his father John, his mother's childhood farm, and his wife's cottage. The garden's were probably my favorite part of the homes, even though both were fantastic. 

Yay for Harry Potter Butterbeer!

Also there was a place in Stratford called Magic Alley and we got to try butterbeer there! It was really yummy but so so so sweet. Kind of a citrus and ginger lemonade with foam, it was delicious. 

The reed covering the leads to the woods

The woods next to Anne Hathaway's Cottage

Okay so I'm currently in the middle of my newest essay on the connections between mortality, pain, and nature. They all seem like random topics in relation to each other but I promise it will all come together. This is actually going to be one of my longer essays so I'm going to post it in installments. Here are the first two sections! Enjoy. 

The Mortal Moment

Trekking Through the Pilgrimage of Existence

Ophelia in RSC 2013 production of Hamlet

Recognizing My Own Mortality

Ophelia was lying dead on the stage. Man, she was so dead. Somewhere in my mind I’d created a strange division between those who were simply no longer moving and those who could never rise again. Though seemingly the same, as dead is dead, one seemed passively fading away, while the other symbolized the struggle to live and the stark contrast of being forbidden from life. Ophelia, still dressed in her wet wedding dress was bone white with a blank, startled stare, slender in her now ebbing beauty, and frightening as her energetic spirit was now stilled to silent dust. As I stared at her I grew more and more uncomfortable, willing her to move, wishing her to move. She never again did move. For the first moment in the 20 years of my existence I understood the state of my own mortality and the finality of death was stunning.

Sitting in a room amongst the ruins of Fountain Abbey

I have long been aware of the passage of time. It has been a concern of mine ever since I was five years old when I asked my mom where time went as we spent it. I remember wondering if I could save it. Maybe if I were really frugal it would last longer. I remember asking how it was that time moved so quickly only when I was having fun. I thought it was quite unfair. Somewhere along the lapse of 15 years I have learned that I cannot save up time and perceiving time as slow is not worth sacrificing the joy that makes time move quickly. It was always rather obvious that someday time would run out, someday the clock would stop ticking its endless rounds around the clock face, and through the glass the sands would run thin. But in the invincibility of youth I never thought I’d face that day. In 43 days I’ll be getting married, in two years I’ll be graduating with my BA in English and a minor in Editing, in a short time after that I will probably become a mother, in ten years I will be thirty, and the list goes on. For now, I have the time with which to live but one day I will be given the time with which to die. And in that moment I will die and lie still like Ophelia. In that moment I will return to nature.

The Garlic Bridge off the trail near Fountain Abbey
(the entire bridge path is a garden of wild garlic plants)

This moment of recognized mortality occurred in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet in Stratford upon Avon, since I am currently residing in England for two months gaining experience in my English field of study. Much of my experiences have been centered around our constant movement through the cities and towns of England, Scotland, and Wales and more especially the hikes and walks that serve as our mode of transportation through the countryside. As I have been consistently surrounded by this countryside I have found myself deeply disappointed in how uninspired I have felt in reference to the nature, which I perhaps have overly romanticized. I have even, in certain moments of particular frustration, gone so far as to assert that nature cannot serve as a source of inspiration but rather only as a source for repose. I still believe this alternate role of nature to have validity, but upon receiving the opposite opinion in an email from my fiance I realized that I had ignored a very important side of what had become my one-sided coin. Though I believe the period of reflection granted by excursions into nature to be very important, it simply does not stand to claim that nature is unable to inspire. For somewhere, along a lengthy line of thought, I had realized that nature and flowers gave voice to Ophelia's sorrow, served as her executioner, and housed her remains. Ophelia's mortality, which now confronted me as my own eventual end, was inextricably linked to nature. And I have since become inspired to discover the source of such a connection. Therefore to some degree I have been mistaken in assuming that nature cannot inspire.

Trekking through the Rings of Saturn

W.G. Sebald

Shortly before coming to Stratford upon Avon we traced the footsteps of a the author W.G. Sebald and the twenty miles that inspired his book, The Rings of Saturn. W.G. Sebald understood well the reality of mortality, loneliness, the passage of time, and the connecting thread we may find in nature. growing up in Germany, Sebald was acquainted with accounts, photos, and thoughts of the Holocaust from an early age, leaving him undeniably altered. For some time his father was also absent, being a prisoner of war in World War II, during which time Sebald's closest male figure was his Grandfather. These occurrences teaching him of the fragility of men, the loss and absence of loved ones, and the age of those closest to him color much of his work, perhaps serving as his moment when he first faced his own mortality. 

