Part I: The Nature of My Youth –
I’ve always felt at home in the woods. I didn’t think of it as a sense of place, not when I was young at least, I simply found myself content in the presence of trees. Growing up in central Massachusetts, I grew accustom to the multitude of trees populating a given area. When I was about 4 years old, my father would often take my hand in his and walk me to the forest behind our house.
“Where are we going?” I’d ask.
Each time a new adventure awaited, an exploration, a fantastical journey, a visit with the wood elves that lived under tree roots. But one time, my father had a very specific journey in mind.
“We’re finding you a special place,” he answered. “A spot just for you,”
We snaked through the unmarked passes we’d so often walked before and cut between trees, padding over leaves until finally, we reached a change of scenery. I stopped, eyes wide with wonder, for there before me was a hill, a simple hill, a grassy mound in a forest of trees and at its peak, a small, 4-year-old-Kathryn sized bench. I rushed to the top and sat at the peak looking down on all the life around me and beneath me. For once, I could see through the tree tops, and all the way down to the leafy ground. A place of my own. A little plot of land just a few hundred feet from house yet almost hidden from civilization.
As I gradually gained my parents’ trust to adventure alone, I’d frequent my small hilltop in the woods. Often I’d pass my the time watching chipmunks race up tree trunks, observing blades of grass waving in the wind, or listening as the woodpecker sought out new spots to forage for their insect prey. Alone in the woods, walking or running, standing or sitting, I first discovered the art of seeing the world around you.
July 2006, a snapshot:
I stand impossibly still, a living, breathing statue of a 9 year old girl amongst the chaos of excited children. All around us a myriad of parrots, budgies and cockatiels flit about, hopping from branch to branch, and scuttling away from forceful fingers and unwanted visitors.
“Why can’t I pet one mom?” One girl cries.
“I just want to hold it!” Another boy pleads, jumping up and down with frustration.
I let the chatter fade into the background and survey my surroundings. Despite the many tropical companions, we are far from any tropical place. It’s summer in New England. Here at the Mystic Aquarium alongside the Connecticut coast line is a small aviary attraction. A great yellow canopy blankets the enclosure, its semi translucent material allowing sunlight to filter inside. Wires and floating branches criss cross the area, each hosting a variety of birds.
As my eyes scan from top to bottom, I spot a small budgie chittering away at a nearby branch. It hops from one foot to the next, shuffles right to left and whistles to its nearby companions. I inch closer, admiring its bright yellow feathers and inquisitive positioning of the neck. It turns its head and for a moment, our eyes lock. Slowly, I raise my right hand, clutching a spray of millet, towards the petite yellow bird and watch as it cranes its neck to peck at the seeds. How curious these birds are, their lives confined to the bounds of a cage, grown accustom to feeding by human hand. Were these birds ever wild? What warrants the title “nature?” I wonder.
Then I look around once more to the other humans around me. I see their excitement, wonderment, the impatience, and seldom, a quiet attentiveness.
I left the aviary that afternoon with a heightened interest in the way humans interact with nature and for how we define nature itself. Perhaps the parrots and cockatiels were hardly the “nature” of my upbringing, but they too belonged to an environment of their own, a place far from New England’s distinct four seasons. What was my place? My neighbors’ place? How does nature play a role?
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Part II: What is Place? –
Throughout my middle and high school career, I’d run circles and circles around the wooded Parklands of my hometown, Hopedale, Massachusetts. As a Cross Country runner and self proclaimed nature enthusiast, I’d come to learn the ins and outs of every trail, hopping left or right to dodge the occasional tree root, or large rock obstructing the path. It was in these woods, I first discovered the idea of a shared environment. By no means was I the only one running through these trails, or leisurely walking about when the leaves changed color.
Somewhere along the way, I learned the history of my town in school. And in that history, the rationale and planning for the creation of the Hopedale Parklands. Each day I passed through the wooded paths, I pondered the lives of those who’ve shaped this land, those who’ve walked before me, with me, and someday after me. In learning the history of a place, and frequenting it, I learned to form connections to its physical and metaphysical meaning.
When the time comes to leave for college, I decided to continue running Cross Country at St. Olaf, largely for the social aspects but also to really get to know my surroundings. I run through the natural lands, and feel the grasses brush against my legs. I run the unpaved North West roads and for the first time, I’m running beside a corn field and can see for miles. I run to town and snake through neighborhoods and discover the way each road connects to the next and how to reach new destinations without a map.
In the fall of my first semester, I take Intro to Environmental Studies to get a taste for the major. I’m overwhelmed by all that I don’t know. I look at real world examples of climate change, learn the definition of Proxy, and discover how humans have caused harm to the Earth. But the reading that stuck with me most, was Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac.1 In his book, Leopold shares his philosophy on “The Land Ethic,” expanding the definition of community to more than humans, but also to soils, waters, plants, animals and all other aspects of what Leopold calls “the Land.” Through Leopold’s words I begin to think more deeply about how I and others interact with “the Land” and what types of stories we tell.
In the spring, I take Environmental History and Conservation Biology and start to see the different ways of looking at Environmental Studies and nature itself. In one sense I can look at the world through a scientific lens, measuring soil density, classifying animal species, identify different ecosystem. I can also look at the world as collection of stories, experiences, people and animals, plants and trees, a history of life. How can I view the land in acknowledgement of past and present history/use?
