As a photographer, I've always been visually interested in borders and boundaries--the fences we build, the stone walls dividing land, the doors between rooms, the horizon line separating the sea and sky. Of course, borders define our homes and our towns--two entities that we probably feel we know pretty well. So, I was pleasantly surprised last weekend to take a historical tour of my town with my family and discover twenty-six nationally registered landmarks within its twenty-one square miles. Twenty-six landmarks! Before the tour, I would have been hard-pressed to name four of them, but there they were, all with their plaques and dates, proving their hard-won histories.
My favorite was a Quaker meeting house dating back to 1758. Although I've lived in this New Jersey town for just over seven years and felt like I really knew my way around it, I never even knew this meeting house existed until three weeks ago, when my son wrote a social studies report on it. I had never been down this particular road before, and it made me wonder what else I could discover within these seemingly familiar boundaries.
A few months back, I read a beautifully written novel about discovery (especially self-discovery) and pushing physical and emotional limits, called The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. The main character, without any planning or even proper footwear, just starts walking across the whole of England because he learns an old friend is dying at the northernmost point of the country. His feet just sort of propel him forward, toward his friend. I'm a big book-underliner, and by the time I reached the last page, this book was thoroughly marked-up with passages I loved, including this one:
"The sun pressed warm on the back of his head and shoulders as he strolled down the avenues of new housing. Harold glanced in at people's windows, and sometimes they were empty, and sometimes people were staring right back at him and he felt obliged to rush on. Sometimes, though, there was an object that he didn't expect; a porcelain figure, or a vase, and even a tuba. The tender pieces of themselves that people staked as boundaries against the outside world."
The book is all about Harold taking notice of things large and small, expanding where he thought he could go emotionally and physically, seeing familiar things in a different light, and seeing new things altogether. (I devoured it.)
I had the good fortune (and great timing!) last week to turn on the TV for a quick check on the weather and instead find one of my favorite musicians, Yo-Yo Ma, speaking on "CBS This Morning" about his new CD, A Playlist Without Borders. I could listen to Yo-Yo Ma all day long, and I don't just mean his recent masterpieces or those YouTube videos of him as a child prodigy. But here's what he said that really struck a chord with me (oh, dear--horrible pun unintended!):
"In terms of our borders, we determine our borders. Some of them are political, some of them are demographic-economic borders, but then there's the border of the imagination. And that one, we have the most control over. We can control where our own edges are, and that's where the growth happens."
I loved his sentiment of exploring the boundaries of imagination within ourselves. Because we don't always need a guided tour for everything. Sometimes, even if we stay in one place, quietly looking inward, we can stretch our boundaries in ways we never thought were possible.
Your turn: Are there things in your town or city that you've only just discovered? Have you ever pushed the limits of your physical or mental strength to try something new? Please share in the Comments section below. If you are reading this post via email subscription or mobile device, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com from a computer to see the comments and leave one of your own. (Don't forget to click the box for subscribing to comments so you can follow the conversation.)
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Please forgive me if the title of this post sounds like an episode of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, but I've been thinking a lot lately about the places that bring me a deep sense of peacefulness, and why it matters to keep them in mind.
A couple of years ago, I was sprawled out on a yoga mat on Long Beach Island, on a sunny rooftop in the middle of July, taking a yoga class with my mother-in-law, who also happens to be one of my very best friends (don't hate me--I know that good mothers-in-law are a rare species indeed). The instructor was speaking to us in that soothing, kindergarten-teacher voice, asking us to picture our "Happy Place"--the place in our respective lives where we felt most at peace. With my eyes closed, my mind journeyed back to the almost-magical woods beyond my childhood backyard, and as I pictured myself traveling along the familiar dirt path under the cover of majestic oaks and pines, I heard the instructor say, "Do you hear the seagulls?" [Insert SCREECHING BRAKES here.] No, Miss Yoga Instructor, I do not hear the seagulls in my forest! Apparently, the beach was her Happy Place and she just assumed we were all mentally enjoying the sand and surf with her.