Standing on the shoreline near Suffolk

The night before The Rings of Saturn hike we watched a film called Patience, gaining greater access to the mind of of W.G. Sebald and his turn towards nature, in preparation for our own turn towards nature. Now more than ever I wanted to find the inspiration within nature that the melancholy voices on the screen seemed to find so prominently no matter where they looked. I thought that if I could walk an "inspiring" enough place, or somewhere that particularly spoke to me then I would be able to tap into the message, then nature would show me its ability to inspire. I think I got it wrong. I've totally misunderstood the meaning of turning towards nature. As I walked the shoreline of the Germanic Sea, walking the twelve miles towards Suffolk had great capacity to be either monotonous or inspiring. I never thought to decided which. I simply assumed that each piece of nature had been designated one or the other, and I waited to discover which this spot would prove to be. The moment I changed my mind was subtle. It came to me while I was writing a letter to my fiance. I was listening to Patience and thinking of the words he'd written to me in an email. I had asked him to give me his opinion on the essays I had been writing, including my essay that claimed the inability of nature to inspire as I mentioned earlier. This is what he said:

The Woods near Anne Hathaway's Cottage
(Stratford upon Avon)

"I really liked your essays. Especially the one about seeking non-inspiration from sheep. I appreciate the opinion that  nature does not inspire, but I do disagree :) I think that nature inspires by being majestic. Our attempts to define and describe natural wonders is one way that nature proves its muse. I agree that nature can provide a place for the natural greatness within a person to be realized and that is another way nature inspires. I think nature can inspire by being an example or being evidence of something, just as sheep as evidence of how boring nature can be. Nature can also show great power or peace. Artists then take these and create new ideas and expressions. I think you took nature as a muse for just words, but I would contend that nature inspires other styles of art as well: paint, photograph, film, architecture. And I think that nature's best inspiration is being a type for truth. Because what else is mankind seeking to illuminate? Few people are actually seeking darkness or evil or falsehood. We seek truth and nature gives us a means by which to realize it. We call truth given by the Holy Ghost inspiration. Why not call nature's truths the same?
But that is just how I feel. And think. :) 

I love you darling. I have to hurry to work. Be safe. Do great things." 

As I thought about these words this phrase stood out to me in particular, "And I think that nature's best inspiration is being a type for truth. Because what else is mankind seeking to illuminate?...We seek truth and nature gives us a means by which to realize it...

Do great things." 

Walking in Magdalen College's Addison's Walk
(Oxford University; where Tolkien converted C.S. Lewis)

Do great things? What could I do? A type for truth? What truth? Each of these questions coursed through my mind as I stared down at a fresh page in what would become a letter to Spencer. I was incredibly focused on my calligraphy, hoping that some response to these questions would suddenly manifest itself to me as I pressed harder and harder on the tip of my pen. Before me haunting voices emanated from the screen, praising nature and Sebald's ability to tap into nature...wait! Sebald's ability...Sebald's ability, not nature's ability. And suddenly I understood. It was not for me to receive but rather to discover. It was me.

I’d been waiting for something in the Landscape to prove it’s worth to me. I seemed to have been waiting for some hidden cache of coded thoughts to make themselves known to me, and further to impress upon my mind, which perceived a vast expanse of loaded nothingness, the form of words. This, would have placed me as some heroic idealist who had dug out the existential secrets of the abstract formations we term nature, yet continually rely on as a concrete connection between our individual reality and communal identity. But this was not my role, to reap success off of the endurance of nature, forever waiting for the landscape to adapt its wild language to the simplistic notation of the words in my mind. I needed to instead mold my mind to the procession of signals which emitted in a wild and unknown time table. It is not Nature’s innate responsibility to inspire but rather to exist. It is the setting not the interpreter, and it is for me to graft myself in and take part of a mode of existing in which the perfection of the cycle is found. What is Truth but the pilgrimage of existence? The way in which we triumph or endure the catastrophe of eroding time while enjoying the desolation and eventual re-growth of sweet tranquility.

This is what may be found in Nature, the renewal which inspires in ways other than words.

And that is what I wrote to Spencer. In one moment I learned that a twelve mile hike along the Germanic Coast could be whatever I made it and anything I chose to find. 

