Seeing the Forest For More Than the Trees:
An Expedition into the Abstract
The air was of a distinctly different quality on my second visit to the pond in the woods. Warmer and somewhat dryer, the atmosphere no longer caught hold of my breath to condense it into clouds. Where my vision had once been augmented by an ethereal haze, there now lay a newfound clarity that I suspected would give my impressions of the place a more grounded and “scientific” perspective. And yet in spite of the lack of a magical fog, I found myself more immersed in the magic of that place than ever before. In my survey of the grounds I took on a much more exploratory attitude, both in the physical and abstract space of the area. Where I had once been too timid to ford the stream, I jumped across; where I had once been too reluctant to think beyond the physicality of the place, I made the jump to an abstract plane of thinking. Seemingly inert objects took on a new quality of life, and the forest suddenly sprung to a fantastical state, full of absurdities and anatopisms.
My first assessment of the area surrounding the pond had consisted of a series of lightning-fast surface level observations: a tree; a pond; a bird; water bugs; a red mitten. My eyes scanned across the landscape taking in as much as they could, indulging in the sensory smorgasbord provided by the fertile scenery. I was on a mission to translate my surroundings into text on the page, trying to capture every detail that I could observe. At the end of my first trip to the pond, I was sufficiently satisfied with my investigation of the area – I had turned a critical and scientific gaze upon the land and taken in all that seemed to be there to see. Much was my surprise, then, when I saw a gigantic slug about four or five feet long right where I had sat down to write my first essay only weeks ago.
The slug’s skin was hard and rough. I reached down to brush off some of the dried leaves that had nestled along his back, but the fragile debris disintegrated at my touch, falling into the various cracks that ran all along the length of the slug’s body. Still as stone, his optical tentacles were stretched out as if he were perpetually squinting to see something far in the distance. This was no ordinary slug of course. In fact, in reality it was no slug at all. What I had seen here on my first trip was just a fallen tree and nothing more. On this visit, however, the dead tree took on new life and I was able to see it as something more. Enabled by my own powers of imagination, the inert landscape was transmogrifying into something that was at once both itself and something entirely alien.
My first assessment of the area surrounding the pond had consisted of a series of lightning-fast surface level observations: a tree; a pond; a bird; water bugs; a red mitten. My eyes scanned across the landscape taking in as much as they could, indulging in the sensory smorgasbord provided by the fertile scenery. I was on a mission to translate my surroundings into text on the page, trying to capture every detail that I could observe. At the end of my first trip to the pond, I was sufficiently satisfied with my investigation of the area – I had turned a critical and scientific gaze upon the land and taken in all that seemed to be there to see. Much was my surprise, then, when I saw a gigantic slug about four or five feet long right where I had sat down to write my first essay only weeks ago.
The slug’s skin was hard and rough. I reached down to brush off some of the dried leaves that had nestled along his back, but the fragile debris disintegrated at my touch, falling into the various cracks that ran all along the length of the slug’s body. Still as stone, his optical tentacles were stretched out as if he were perpetually squinting to see something far in the distance. This was no ordinary slug of course. In fact, in reality it was no slug at all. What I had seen here on my first trip was just a fallen tree and nothing more. On this visit, however, the dead tree took on new life and I was able to see it as something more. Enabled by my own powers of imagination, the inert landscape was transmogrifying into something that was at once both itself and something entirely alien.
Perhaps it was the fantastical sight of the giant slug that spurred me on to explore further than I had before; what other creatures might I find wandering these woods? I once again approached the stream that had previously seemed too perilous to cross, this time with increased determination. Finally facing my challenge, my mind began to race with discouraging but dangerously exciting questions: What if I don’t make it? What could I find on the other side? Would I be able to make it back once I had jumped across once? And with a running leap I left the safety of the ground behind me and ascended to a new place entirely.