"Goldie Hawn" and "cognitive neuroscience" are two entities which you probably wouldn't pair up, but I just finished reading an inspiring book called 10 Mindful Minutes by Ms. Hawn. To be honest, I've never really liked Goldie Hawn as an actress (the ditzy blonde act...ugh!), so I had no idea that she is the founder of a group which established MindUP, a program used in many schools around the world to help children reduce stress and anxiety, and build their social and emotional skills. She worked with an impressive team of doctors, educators, and scientists to create the program. (I'm distantly related to one of them by marriage, Dr. Richard Davidson, but I've met him only once, so I can't claim any true name-dropping benefit.) The premise of the book is that we need regular "brain breaks" throughout the day--especially if we can't take an actual break outdoors in a peaceful setting--to function better physically, emotionally, and socially in this age of technological overload. Cortisol, a natural hormone, is released in the body as a direct response to stress, and high levels of it have been linked to everything from heart disease to cancer. By taking these meditative breaks, we can lower our levels of cortisol and raise our levels of dopamine and serotonin, hormones related to pleasure.
Because I'm somewhat pathetic at relaxing, meditating on my breathing while sitting still in the lotus position doesn't work for me at all. I am, however, good at visualizing. So, if I can't travel to someplace that I find personally restorative (like Hacklebarney State Park or the Frelinghuysen Arboretum), I practice taking my mind there. Mini mental vacations, if you will.
If you need a mini mental vacation (who doesn't?), feel free to visit my new Pinterest page for a jumping-off point. I've carefully curated it as a gallery of my favorite images in nature--soothing, lovely, and capable of boosting those dopamine levels. You could say it's a collection of my personal Happy Places. Spoiler Alert: It's without seagulls.
Your turn: What's your Happy Place? Do you feel the most at peace in the mountains, the ocean, the woods, or elsewhere? Why? Please share in the Comments section below (now powered by CommentLuv for easier use). If you are reading this post via email subscription, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com and you can leave a comment at the original post.
Yesterday, while I was reading Anna's blog post at Green-Talk about how she protects the vegetables in her garden from deer and other critters by covering them with old pantyhose (ingenious and comical at the same time), I got to thinking about our collective love/hate relationship with deer. The White-Tailed Deer in northern New Jersey are virtually everywhere--moseying through the rural sections as well as the suburbs, and too often, not making it across the busy highways. Anything we're growing that we want to eat, we keep on our deck or in our greenhouse because we've been burned one too many times by deer making a quick smorgasbord of our new plantings.
Sometimes I resent the deer for their insatiable appetites (realizing, of course, that they're just trying to survive in a world where the borders between "us" and "them" are shrinking), but I have to admit, they are really beautiful animals. Funnily enough, they've always reminded me of ballet dancers with their elongated-but-muscular, delicate-but-capable bodies. And their ability to blend in with the forest is nothing short of amazing. Sometimes, we can be out on our deck, having a meal and looking out into the woods, thinking we're just seeing the trees, and then a deer rises to its feet--and then another--and then another--and we realize it wasn't just the trees after all.
Just last week, my nine-year-old son walked to the edge of the woods in our backyard and came face-to-face with a deer about 10 feet away. He kept edging closer and closer, and finally stopped, standing there in a sort of wordless conversation with the animal. There was something magical about the two of them standing there in silence and stillness, regarding each other with curiosity. Both of them young and beautiful in their own way, but together, an exquisite pairing. I asked him later what he felt in that moment. "So peaceful," he replied.
As a society, we've definitely got polarized feelings about deer. I know a few people who hate deer because of Lyme Disease, and I hail from East Lyme, Connecticut, the epicenter of the disease, so I'm no stranger to it (having gotten the tell-tale bull's-eye rash over three decades ago, before most people even knew what it was), but to me, it's just blaming the messenger: The ticks are the ones who have latched on for the ride. I know a lot of people who endorse "thinning the herd" through hunting, and others who still feel heavy guilt and sadness because their car hit a deer. I just saw an article yesterday about a family fighting to keep a pet deer they've raised since it was born.