-Natalie Cherie

Next Installment Coming Shortly . . .

My Adventure, Someone's Home: A reflection on the nature of belonging

At Wordsworth's home, Rydal Mount

I think it's time to write a letter. I don't think anyone would claim that letters are insignificant, especially to those that receive them. Unless, of course, the letter is one of tedious business or solicitation. But today the letter I want to write is apart of that category all recipients hold dear: the love letter. To make it even better . . . I got a calligraphy pen after practicing with a quill pen and inkwell in the Wordsworth Museum in Grasmere, England. Yes, it will probably have splotches and scratches but it will be the most legitimate love letter ever! Also, these pens leave ink stains on my right ring finger--and thumb and middle finger--and every other finger. Needless to say, I'm not a pro but hey, my life is still made. :) So as you all know, starting with my recent blog post, I've been writing a compilation of essays. As far as technicalities go, this one is supposed to reflect something that I've experienced here. So here goes! I hope you enjoy my stream of thoughts, but then again I guess that's why you're reading.

My Adventure, Someone's Home

Sometimes while I wander thoughts begin to form. Like dew drops on flowers or whispers on the wind, the task becomes a race to catch them so they may take hold in the soil of self-reflection before they slide away. Of late, my thoughts have been of home. Perhaps it is when one crosses the vast expanse of an ocean that a susceptibility to yearning for those left behind becomes more prominent. Perhaps not. But as I sit here in England I am filled with awe at that which I see and that which I do not. In such moments of contrast, one may begin to see clearly. John Ruskin once said, "Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion--all in one." For me, in this moment, to see clearly was to understand the nature of home and belonging. To see clearly is the birthplace of thought as well as the first moments of true appreciation.

In front of the Edinburgh Castle Memorial for Soldiers

My moment began many years ago with a lack of feeling. Often having little regard for the tuggings of home, I've always felt that my path laid further distant, exploring the recesses of the globe and the dormant thoughts that laid untouched in such places. This, I thought, obviously excluded my home as a destination. And for many years I have had little reason to think otherwise until I took a particular walk on a particular day in a particular mood. You see, I was in the habit of "missing." Some may refer to this as homesickness, which is true. But, as I was not sick and I yearned for more than just my home I shall broaden my term from merely being homesick. Because for me what was missing was everything I did not have which related to my home and sense of belonging somewhere.

In front of Edinburgh Castle

Well, I was thoroughly entrenched in the "habit of missing" when four days ago I decided to go walking down the cobblestone streets of Keswick. All around a solitary busy-ness prevailed as I waited for the first drops of an inevitable rain to fall and further dampen the already overcast scene. All forms of life seemed to move in a quick-paced plodding as shops were visited, dogs walked, and jackets pulled tighter in a continual bustle. I felt fairly apart of my surrounding, except my lacking a dog, yet in truth, I was as mentally distant and those that I longed for. Until a little girl passed by. No more than eight or nine, she rode a little purple scooter, in a little school uniform, with a little hole at the knee in her stockings. She was humming. As she passed by I realized, for perhaps the first time, that these streets which constituted my adventure were her home. As school let out more children filled the streets, rag-tag in there peeled off uniform pieces, each headed to their own home. Even in that moment, I felt a significance to my discovery and for the first time, I felt as though I saw clearly.

Now I sit in a comfortable chair in front of a flower and seashell filled fireplace in John Ruskin's home. It is called Brantwood. Every piece sits in beautiful preservation creating an ornate jigsaw puzzle of the ever-flowing thoughts of Ruskin's immense mind. To sit in such company seemed to qualify as a quiet sort of adventure, once again, far from home. And then I heard the piano. My thoughts quickly slid home as the melody of the keys and the familiarity of its sound touched my heart and mind. As I was thinking of my home it quietly dawned on me that this too was someone else's home. These piano keys, now awoken, were once played by those who moved, breathed, and lived in this place, their home. It was yet again another home which I had constituted my adventure.