After making my jump, I soon stumbled across another animal I hadn’t expected to see on my trip. A gentle giant, he was contently perched on the edge of the stream. The corners of his mouth were pulled back and I could tell his was real, not feigned, happiness because his eye was smiling too. They say that’s how to tell a real smile from a fake one – the eyes. Laugh lines ran down the length of his cheek; the years of complacency and seamless coexistence with his environment shown in his weathered face. A strong tusk jutted out from beneath his snout, worn down perhaps from foraging for food or from territorial bouts with his neighbors. His great trunk extended up into the air exuberantly, and as trunk became trunk, the tree became an elephant. I spent some time with the cheerful elephant, getting to know him. I sat in the crook of his upturned trunk and pondered about why a social creature like this elephant looked so smug, sitting alone in the forest (perhaps for him, like Thoreau, the best company is found in solitude). I ran my fingers across the weathered lines on his face, reading his past like one reads a text in braille. I climbed out to the tip of his proboscis and felt the strength of his statuesque resolve.
After making my jump, I soon stumbled across another animal I hadn’t expected to see on my trip. A gentle giant, he was contently perched on the edge of the stream. The corners of his mouth were pulled back and I could tell his was real, not feigned, happiness because his eye was smiling too. They say that’s how to tell a real smile from a fake one – the eyes. Laugh lines ran down the length of his cheek; the years of complacency and seamless coexistence with his environment shown in his weathered face. A strong tusk jutted out from beneath his snout, worn down perhaps from foraging for food or from territorial bouts with his neighbors. His great trunk extended up into the air exuberantly, and as trunk became trunk, the tree became an elephant. I spent some time with the cheerful elephant, getting to know him. I sat in the crook of his upturned trunk and pondered about why a social creature like this elephant looked so smug, sitting alone in the forest (perhaps for him, like Thoreau, the best company is found in solitude). I ran my fingers across the weathered lines on his face, reading his past like one reads a text in braille. I climbed out to the tip of his proboscis and felt the strength of his statuesque resolve.
Soon enough, though, my time with the pachyderm came to an end and I felt the urge to explore onward. Continuing along the far bank of the stream, I followed the flow of the water for about 50 yards, carefully traversing log bridges and picking my way through the brush. This began to draw me further and further away from the area I had originally designated as my subject for investigation, though. I grew worried that perhaps I was drifting too far down stream. I became keenly aware of the notion that, if I were to allow it, this stream would carry me far, far away from my intended mission, and so I turned back and headed upstream.
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Making my way back towards the point where I had jumped across the stream, my mind turned again to the issue of whether it would be as simple to get back across to my starting point as it had been to launch myself off of that safe shore... My mental wanderings were interrupted, however, when yet another anatopism caught my eye. Tucked away on the underside of a mossy log, a handful of white little morsels popped into my periphery. The contours and recesses in the surfaces of the little white lumps were unmistakable. In my mind, images were nostalgically conjured up of high school dates at movie theaters, of family nights in seated around the big screen TV, of the countless real, precious moments shared over a bit of film and a bowl of popcorn. I moved in closer and got on my hands and knees to get down to equal level with the popcorn bits, and upon closer inspection they still seemed pretty convincingly to be popcorn. Reason, however, told me otherwise, and I knew them to be some sort of fungus instead – possibly much less enjoyable, even deadly, to eat. But what of those memories and emotions that the sight of popcorn had rekindled? In spite of reason, my imagined interpretation of this lowly fungus still inspired very real reactions. I pondered on this effect that the abstract was having on me and continued along with my journey.
The moment was fast approaching when I would have to make my return leap across the water. Walking back upstream, the entire landscape seemed foreign and new to me. It was surprisingly difficult to find the point at which I had previously crossed over. When I finally did find it, I stopped for a moment to consider what this jump back symbolized for me. I had both physically and mentally ascended into a new state of communion with the nature there, and I wondered if returning to old ground physically would enact a similar change in mindset. With this apprehension hanging over my head, I summoned up my courage a second time and launched myself across the running water, landing safely back on the shore of the other side.
Once again, it wasn’t long after crossing the stream that I happened upon yet another figure that seemed out of place in this natural sanctuary. Reaching up out of the reeds, an outstretched palm looked as if it were offering me something. Open and turned upward toward the sky, the hand was perfectly positioned to hold an object up in the air. It occurred to me that just as much as the hand (that was really just a broken branch) could be extended in a gesture of offering, it could also be there in expectance of receiving something from me. This symbiotic nature of giving and receiving brought my expedition into a new perspective, and it was as if this final absurd figure in the woods captured the essence of what I had found there.
