Istanbul

There is oh so much to write about, as always, but I'm sleepy and very full of delicious mother food. Seeing as how this is not conducive to insightful prose, I'm copying a relic of my Turkey journal below.

To the Gulls

You have a better view of the Bosphorus than I could ever imagine. Whirling and swirling, your two-thousand eyes are the eyes of a thousand winged dervishes. I'll bet you can see the world from all angles up there, complete with every detail.

Tell me, what patterns do the barges trace with their wakes? I want to know your aerial impression of the fishermen in yellow rain slickers lining the Galata Bridge; of the shaggy dogs curled up on the boardwalk with their noses under their tales; of the young men on motorcycles that shout as I run by; of the amiable fellows that roast corn on the cob and chestnuts beneath wide umbrellas, hawking at passersby; of the one lonely buoy that bobs a few hundred meters off-shore; of young couples strolling arm in arm, lost in one another's eyes; of the minarets that admire themselves in the gleaming waters that invented "turquoise;" of the little children drumming in the aisles of the ferry-boats that run between Europe and Asia; of the tea sellers and the winking old men that jog-shuffle with backpacks; of the stiff winds, grey skies, and snow flurries; of musical scores composed by city lights reflected in the sea; of ten-thousand red flags buffeted by the breeze; of the throngs of pedestrian traffic that blend into a parade of ants; of the days of heavy fog with air-brushed flaws and that perfect white sphere of a sun; of the toddlers with dirty faces selling cigarettes; of sunsets that set fire to the westward-facing windows; of Orhan Pamuk, his pen poised, elevated not quite high enough in his office: I want to know of it all.

Can you, from your high vantage point, piece together the post-cards? Is this enigma the reason you forgo sleep to spiral through the night by the eerie under-light of the city? Or is your endless flight a joyful dance?

I watch you circle, spelling out exclamation points and periods and question marks on a Shakespearean skyscape. The wind is picking up, and I dangle my feet over the sharp stones alongside the water. An orange cat is picking over some left-over crab claws, and a man with a gray face stands transfixed, reflecting himself off of the Bosphorus. A fog-horn booms deep in my chest, and I can suddenly sense the density of my bones.

Tell me, if I shook these words from my mind, would they turn into wings?

pineapples, dancing
avoiding inverted cake
tea party of fruit!

Somnambulance

Today I was reading about the extent to which societal influences control our behavior. From the Milgram experiments to abstract art, it appears that our species wavers strangely between submission and expression. We at once thirst for freedom and behave as though programmed automata. Our thoughts are a strange stew of originality and background noise, reverberations mistakes born forward through generations.

It made me think back to the presidential election, to the moment when I filled in the little circle that would cast my vote. Or when I decided that I would come to Carleton, major in Religion, and shave my head in Morocco.

Were these choices really mine?
How can one cultivate the strength and mental quietude to hear their own voice?
What is freedom, really?

As is often the case, I'm lacking a conclusion. It's raining, though, and the water is talking: "Wake-up, wake-up, wake-up," the drops whisper.

My Cat is a Zen Master

I swear to you, it's true. He's laying on the couch right now, his white-tipped paws crossed and his eyes barely open slits. Surely he is in tune with the innermost workings of the universe, for his every sleepy motion is one of strangely enlightened bliss.

I am prepared to welcome the massive influx of pilgrims that is bound to come knocking on my front door in search of the next Buddha. The Awakened One will most likely hold your audience around the wicker basket in the living room. His availability is highly volatile, however, and I must ask that you accommodate his busy schedule of grass-sneaking and rooftop-sitting. Also, please remember to take off your shoes at the front door, otherwise my mother will be upset.

Yes, we of rambunctious and unruly intellect have much to learn from my Zen master cat. He is haiku incarnate, the fluffy fulfillment of enlightened contentment...

As I watch his meditating form, he stirs briefly. His bright green eyes meet mine for an instant:

What?
Suffering?
Paradox?
Hmmm.

He purrs a little, and then sighs, licking his left paw before drifting back to sleep.

25 Days of Blog

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!

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.

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