Just chilling with hot cocoa in our first hostel

It makes me think of my first tea party in England. While sitting with my little friends Sarah and Dani and speaking in our attempt at a British accent I began a conversation by asking them if they'd had an adventure that day. To their sadness they told me that they had done nothing that day, therefore having no adventures. In a whisper, I quietly told them that "every day has an adventure in it, no matter where you are or what you are doing. Even if it is just your thoughts, anything can be an adventure." As their little eyes widened at this sudden revelation they began to review their day to find their own adventures that they had only just missed. And now as I sit here I wonder how many times we, lost in the sea of our own expectations, miss the moments that are happening all around us. I wonder as I walk the streets of York, Edinburgh, or Keswick if the people that swirl around me, who live maybe five or ten minutes walk away from this daily swirl their everyday life, realize that what they consider their home I consider to be my adventure. And I wonder further, how many times I've walked the paths and roads I know too well assuming that my home is only that. How many shoulders have I bumped or people seen that are on their own adventure in a place I've reduced to "just a home."

A view of Edinburgh from Edinburgh Castle
(the castle which acted as home and defense of home for thousands of years)

A daily street performer
Down The Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland

In every place that is "just someone's home" history can be found. Lives have been lived and every day people still walk the streets carrying on. The traces of their beings leave a remarkable adventure as I sit contemplating and hoping to understand them. In every place that is "just someone's home" immense amounts of beauty is etched into the age-old landscape, imprinted by the elements of existence. Ruins and monuments, gardens and caverns, mountains and lakes, footpaths and trails. In every place that is "just someone's home" unique talent created by unique people can be found. Street performers, shop owners, dog walkers, strangers or friends, those going to work, those going on a walk. Young men carrying guitars, old men playing bagpipes. Each person has a story and the story they've created is the finely designed webbing that connects the elements of their home. And when I step in hoping to find an adventure I simply catch a snapshot of a life, a history, a home.

In every adventure I experience I find flowers worth pressing or rocks worth collecting. There will always be a plaque worth reading or a site worth seeing. I fully expect that the human race will still create people worth talking to, watching, hearing, and sitting with. Each of these elements, when examined in its whole, reflects the nature of home and belonging. Yet it is these same elements when captured in a snapshot form the makings of an adventure. They are one in the same, not to be separated but rather appreciated when seen clearly. They stand side by side yet also shed further beauty when juxtaposed in contrast to each other.

A local woman walking the beach in St. Andrews, Scotland

As I've come to understand this concept through my everyday experiences I've found that while my missing has not necessarily ebbed, it has become a pleasant reminder of the home I have and the homes I'm discovering here. It reminds me to be grateful for the adventures I'm having while allowing me to look forward to the adventures I will have upon my return home. It has given me a powerful sense of belonging because no matter where I am I may recognize the objects that fuse together to create my sense of home. Like listening to piano keys, or watching children play, certain books, or plants, or even a treasured letter and email.

In the garden's of Beatrix Potter's Home

In coming to England, it no longer surprises me to hear the innumerable songs dedicated to going home and the beauty found there. Under-appreciating one's home is not a problem for only a few and many never find fulfillment in the simple lives and those happenings that create their sense of belonging. Even so, I also sympathize with those who feel the yearning to search the corners of the earth and trace the steps of those who've existed there. There is inherent beauty in new sights, new sounds, and new tastes which can never be underestimated. But that is why the contrast is so lovely. To be home and to thoroughly enjoy your time there can be a wonderful adventure. To travel and to thoroughly enjoy your opportunity can be a wonderful adventure. Much like the way we bring our travels home with us through souvenirs, trinkets, postcards, and photographs we can, when found in the "habit of missing" bring home to our travels by recognizing and noticing the threads and remembrances that form our sense of belonging. In this way every stage of a journey can be fulfilling: being home, being abroad, and returning again. Maybe most fulfilling, is the realization that no matter what adventure lies in store or where it may be there will always be a new and exciting world to explore. And, if lucky enough to explore it one can realize and appreciate the home they have worth returning to, worth missing, and the people left behind who are worth thinking of and seeing again.

And that is what I found while listening to a piano in John Ruskin's home, having a little tea party in Earby, or seeing a little girl with a little hole in her stocking riding home on her little scooter through the streets of Keswick; I found the moment in which I first saw clearly. Finding that this world is composed of not just adventures, but homes. And no matter where I walk, no matter where I go I will be experiencing the beauty of someone's home. The history, the people, the landscape. Each part of the journey may be enjoyed and sometimes finding one's own nature of belonging first requires the "habit of missing"and is the prerequisite to the balm of appreciation.