Well, I'm not taking in any deer as houseguests, but I'm not in favor of hunting them either. I guess I've grown to be at peace with them, and I like them more than I don't. It just takes some adjustments. Regularly, I'm out spraying our bushes with an earth-friendly (but nose-unfriendly) concoction that smells like rotten eggs. Maybe even worse. (I've tried a bunch of deer repellants--my favorite name was Not Tonight Deer!, but I currently use Liquid Fence. Tip: Do NOT spray deer repellant on a windy day; you will be sorry--and stinky.)
We often have various friends visiting from the city (New York) who can't believe their luck when a large herd of deer meanders across our yard. Our guests scramble for their camera-phones and start snapping away. But for us, it's just another day and another deer herd, making its way across our shared terrain. Now and then, we stop to take a picture of them, too.
How do you feel about deer? Love 'em, hate 'em, or somewhere in between? Why? How do you keep them from eating your plants? Please share in the Comments section below (now powered by CommentLuv for ease of use). If you are reading this post via email subscription, click on the title or go to www.JoyfullyGreen.com and you can leave a comment at the original post.
I feel like I've known the following poem for as long as I can remember, and yet I never tire of it. Robert Frost was one of my father's favorite poets, and this poem always brings back memories of the woods behind my childhood home in Connecticut. If we ventured out far enough into the woods, we would come to a long-forgotten carriage path. I love how a poem has the power to transport us back in time to a place we hold dear and the people who brought us there.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
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It was another crisp, clear autumn day--much too pretty to stay inside--so when I picked up the kids from school, we headed straight out on an unplanned trip: Hacklebarney State Park in Chester, New Jersey. It's not far from us, it's free, it's gorgeous, and it's open year- round, so we visit frequently. It's also dog-friendly, so Delilah eagerly came along with us for the ride.
Surprisingly (given the fireworks of color in our own neighborhood this week), the leaves at Hacklebarney are still mostly green. But there were a few golden trees glinting in the sun...
...as well as a smattering of orange and red ones.
Being in full dress-up mode lately (Halloween right around the corner and all), Charlotte made this leaf into a makeshift mask:
Then the kids were off to explore the stream and waterfall, one of their favorite parts of Hacklebarney park. It's incredibly peaceful and meditative (even if you're a normally high-energy eight-year-old boy) to sit beside a stream as it burbles and meanders along through a forest.
It reminded me of a practice I keep coming across in my reading lately--something the Japanese call "Shinrin-yoku" or "forest bathing." It has nothing to do with actually getting wet--it's just about immersing yourself in the peacefulness of a forest, breathing in the scent of trees, as a way to cleanse your mind (and perhaps, as some studies suggest, boost your immune system). Turns out that I've been forest-bathing for over four decades now (see Beyond the Back Yard: The Roots of a Green Life.) It's definitely a practice I want to pass on to my children. Added benefit: It's the kind of "bathtime" they never seem to complain about.
After we'd had our "bath," we headed out of the park, once again seeing these wise words:
On our way home, we stopped at the nearby (and wonderful) Hacklebarney Farm (104 State Park Road in Chester, www.njcidermill.com), for their very own wood-pressed apple cider and homemade cinnamon donuts.
It was charming and cozy (the family of owners is also very friendly and helpful), and because it was late Friday afternoon, right before closing time, there wasn't even a crowd. Sweet!
If you've had a relatively happy childhood, I think that in adulthood, you're always trying to recreate or recapture the happy moments, and revisit the special places of your youth--if you can. For my husband, who grew up sailing with his family just north of New York City, he's still at his happiest when he's out on the water, and if he can't be out on the water, he's reading sailing magazines to relax after a long day at work. My own childhood, although also happy, gave me a very different view of peacefulness and personal bliss. Instead of the water, it was the woods.
I grew up in a small town in Connecticut, on a quiet cul-de-sac called Willow Lane--even though there wasn't a single willow tree in sight. Our neighborhood had no shortage of other trees, though, as all of the houses on the north side of the street had the woods to border their back yards, a sprawling range of trees that ran for miles and miles.
My bedroom window faced the forest. Each night, before climbing into my canopy bed, I would stand on my ladybug stool and peer out into the woods. In summer, my nose pressed up against the screen, I could see the little flashes of fireflies, traveling in drunken, weaving patterns around and about the trees. I'd fall asleep to the sound of peepfrogs and wake up to the first bird songs of morning.
