You know how, when you were little, you got those cardboard chocolate calendars at Christmas time? They had 25 doors punched in them, and on every day of December leading up to Christmas you would open up a door and find questionably-fresh-manufactured-milk-chocolate. Mmmm. Maybe you didn't get those, but I did, and in honor of the Chocolate Lent Calendar of Yore I've decided to update my blog every day from now until the 25th. I'm on vacation, after all--my brain needs to stay sharp. And words are like chocolate.
So stay tuned!
12.01.2008
11.29.2008
Arboretum
I'm back in Oregon.
I wrote 36 pages of final papers in a frenzy, hauled my scattered possessions across campus, and then rocked gently westward on the Empire Builder. And now I'm here, where it smells like loam and green and homemade confections. I will reflect on this home-place soon, when it has had time to sink in.
Now, however, I want to write about the Cowling Arboretum. Adjacent to Carleton, the Arb consists of 880 acres of forest and restored prairie. I think it's safe to say that I owe a large portion of my sanity (such as it is) to my runs through its glorious trees and grasses. When I think of Carleton, I think of the Arb just as much as the library, or my dorm room.
I took a two week nature writing class last fall, and below I'm copying two short vignettes I wrote for that course, in honor of the Arboretum.
The Sound of Falling
On certain fall days the atmosphere itself seems to emit a crisp golden light—that’s when I venture into the Arboretum. I go out alone to watch seventeen million leaves sputter like dying embers in that patchwork forest. Leaves crackle as the earth meets my feet, and the snap in the air smells a little like freedom.
The river’s laughing at me now, because I said I was alone. “You silly girl,” the Cannon chides, “stop thinking and listen.” Did you know that, on some afternoons in late autumn, the trees have quiet conversations? I didn’t until I heeded the river and took off my hat for a change.
Once, as I was eavesdropping on whispered forest musings, a raccoon came trundling out of the underbrush all a-bustle. He froze when he saw me, and for an instant my eyes (sleepy) locked with his (bright, russet, and wild). But then his hunchback and gawky forelimbs struck me all at once, and, before I could control myself, my startled giggle sent him galumphing back into the forest.
You’re right, River—now I’m laughing too. Here the grasses are company, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see a flash of the red fox who’s watching. Even as winter’s snuff threatens, the Arb is ablaze, humming in perfect harmony with my footsteps. I just need to listen.
Postage Stamp Prairie
It’s a little swath of land, all but forgotten in the lee of yet another rolling hill. Tufted Asters innocently absorb sunlight, and various prairie grasses incline their stunted stalks, for the wind here is harsh and the earth is dry. You wouldn’t know it just by looking, but that frost-bitten compass plant points straight into the past, toward an epoch almost entirely trampled by cattle, cultivation, and an ever-growing expanse of cement. The students jogging by in their Nikes have no idea that the soil beneath their feet is a unique chemical amalgam, the product of millennia.
Walking along a narrow trail worn into that unadulterated earth, I can’t help but wonder why such an anachronism persists. Can’t this stubborn postage-stamp of prairie see that the times have changed? This land has been trodden and tired, farmed and forgotten, razed and refurbished. The apparition before me belongs with the giant ground sloth in the annals of history, long lost and frozen beneath the ground.
And yet it’s here, unmistakable and alive. Simply because this rocky hillside is desirable for no one else—not farmers, landscapers, or even cows—history claimed it a tombstone, a monument to what lived before there were words.
I wrote 36 pages of final papers in a frenzy, hauled my scattered possessions across campus, and then rocked gently westward on the Empire Builder. And now I'm here, where it smells like loam and green and homemade confections. I will reflect on this home-place soon, when it has had time to sink in.
Now, however, I want to write about the Cowling Arboretum. Adjacent to Carleton, the Arb consists of 880 acres of forest and restored prairie. I think it's safe to say that I owe a large portion of my sanity (such as it is) to my runs through its glorious trees and grasses. When I think of Carleton, I think of the Arb just as much as the library, or my dorm room.