Shoshone Falls near my home in Twin Falls, Idaho
right before Spencer asked my parents blessing in proposing to me.
(with my finance Spencer and little brother Jason)

As I sit here in England, moving from town to town as a traveling dot on a map, I now wonder who is exploring my own home. I wonder if they could be from here, as though we had just switched spots. I wonder what we would say if we could sit down and share first impressions and long time stories. My adventure, someone's home. My home, someone's adventure. Maybe someday I could tell that person of this instance in which I traveled, hiking across the United Kingdom. Tell them my love for England, Scotland, and Wales or maybe even the town they grew up in. Maybe someday I could ask them how they felt towards my home, the home I once thought so insignificant. Do the green and golden fields of wheat, alfalfa, and corn move them during the harvest days of Autumn? Do the mists from the Falls dampen their eyelashes as they have mine? Or did they lose their breath while looking over the edge of the Perrine Bridge over the Canyon? For now, I can only wonder and enjoy their home as they enjoy mine. But I hope they love it as I have and that my home is proving an adventure. Because now that I think about it, my home has given me the adventure of a lifetime, literally.

-Natalie Cherie

The Honeysuckle Bush

So after my last post which could be interpreted as me bashing the uninspiring landscape, I'd like to share a little bit of my nature-loving side. For example, I'm an incessant flower picker. Sorry lovely gardens! But I love pressing flowers.

Also, I like taking pictures of nature, for instance, these pictures of flowers from Wordsworth's garden or this cute bunny in Beatrix Potter's garden. Anyway, there is a little proof for you. :)

So anyway, Dan (my other director) is our Romantic and Literature Professor while Pat is the Essayist and Travel Writer. Anyway, Dan is very very passionate and he loves bringing us into the world he adores. The other day he did this by having us write Wordsworthian poems. Once upon a time Wordsworth, upon the urging of his friend Coleridge, wrote down his personal process in writing a poem. So  Dan shared that process with us and gave us 20 minutes to write whatever came to mind. After the time ran out we each shared and snapped for each other and felt validated. It was great. The main thing we were supposed to do was go far back into our childhood and make the setting Nature. So I wrote an entire ten stanza poem in the 20 minutes only to realize that it wasn't set in nature. So in five minutes I scribbled down an entirely new idea and finished as it became my turn. So here is my spur of the moment poem. Enjoy.

The Honeysuckle Bush

I remember we'd hide among the honeysuckles,

Licking the sugar-coated dew.

It was our magical escape.

It was always warm when we'd go there,

In a few more ways than one.

But that is no matter.

For our honeysuckle bush was our magical land,
where leaves became teacups.

My sister had a good imagination.

But I could never quite forget the crying,

Of my mom and daddy inside.

I wish they had a honeysuckle bush too.

-Natalie Cherie

Stumbling with Sheep (and a really gross, true story)

Sitting at the farmhouse which supposedly
inspired the imagination of Emily Bronte
creating Wuthering Heights

So today I'm in York and I finally have WiFi again! We spent most of the day exploring Fountain Abbey which was lovely and very extensive. We were there for four hours and still could have seen more. While I was without WiFi I was exploring quite a few cities such as Haworth, Earby, and Malham. In Haworth, we saw the Bronte Parsonage which was as dreary as I expected it to be. The Brontes were brilliant and much of their works reflect the bleakness in which they lived. Their lives were coated with instances of death and harsh reality as can be seen in the novels of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, both believed to be either somewhat autobiographical or a reflection of psychological state. One detail I'll mention about their home is one that I found to be particularly fascinating and (heads up) disgusting. The mortality rate in their little town of Haworth was devastatingly high. Many children died before the age of six and many adults before the age of twenty-five. When attempting to determine why so many were dying they found many problems with sanitation, but it wasn't until years later that they found what I believe to be the most disturbing discovery. Adjacent to the Bronte Parsonage is a small and overloaded graveyard (my picture doesn't do it justice but there is literally no room to walk amongst the graves as the hundreds of stones overlap each other). This graveyard now serves as the final resting place for some 42,000 bodies.

The bodies in this grave were disposed of by piling

A small section of the graveyard which sits next to the
Bronte Parsonage in the background (through the trees)

them on top of one another in a pit then being covered by a flat stone. The names of the dead were carved into this stone until it was full, then being turned over to carve more names. The problem with this besides the obvious is that the flat stone prohibits the access of air to the soil. Therefore, the bodies couldn't decompose either partially mummifying and rupturing from liquid and gas pressure. This, while already disturbing becomes revolting when we realize that the city's water supply ran directly under the graveyard and retained significant amounts of contaminated seepage from this process. Now that we are all thoroughly disgusted I think I will move on.

