Saturday, April 9th
Everything in classes is about synthesizing things now. Quick- have a good idea- ok, got it? Good- now write.
Intention
Intentions are … ugh. I’m all written out. I can’t do these prompts. Going on a run.
First..
On 4/9/16 4:59 PM, Georgia Reid wrote:
Yeah, I want to talk later (as in no rush, 4 years) about WP blogs/sites of mine
on a run now!
~ g
On very rare occasions I take my phone and headphones with me into the forest (Tryon) and today was one of those days. I think it was because I had been dancing to some good tunes and wanted to keep them going. A good song came on, one of the upbeat ones that makes me run as if I’m being swept with the wind — no physical limitations. The song brought me to a trailhead at its conclusion.
I started down the trail to the right and noticed a guy coming through the trees. Rounding the corner, I saw it was he and his dog — looked like a young Bernese Mountain Dog, short-haired (or at least recently groomed). Round the next corner and trailing her father by 20 yards or so, was a girl playfully oblivious to me (and the human world) as she twirled down the path –probably constructing a whole fairy world of imagination with her bouquet of seed-spreading dandelions.
I have been that girl, playfully living in the world of a forest.
“Spreading seeds?” I asked as we passed each other.
She looked up, wide-eyed. “Mm, oh yeah.”
She was not spreading seeds, I thought. I mean, yes that was happening. But that’s not what she was doing. I’ve taught her now, I thought, I’ve ruined just a little bit more of the child mind in her. I’ve introduced her to the idea that when she spins with dandelions, she is not just being a spinner of dandelions but she is acting out the intention of spreading seeds. Oh, what have I done, I mourned, I’ve grown up and I’ve made her grow up, too.
I approached another fork in the path soon after, but this one was not pre-constructed — an opportunity of the imagination. I wonder where this leads.
Deer tracks. To water, probably.
So I followed this hoof-path, having a fantastic time; I found some scat (complete with crunched-up bones!), one lovely spider web, many slugs, a hooting pair of owls and a few good ravine crossings.
Then, I stopped in my tracks. A sensory fear enveloped me, making my hair stand on edge. There could be other people living in this bit of forest between two established paths, just waiting for naively exploring females like myself. I listened attentively for a few minutes. Nothing. Having convinced myself it was better to listen to my cautious impulse, I turned around and went back to the trail, bounding in quick steps like a deer.
I had become afraid of an imaginary and predatory Man. Although it’s sad and somewhat difficult to admit, I’m not sorry for doing so; this is a part of my experience being a woman in this world. It is not founded in any serious personal experience, thankfully — except that of living abroad and experiencing some machismo that did create a fear that stays with me.* And this isn’t the first time it’s limited my expeditions, especially in the context of the wilderness.
- The featured image is a snapshot of the spot on my daily walk to/from work in Cañar where I was consistently cat-called just 5min from my home, so they were neighbors. The consistency baffled me after a few months — I thought, will I ever be acknowledged as a person by this community, not just a suca foreigner?
I sat down on the path: angry with myself, thoughts swirling. I pulled out my phone to write.
I went walking to try not to think, clear my mind. But I find whenever I walk in forest, instead, I get an infusion of thought. Stop chatting, trees!
Like Expectations, Intentions are unstable, reactive, potentially hazardous. I’m in fear of the possible intentions of others (Man).
I’ve learned (been socialized) to stop playing along my life’s path, grow up to be part of the group that constructs the secure and obvious path (concrete = impervious surface) Nothing but an illusion of safety.. illusion of security. It is over the fear of intentions and obscured unknowns that we pave…
My curiosity and love is like the girl twirling along path; I turned around out of fear of a man’s intentions, retreated. Lost the ability to play, had to grow into the reality of expecting and fearing the maladies of others. Really, this insecurity is a construction in my head, something I’ve learned to believe about being in unknowns (forests that I’m not familiar with) and about Men.
Now How do I move forward?
I’m going to build up the confidence to follow the deer’s tracks instead of the cemented way, metaphorically. Walk slower, softer. Let my growth be directed by my senses (like walking with my eyes closed). Listen more. Be an infusion. Learn how to be a confidently tender woman.
I’m still wondering about what it means to write here.
On Apr 9, 2016, at 5:38 PM, Glenn Reid wrote:
This is actually a deeply difficult and philosophical issue, the Digital Footprint, as it were. It goes across many media, from photos to blog posts to web sites. What does it mean to “post” something, and “where” is it, anyway, and how long will it be there, and what happens to it over time? And along the way, who reads it, who keeps track of it all, and what is the point?
I haven’t resolved this yet, and I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Facebook will go away, Flickr will go away, blogspot.com will go away, even domains as they are now, will go away (curiousgeorgiatravels.com). It is quite a conundrum, how to map a course through all of this. I have had many blogs over the years, and dragged them kicking and screaming from one place to another, and the reality is that nobody reads any of it anyway, so I don’t know why I bother. It’s like journaling, I suppose — the act of writing is itself the point. And yet, when you write things at 2am and post them onto some passing cloud, your father, or your grandmother, might read them and really connect with you. That is valuable, too.
But yeah, in 4 years we will talk about it.
<3G>
On 4/9/16 9:13 PM, Georgia Reid now writes:
This is my response to you, Pop. Thankful for your wisdom, love you. Maybe you’ll read this. 😉