I took a two week nature writing class last fall, and below I'm copying two short vignettes I wrote for that course, in honor of the Arboretum.
The Sound of Falling
On certain fall days the atmosphere itself seems to emit a crisp golden light—that’s when I venture into the Arboretum. I go out alone to watch seventeen million leaves sputter like dying embers in that patchwork forest. Leaves crackle as the earth meets my feet, and the snap in the air smells a little like freedom.
The river’s laughing at me now, because I said I was alone. “You silly girl,” the Cannon chides, “stop thinking and listen.” Did you know that, on some afternoons in late autumn, the trees have quiet conversations? I didn’t until I heeded the river and took off my hat for a change.
Once, as I was eavesdropping on whispered forest musings, a raccoon came trundling out of the underbrush all a-bustle. He froze when he saw me, and for an instant my eyes (sleepy) locked with his (bright, russet, and wild). But then his hunchback and gawky forelimbs struck me all at once, and, before I could control myself, my startled giggle sent him galumphing back into the forest.
You’re right, River—now I’m laughing too. Here the grasses are company, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see a flash of the red fox who’s watching. Even as winter’s snuff threatens, the Arb is ablaze, humming in perfect harmony with my footsteps. I just need to listen.
Postage Stamp Prairie
It’s a little swath of land, all but forgotten in the lee of yet another rolling hill. Tufted Asters innocently absorb sunlight, and various prairie grasses incline their stunted stalks, for the wind here is harsh and the earth is dry. You wouldn’t know it just by looking, but that frost-bitten compass plant points straight into the past, toward an epoch almost entirely trampled by cattle, cultivation, and an ever-growing expanse of cement. The students jogging by in their Nikes have no idea that the soil beneath their feet is a unique chemical amalgam, the product of millennia.
Walking along a narrow trail worn into that unadulterated earth, I can’t help but wonder why such an anachronism persists. Can’t this stubborn postage-stamp of prairie see that the times have changed? This land has been trodden and tired, farmed and forgotten, razed and refurbished. The apparition before me belongs with the giant ground sloth in the annals of history, long lost and frozen beneath the ground.
And yet it’s here, unmistakable and alive. Simply because this rocky hillside is desirable for no one else—not farmers, landscapers, or even cows—history claimed it a tombstone, a monument to what lived before there were words.
11.04.2008
Dear Mr. Obama,
I know you're a really busy and important person, and that you won't have time to read this. That's ok--I understand. It doesn't matter if you read these words, as long as I write them.
Let me introduce myself: My name is Caitlin McKimmy. I'm a Junior in college, and, at this moment, I'm listening to my fellow students' uproarious celebration, because you just won the presidential election. I'm twenty years old, and I'm both curious and confused. I'm enormously blessed, grasping for purpose, and always in awe. I am an American.
Can I tell you something? There have been times where I've been ashamed of that last part, about being from the United States. Since I've been old enough to think critically about my country, I've almost never been proud, and often felt groundless. I cried the day we went to war with Iraq. I avert my eyes during my travels abroad, reluctant to acknowledge my home. I think politics are slowly succumbing to corruption, and sometimes I wonder if the "noble ideals upon which this great nation was founded" have been buried by the bureaucracy, or if they ever existed at all. Watching the stars and stripes of our flag dance in the wind, I've felt a sad hollowness where reverence is supposed to go.
But something happened tonight. As I sat with my friends watching your acceptance speech, a foreign and wonderful sensation arose in the pit of my stomach. I'll call it hope. Maybe even pride.
Now, I know that you're only one person, and that our country is up to its elbows in economic strife and tough choices. It's going to be hard, and things are probably going to get worse. It's just that, tonight, my peers--members of a generation typified by apathy and post-modern doubt--are celebrating with fire in their eyes. You just may be the catalyst we need to motivate, move forward, and take on the huge challenges we face.
And yes, I'm celebrating too, Mr. Obama, because tonight I realized something important: I'm too young to be cynical, and it's too soon to give up.