A view of the never-ending Moors

Anyway, so the Moors are as dangerous, never-ending, and wild as everyone has always said. Even now bodies are occasionally found of those un-cautious hikers who have paid the price. That was fun to hear literally right before we began our own excursion. But as you can tell from my current post all is well. So the Moors are composed of miles and miles of heather and heath rolled on the sky a dim, grey, stormy color and the wind blowing so as to wipe us from the face of the earth. It would hail on a whim and we were constantly avoiding marshy mounds and sunken ground. Every so often a small hare that couldn't survive the elements was lying on the side of the path and at every moment I felt the thudding of my heartbeat, the heavy breathing, and searing pain in my knee corresponding with the rushing warning present in the wind which swarmed around us. Unfortunately, the hike was some 18 miles long and so I had to cut out after a couple of miles due to pain but I was able to spend the afternoon with Pat's (my director's) little girls Dani (age 7) and Sarah (age 9). We had a tea party and talked about our adventures that day. It was my first tea party in England. We all enjoyed it immensely and Dani even spoke with a British accent.

On top of Malham's Cover standing where Hermione and Harry
stood amongst the Clints and Grikes

Before leaving the Malham (the town we hiked to via the Moors) we stopped by Janet's Foss and Malham's Cove. The cove is actually the site of one of the Harry Potter Seven scenes so it was really cool to be up amongst the fissures and cracks we recognized. The cove is actually limestone so the stone is called a Clint and the "spaces" the Grike. Once again it was raining but that added to the atmosphere. After we stopped by the waterfall (Foss is a Nordic word for Waterfall) believed to be home to the fairies of Queen Janet where many make wishes by leaving coins in the trees. It was almost disturbing to see the money which seemed to almost grow from the bark as a virus or unnatural plague of man. I can't quite describe it but it left me feeling eerie. So now for the next essay in what will become my portfolio for this trip. It is a descriptive essay based on an object. I picked sheep and for any who want some funny light reading, it resembles Beerbaums essay, "Going for a Walk." Enjoy.

Janet's Foss

The Money Tree

Stumbling with Sheep

I had never seen a sheep before coming to England. But now I have seen too many.

As you can tell these are sheep ;)

Whilst walking the public footpaths one cannot help but wonder how one of the most iconically lovable babies in the animal kingdom, the lamb, can grow into one of the least attractive animals in, no longer the animal kingdom, but the meat and clothes industries as mutton and wool. Before they are thus used each sheep looks much the same, their woolen coats whispy but shaggy, only those which are half-shaven standing out amongst the rest. These half-shaven sheep are of the group which seems to have contracted a strange form of woolen leprosy. The live illusion of deterioration is fixed by the fragmented patches of wrinkled pink skin and limp strips of dirty wool, twisting in the breeze as each sheep hobbles to its new grazing mound. As they hobble along one cannot help but notice the splotches of sprayed green, pink, or red on its coat which marks out its value and inevitable home on a plate of Haggis, Neeps, and Tatties. And, if one continually walks the countryside and its public footpaths this, besides the innumerable poop droppings, is all one will see in England's never-ending mass of sheep, pastures, and hedgerows.

Upon coming to England I was instructed to find inspiration in the landscape. But, as I quickly grew tired of sheep I also found the landscape to grow lackluster in inspiration. I suppose one could argue that there is much more to inspire than just sheep. And I suppose them to be right. But the point is not how much there is to inspire but whether or not it does. And frankly, it does not. For though the landscape is lovely, to be sure, it varies as much as one sheep to another.

Meditating at the stone circle in Keswick called Castlerigg

Though this assertion is quite contrary to the "Wordsworthian" ideal, I find that instead of waxing poetic or profound in a "spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion" I rather become as methodically concerned with where I step as a sheep does with nipping the next tuft of grass. With their black and white, oblong faces turned downward a sheep may spend its whole day in no other pursuit than to feed and bleat at those of us which come to near. And though loathe to compare myself to a sheep, I too find that nature serves to numb the creative brain as one's eyes become the primary instrument, continually peering and hoping to avoid the droppings, puddles, marshy patches, and muddy holes that plague the common English footpath. In this way nature, indeed, is entirely unsuitable in providing inspiration.