Once again, it wasn’t long after crossing the stream that I happened upon yet another figure that seemed out of place in this natural sanctuary. Reaching up out of the reeds, an outstretched palm looked as if it were offering me something. Open and turned upward toward the sky, the hand was perfectly positioned to hold an object up in the air. It occurred to me that just as much as the hand (that was really just a broken branch) could be extended in a gesture of offering, it could also be there in expectance of receiving something from me. This symbiotic nature of giving and receiving brought my expedition into a new perspective, and it was as if this final absurd figure in the woods captured the essence of what I had found there.
What I had missed on my first venture into this spot was the hidden potential in objects like a tree or a fungus to take on a completely new identity. This new identity was only unlocked through a sort of giving and receiving – a dialogue – between myself and the landscape. Like the old question, “If a tree falls in the forest but there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?” I came into awareness of a new twist on the old paradigm: “If a tree in the forest looks like an elephant, but there’s no one there to see it, is it anything more than a tree?” It was only through the combined effect of these objects’ appearances and my abstract interpretation that they took on new forms. Upon coming to this realization I was then left with another question: why hadn’t I noticed this magical potential in the scenery in the first place?
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Looking back on my first exploration of the pond in the woods, I think I was too wrapped up in the physicality of the place because I was trying to describe it, to put a name to the things there. I was also trying to take everything in at once, taking too broad of a scope to appreciate the finer details and essence of individual objects. In doing so I inadvertently cut myself off from a whole methodology of receiving and interpreting the landscape, which I now realize was extremely limiting. In Thoreau’s exploration of nature he does certainly pay attention to scientific truths, concrete observations, and the physicality of the outdoors, but he also opens himself up to a more contemplative and metaphorical analysis of the wilderness; he employs poetic, mythological, and scientific descriptions of nature as well as literary devices like the river as a metaphor for life. It is through the combination of both the physical and the abstract that Thoreau is able to more closely capture the essence of nature and put it on the page.
I have also attempted here to bring some more Thoreauvian thinking stylistically into the writing. The body paragraphs alternate between descriptions of the abstract and the concrete, similar to Thoreau’s meandering between the contemplative and the practical in A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. The intent with this choice was to emulate the juxtaposition of the real and the imagined that I experienced in my trip and to further immerse the reader in that experience. Also, I placed the pictures so that the reader doesn’t see them until a page-turn after each photographs’ subject has been introduced. My hope with this was to increase the sense of wonder and imagination in the reader, keeping them in suspense for a short duration before revealing what the object truly is. Both of these stylistic choices were deliberately applied to enhance this text’s embodiment of the outdoors.
In my second visit to the pond in the woods, the physical world and my imagination intertwined, casting an entirely new light on the scene. The jump that I made across the stream into new territory paralleled my jump into a new mode of perceiving the landscape, and thankfully returning to familiar ground in a physical sense did not mean a revoking of the abstract ground I had gained as well. Based on my experience here I have a newfound appreciation for interweaving the actual and the metaphorical to achieve a true dialogue with the landscape, and this is all thanks to a couple of trees and some fungus – or a giant slug, a cheerful elephant, some popcorn, and an outstretched hand – it is all a matter of perspective.
I have also attempted here to bring some more Thoreauvian thinking stylistically into the writing. The body paragraphs alternate between descriptions of the abstract and the concrete, similar to Thoreau’s meandering between the contemplative and the practical in A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. The intent with this choice was to emulate the juxtaposition of the real and the imagined that I experienced in my trip and to further immerse the reader in that experience. Also, I placed the pictures so that the reader doesn’t see them until a page-turn after each photographs’ subject has been introduced. My hope with this was to increase the sense of wonder and imagination in the reader, keeping them in suspense for a short duration before revealing what the object truly is. Both of these stylistic choices were deliberately applied to enhance this text’s embodiment of the outdoors.
In my second visit to the pond in the woods, the physical world and my imagination intertwined, casting an entirely new light on the scene. The jump that I made across the stream into new territory paralleled my jump into a new mode of perceiving the landscape, and thankfully returning to familiar ground in a physical sense did not mean a revoking of the abstract ground I had gained as well. Based on my experience here I have a newfound appreciation for interweaving the actual and the metaphorical to achieve a true dialogue with the landscape, and this is all thanks to a couple of trees and some fungus – or a giant slug, a cheerful elephant, some popcorn, and an outstretched hand – it is all a matter of perspective.