Thank-you, and good luck.
Caitlin McKimmy
I know you're a really busy and important person, and that you won't have time to read this. That's ok--I understand. It doesn't matter if you read these words, as long as I write them.
Let me introduce myself: My name is Caitlin McKimmy. I'm a Junior in college, and, at this moment, I'm listening to my fellow students' uproarious celebration, because you just won the presidential election. I'm twenty years old, and I'm both curious and confused. I'm enormously blessed, grasping for purpose, and always in awe. I am an American.
Can I tell you something? There have been times where I've been ashamed of that last part, about being from the United States. Since I've been old enough to think critically about my country, I've almost never been proud, and often felt groundless. I cried the day we went to war with Iraq. I avert my eyes during my travels abroad, reluctant to acknowledge my home. I think politics are slowly succumbing to corruption, and sometimes I wonder if the "noble ideals upon which this great nation was founded" have been buried by the bureaucracy, or if they ever existed at all. Watching the stars and stripes of our flag dance in the wind, I've felt a sad hollowness where reverence is supposed to go.
But something happened tonight. As I sat with my friends watching your acceptance speech, a foreign and wonderful sensation arose in the pit of my stomach. I'll call it hope. Maybe even pride.
Now, I know that you're only one person, and that our country is up to its elbows in economic strife and tough choices. It's going to be hard, and things are probably going to get worse. It's just that, tonight, my peers--members of a generation typified by apathy and post-modern doubt--are celebrating with fire in their eyes. You just may be the catalyst we need to motivate, move forward, and take on the huge challenges we face.
And yes, I'm celebrating too, Mr. Obama, because tonight I realized something important: I'm too young to be cynical, and it's too soon to give up.
Thank-you, and good luck.
Caitlin McKimmy
10.26.2008
Still Beautiful
I've been at Carleton for a while now, and I've endured some shitty weather in my day. Winter in Minnesota is a face-stinging-nose-hair-freezing blank gray expanse of frigid cold. With my tendency toward Seasonal Affective Disorder, you might expect that, after two years in the Midwest, I've become just as bitter as those long winter nights.
Today, however, the first snow of the season blew in sideways with a gravity-defying gale, and I LOVED IT. Snowflakes paired up with falling leaves and danced a crazy drunken tango, in no apparent hurry to make contact with the earth. This windy snow-world is fresh and alive and somehow on the brink of the best kind of insanity.
I went to frisbee practice (pictured below) and froze my fingers. My socks got wet on the way from my dorm to the library. But I don't care because it's beautiful. Always.
Today, however, the first snow of the season blew in sideways with a gravity-defying gale, and I LOVED IT. Snowflakes paired up with falling leaves and danced a crazy drunken tango, in no apparent hurry to make contact with the earth. This windy snow-world is fresh and alive and somehow on the brink of the best kind of insanity.
10.23.2008
Elucidation?
For part of my final project for PSYC 263: Sleep and Dreaming, I am going to teach myself to lucid dream. Or at least try. Thus far I have dreamed extensively about writing about my dreams in my dream journal (only to wake up and write about writing about my dream in my dream journal in my dream journal... so meta). I feel as though this is progress.
Why are you doing this, you ask? Well, first of all, it's hilarious to wake up in the morning and read dream-notes that I scribbled in semi-waking states throughout the night. (Last night: "Dining Hall... all the red food. Why was the kale red???") Secondarily, I'm finding that the simple exercise of remembering my dreams may be of practical use. You know that feeling when you have a really good thought, and then it escapes? I've found that chasing down such thoughts feels exactly the same as the struggle to remember my dreams.
But mostly it's just hilarious. You should try it too!
Some sources claim that those who have mastered the art of lucid dreaming can meet and interact in the "dream world." Let's meet there, guys.