In one fatal moment, my argument could be entirely under-minded by the voice that says, with what I'm sure is great validity, "I have been inspired by nature, and in fact, it suits very well." Therefore, in an effort to avoid such a feeble folly in my own writing I will assert that Truth never was my opinions but rather the simple observations of my own meandering mind. And in such observations, I have discovered that nature is entirely unsuitable in providing inspiration. Nature may instead serve as a calm and sublime numbing for the pressing thoughts that have not yet received enough reflection, which I find requisite, to adopt words necessary for the expression of profound application. Whereas inspiration is best catered in the places that let thoughts race while the body is still, the nurturing of these thoughts is best attended to while the mind is quiet and the body invigorated.

Taking a moment to reflect at Wordsworth's home
Rydal Mount in his numerous gardens

Places of inspiration found on park benches, outdoor cafes, or one's fireplace allow the brain full capacity and free will. In such moments when one's energy is entirely dedicated to the mind, it is little wonder that thoughts begin to wander, musings meander, and ideas stumbled upon. Places of reflection such as English footpaths or pastures of grazing sheep give repose, allowing the mind time to move about in the world. And while thoughts lie dormant, connections between the outside world and our internal realities may be re-formed and re-discovered, this being rendered possible no matter how invariable or methodical the landscape may be.

When searching for inspiration I have found that nature and sheep, whether sublime or ugly, do very little for creativity. For no matter how one looks at their surroundings inspiration must stem from the internal workings of a comfortable mind. Nature may grant experience for some future musing or provide the mind-numbing stillness that incubates ideas, but it simply cannot provide original thought when its only tools are shaggy sheep and mossy stone walls.

It is true that this essay was derived from my disdain for sheep, which some may title Inspiration, but I would assert that it is rather a reflection, because though both are important they are not one in the same. And sheep do very little to inspire.

-Natalie Cherie

The Contrary Conversation

Edinburgh, Scotland skyline from Waverley Bridge

Hello everyone! So I'm currently in Grasmere, England, at the home of Wordsworth and DeQuincy. There are so many things I could write about but instead, I think I'll start with my essays and musings. So just to fill you all in, I'm spending the Spring traveling and hiking across England, Scotland, and Wales in an effort to more fully explore and learn about the poets and authors who've been influenced by the landscape, as well as learn the art of travel writing and essays. We spent our first week in Scotland (the first half in Edinburgh and the second half off the shores of Loch Lomond). From there we hiked Scafell Pike (the highest peak in England) and then stopped in Keswick with Castlerigg and are now in Grasmere. It has been fun to see new places and learn new things. It's very green and wet and the people have been kind. Unfortunately, I've had some problems with my knees and Achilles tendon but c'est la vie, Steve (a fellow Scafell Pike hiker) told me it will only get worse with age so take advantage of what I have now . . . I think he's right. :) Well, in hopes that I can show you what I don't have time to say, I have just a few pictures with many more to come.

Paige and I in the Edinburgh Larder for a breakfast of Egg Toast and Bacon with Scones and Mum's Jam

Anyway, this first essay was a challenge to simply be contrary. Essays should be an effort to engage in conversation with oneself and to explore the capacities of thought. So in that light, this essay is really just a contrary conversation. In this one we took an idea that was typically held as positive or negative and represent it in the opposite light. I chose the relatively positive view society holds of open-mindedness. Enjoy.

Standing on top of Arthur's Seat

The Other Side of Open-Mindedness

I remember it was in a conversation, where I first encountered the perspective that being open-minded could be detrimental. 

Taking the train to St. Andrews

The state of mind, as I recall, was likened to a drinking glass. I was told that each part of the glass symbolized a part of our mind. The sides of the glass represented the lens by which “we” (the glass) perceived. The sides were very rarely removed and only occasionally altered. The bottom of the glass was also considered immovable, serving as the glass’ foundation, its reference point and compass by which the results of its perceptions were determined.

On the Shoreline of Knowledge
Hiking to the Rock and Spindle in St. Andrews, Scotland
With Christ Arthur (a fantastic essayist)

By this model, a close-minded person was one who had a full glass no longer containing space to integrate new ideas. An open-minded person was one with an empty glass, still allowing space for new ways of thought to fill their “mind.” Of course there were varying levels of fullness, but overall the concept was quite simple, until someone, maybe society, a group, or perhaps an intellectual thought to remove the base. Thus, our current perception of being open-minded, what many feel is the “ideal” state of mind, became skewed from its original form.