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Part III: Travel and Experiential Learning –
In the summer after my sophomore year, I travel to Iceland for a new program called Media and the Environment. Throughout the course of 3 and half weeks, we plan to create a documentary on an environmental issue of our choosing. Prior to the start of the program, we were assigned to watch Chasing Ice, a documentary chronicling the rapidly shrinking glaciers. Through Chasing Ice’s artful assemblage, of photos, video clips, graphs, and a personal narrative, I found myself hooked into the possibilities of documentary.
The first week we spend our time getting to know the country, exploring Reyjkavik, and discussing climate change, eco-tourism and other environmental topics of interest relevant to Iceland. My group and I have only vague inklings of what type of film we want to make, shots of nature, the sheep, perhaps an interview with some locals?
It wasn’t until week two that we really got inspired. While staying with a local family in rural Iceland, Philip, the owner of the guest house asked us if we’d like to be in this video he was making about the Icelandic alphabet. We agreed, then asked him if he’d like to share his own story for on camera.
As he told us the history of the farm and formation of the guest house, gave us a tour around the land, and indicated how climate change would directly impact him and his family, the basis for our film began to take form. I too began to realize my own direction in environmental matters, I wanted to help bring these stories to light.
When I returned to campus in the fall, I decided to focus my studies more readily on film making and the art of digital storytelling. Through the course of the semester, I embarked on two projects that made an impact on my new sense of direction.
The first, as part of my Media class, was another documentary project, this time on campus culture. My partner and I narrowed in the issue of how students consume media and ultimately shifted our direction to shed light on one specific student’s work to create a Live Map of the Syrian Civil War. Other students in the class covered the underground music scene, or interviewed different types of artists on campus, each revealing a unique aspect of what makes the St. Olaf student body, and campus itself such a vibrant and driven environment. No it wasn’t environmental studies in the conventional sense, but I saw these stories as a type of deeper connection with place. A connection that works well in conversation with other environmental topics, such as that of my second project, the history of watersheds.
The second project that made an impact on my direction was in my Environmental Experiential Component class. My group and I partnered with the local Canon River Watershed Partnership where we learned how to research the history and geological data of different lakes in the area and pull together the information we found into a cohesive collective. Though at times the research felt tedious, I found myself drawn to the different ways we could present our findings to others. A watershed, I discovered, was more than just the lakes and rivers and waterways connecting them to one another. It consisted of histories, geological information, but also oral histories, people, stories. After working on both projects separately, I began to imagine how I could combine the two to spread awareness for how the environment works and the stories of a place.
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Part IV: Progressing Towards the Final Chapter –
In January of my junior year, I once more started to see environmentalism in a new light when a group of students and I traveled south west to study Georgia O’Keeffe, the desert, and the culture of New Mexico.
“Welcome to the land of enchantment!” My professor, Matt Rohn, said after we’d disembarked our planes and piled into vans for Santa Fe. I didn’t really believe in the enchantment, not at first.
The first week in Santa Fe, we visited the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. Our professor challenged us to look at one of her paintings, really look at it, for 45 minutes straight, then write what we saw. Having never really observed or studied art so intensely, I was reluctant and a little wary of the project. As I sat there face to face with O’Keeffe’s “Black Mesa Landscape”,3however, I began to notice things I hadn’t before. I felt her use of calligraphic, flowing lines draw me in to the landscape, and then, her use of deep contrasting color almost push me out, almost as though she were playing with showing off the majesty of the desert, then suddenly reclaiming it as her own. By learning how one woman could connect so intensely to an environment, and convey it through her art, I realized environmentalism came in many forms.
Filled with a new interest in what the desert might have in store, I was eager to see the real desert landscape. For the next three weeks, we stayed at Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, NM, learning about O’Keeffe’s paintings, her story, but also about the desert and culture of New Mexico itself. A few times a week, I’d sit atop a mesa and write, looking out farther than I could ever see before. I learned more intensely about this environment than I had about any other place I’d lived. I read nature writers who looked deeply at all the wildlife, or connected with the land spiritually. I visited the Taos Pueblo and learned the Native history of the land. I listened as Native artists described the process and meaning behind there works. Here in the desert was a land of such vibrancy, in culture, in nature, and in color.
At night time, my fellow students and I would bundle up in our coats and scarves and hats, and lay out on wool blankets to see the great multitude of stars. Yes, this was the land of enchantment. It was there in the desert where I fully realized how much you can learn when you listen, and of all the different ways one can share that wisdom with the world.
The following summer, fueled by a love for the desert landscape and yearning to learn more about New Mexican culture, I returned to New Mexico to work on the ranch. In a small way, I too worked to tell the stories of those who came to visit. I documented their experiences, and would create videos each week capturing events, programs and people. Time after time, as I interviewed guests and locals, I heard tell of how the landscape connected people.
Now as I return for my fourth and final year on campus, I ponder how I can take my experiences with place and storytelling to the next step. “What’s next?” I often hear. “What will you do with Environmental Studies?”
I won’t pretend to know the answer to that question. I believe uncertainty is part of life. But I do hope to continue practices that help me better learn the environments I inhabit, whether through reading, or observing or listening, asking questions of those who’ve come before me and lived the land. Then, ultimately, I aim to share what I learn with others. To write down my experiences, to talk with others and document their stories, and present the world ethically so we can realize the different ways to connect with the earth.
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