Why are you doing this, you ask? Well, first of all, it's hilarious to wake up in the morning and read dream-notes that I scribbled in semi-waking states throughout the night. (Last night: "Dining Hall... all the red food. Why was the kale red???") Secondarily, I'm finding that the simple exercise of remembering my dreams may be of practical use. You know that feeling when you have a really good thought, and then it escapes? I've found that chasing down such thoughts feels exactly the same as the struggle to remember my dreams.
But mostly it's just hilarious. You should try it too!
Some sources claim that those who have mastered the art of lucid dreaming can meet and interact in the "dream world." Let's meet there, guys.
10.11.2008
Chickens
This is an excerpt from our last class discussion in Philosophy of Mind (which is unequivocally ridiculous):
Student: Sooo... there isn't a single property of a neuron that the chicken couldn't fulfill?
Professor: Correct.
MY BRAIN IS CHICKENS. Or I thought that it very well might be last Thursday night, when I had an existential crisis. I sat in the library, my thoughts clucking as I doubted the reality of my every sense perception, until I just couldn't take it anymore. At roughly 9:52 p.m. I abandoned my desk, trekked to the Cannon river, threw off my clothes, and hurled myself into the wine-black water.
The mud squished.
The icy river took my breath away.
My words flew the coop,
And it was real.
Student: Sooo... there isn't a single property of a neuron that the chicken couldn't fulfill?
Professor: Correct.
MY BRAIN IS CHICKENS. Or I thought that it very well might be last Thursday night, when I had an existential crisis. I sat in the library, my thoughts clucking as I doubted the reality of my every sense perception, until I just couldn't take it anymore. At roughly 9:52 p.m. I abandoned my desk, trekked to the Cannon river, threw off my clothes, and hurled myself into the wine-black water.
The mud squished.
The icy river took my breath away.
My words flew the coop,
And it was real.
10.03.2008
"When I was a student..."
Last week, as I was walking (slowly, of course) back to my dorm after Frisbee practice, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between a balding man and a small girl who I presumed to be his daughter. "You know," the man said as the trans-generational duo stood arm in arm on the bridge over Lyman Lakes, "when I was a student..."
I don't know how the man finished his sentence, because those five words halted me mid-step. Was. With that stranger's offhand comment, I realized that I have almost no memory of, nor can I particularly envision in the future, a conception of myself that is not a student. I've been entrenched in some sort of educational environment for over sixteen years. When I began my academic career, George Bush the elder was in office, the Democratic Republic of the Congo was called Zaire, and the cost of gasoline was 95 cents a gallon.
I gazed upon the inverted projection of autumn on Lyman's glassy surface, staggered by the sheer temporal magnitude of my studenthood. Then, looking down at my grass-stained shirt and scuffed purple Crocs, I wondered if this is what America had envisioned as a product of her mighty and unparalleled Educational System.
Father and daughter and long since moved on when I realized that I was late as usual for some evening commitment. But the words still echoed across the still lake water: "When I was a student..." It's hard to believe that one day, perhaps not too far in the future, I will be able to utter that phrase. The prospect is at once terrifying and exciting beyond measure.
I don't know how the man finished his sentence, because those five words halted me mid-step. Was. With that stranger's offhand comment, I realized that I have almost no memory of, nor can I particularly envision in the future, a conception of myself that is not a student. I've been entrenched in some sort of educational environment for over sixteen years. When I began my academic career, George Bush the elder was in office, the Democratic Republic of the Congo was called Zaire, and the cost of gasoline was 95 cents a gallon.
I gazed upon the inverted projection of autumn on Lyman's glassy surface, staggered by the sheer temporal magnitude of my studenthood. Then, looking down at my grass-stained shirt and scuffed purple Crocs, I wondered if this is what America had envisioned as a product of her mighty and unparalleled Educational System.
Father and daughter and long since moved on when I realized that I was late as usual for some evening commitment. But the words still echoed across the still lake water: "When I was a student..." It's hard to believe that one day, perhaps not too far in the future, I will be able to utter that phrase. The prospect is at once terrifying and exciting beyond measure.
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