This shift in thought may seem small but it has created monumental changes in how people communicate with each other. Consistent accusations and misunderstandings occur, especially within social issues based on the simple difference in definition. One is not open-minded enough, the other has no principles. One cannot understand why being willing to examine new ideas is not enough, while the other is frustrated by the occasional unwillingness to integrate most and all new ideas. This conflict, over simple denotation, has led me to wonder if the new and “baseless” approach to open-mindedness is not, after all, detrimental.

The top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh

If we were to consider what many people might use as their own base then we’d most likely find the words religious belief, political opinion, welfare of loved ones, ethical code, etc. Are these things that we can honestly fault people for having and safe guarding? Having a core to which we hold is much like having an oar or tiller with which to steer a ship. Without a tiller or a drinking glass bottom a ship would go nowhere and a glass could not hold water. Though the pretense of never having to leave the seas of knowledge or being constantly exposed to the flow of intelligence is comforting, it ceases to be so when our state of mind stops progressing. We may see the waves around us and not be a part of the current, we may have water flowing through us and never retain any. By denying the mind a purpose, it does not matter the situation or pathway an attempt at progression and intelligent integration is futile. Thus, a foundation-less approach to open-mindedness, however good one’s intentions, is sure to lead to the progression of many causes, little enemies, and a thorough neglect of one’s own welfare. With this in mind it seems as though, whether purposeful or not, the new requirements of open-mindedness are rather manipulative. By expecting a person to rid themselves of their foundation and beliefs so that anything becomes acceptable and one cannot disagree those who hold such an expectation seek to make a number on a petition of a mind, an unthinking ally at a rally, or simply render them incapable of becoming a force of opposition.

For some, this open-minded-mode may be just the ticket to avoid such unpleasantries as disagreement, offense, or worst of all appearing close-minded. Being truly open-minded is much more difficult than this, for, it requires effort to maintain one’s base while exerting a willingness to seek understanding from other points of view. Those who attempt such an approach risk offending many, but will undoubtedly gain further understanding as to other perspectives and how different ways of thinking shape the minds of the masses as well as decide how those ways of thinking will shape their own mind. Maintaining this type of grounded open-mindedness creates a proactive force for progression, not to be used for every purpose but rather to define and pursue their own purpose.

The view from the peak of England's Scafell Pike

Perhaps this individualized purpose has created its own path to atrophy. Much like the frustration of accomplishing nothing, attempting to accomplish anything while each foundation caters to a different purpose can be as equally hindering. It may be that amidst this frustration of differing agendas the term “acceptance” was applied as a cure-all, a mediator between the differences that composed individual bases. But, it is in this misapplied word that the first crack in the glass was triggered. Thus, our attention has been forced to fixing the cracking glass instead of the examining the different paths one may take in the process of filling or emptying it.

Loch Lomond

Our discourse would be ideal if we could use such essays to address the question as to which state of mind, open or close-mindedness, is better. But unfortunately we cannot. Because we have, for so long, attempted to solve each problem by turning to the catch phrase of acceptance we have deteriorated the very structure of our means of perception and relative integration. Our very words have become skewed to mean different things, leaving comprehension impossible unless one is lucky enough to stumble across someone who understands the connotation as we do. Open-mindedness is not the only one, and for each word on society’s list of variable application we must re-establish the meaning so as to rescue its contextual application. Such it is with the “open-minded” who can no longer claim such a widely differentiated characteristic as their own.

The framework of our minds may remain as structured or unfettered as one chooses. Yet, a framework must remain. It is true, an empty glass holds the most potential of any model we’ve examined, but most importantly is not that it’s necessarily empty, but rather that it can hold water. Many a great cause has been influenced by those willing to understand and fit it new ideas, these we may call open-minded. Many masses of people have been herded and used in their inability to sort through good and bad ideas and their respective consequences. These we may call open-minded. The open-minded have been known for both intellect and blind hope, progress and wishful speeches. Both groups we may call open-minded but they are fundamentally different. We must notice the difference and realize that it begins in the mind, and the mind begins with sides and a base.

Molly and me on Scafell Pike

Writing with stones on Arthur's Seat

-Natalie Cherie