About a hundred feet into the woods, just off the well-worn path, was a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, with the words MAGIC ROCK painted in white capital letters on its side. No one knew who had painted the words, but everyone knew the wishing procedure: Stand atop the boulder, slowly turn around three times, and make a wish--only one wish per forest visit, and no wishing on the way back out!
My sister, eight years my senior, introduced me to the forest. Each December, she would drive me in a wheelbarrow deep into the snowy woods, where we would select the perfect miniature Christmas tree for her bedroom. Carefully, she would dig around its roots, and we would plop the whole package, soil and all, into the wheelbarrow. Later that night, the little tree would sit in a bucket on her desk, bedecked in our homemade garlands of popcorn and cranberries, with a simple strand of white lights. After the holidays, my sister would transplant the tree to our back yard, at the very border of the woods. By the time she went off to college, there were five fir trees on the border of our yard.
In spring, when my sister returned from college, she took me into the forest again. The ground was soft underfoot, and the trees were in full bloom. Kneeling on the bank of a stream, we scooped out frog eggs, pasty-white jelly masses with black dots for centers. We carried them home in beach pails to study, and in a short time, the eggs separated and sprouted long, wiggly tails. Then it was back to the stream again, to send the tadpoles on their way.
In my sister's absence, my father became my guide to the woods. Although he tended three gardens in our own yard (two for flowers, one for herbs), he took it upon himself to be a caretaker of the forest. I accompanied him on his missions: clearing piles of leaves from the dirt paths, weeding out fallen trees, and with our bare hands, scooping out cold mud and twigs from a blocked brook until the water ran freely again.
On weekends, bright and early, my father and I would head out into the forest, followed at a great distance by our cat, Snoopy, whom I suppose was trying to maintain an air of feline independence. Snoopy never got within fifty feet of us, but then again, he never ventured off on his own path, either. We'd stop every now and then to make sure he was following, and he'd stop and pretend that he wasn't.
On our journeys through the woods, my father would point out different plants and trees, insects and animals. Over the fallen tree--an impromptu bridge across the first pond on our journey--past birch ("white bark) and mountain laurel ("white blossoms"), we'd make our way past thickets and tangles. Skirting poison ivy ("leaves of three, let them be") and the hawthorn bush ("needles sharp enough for sewing"), we'd at last come to the meadow.
Crouching amidst the tall grass and wildflowers ("Shh...not a sound"), we would almost always be witnesses to something extraordinary: a jackrabbit bounding about, as if on springs; a garter snake basking on a rock ("he won't hurt you"); a pheasant strutting cockily, looking for its lunch; a stately stag--despite its size, so shy and soft; a Native American arrowhead to take home in my pocket; the Big Old Oak, with its trunk so fat, it would take five children to encircle it with their arms.
As I got older (about ten or so), I got bolder, braving the forest on my own. A latchkey kid, I'd make secret trips into the woods when no one was at home. Once, startled by the sound of people a short distance away, I broke into a run and caught my leg on a jagged branch. Blood pulsed from the deep gash, but there was no time to stop. At home, I put on thick bandages and told my mom it was a gym class injury. I still have the scar, a slight, dotted line up my left shin.
On another secret solo visit, undaunted by the leg injury, I brought along my father's binoculars and hiked out to the farthest pond. Panning the scene at the opposite bank, I spied nothing new with my enlarged vision. Then I saw it--my heart jumped. It was my own first name, carved large and deep on a thick tree trunk. Preoccupied with conjuring up neighborhood suspects, I lost my footing on a mossy rock, catching myself just before taking an unexpected dip in the pond. That's when I heard it--a single, horrible "plop." The binoculars had broken free from the shoulder strap and had sunk to the bottom of the pond.
That night after dinner, my mother went to her studio to paint, while my father went to the living room to immerse himself in a book. I tiptoed in, trying not to shiver.
"Dad?" I whispered. He looked up over his eyeglasses. "Remember how you always say that I can tell you anything?"
"Yes?" He shut his book and looked immediately serious. "What's the matter?"
"And remember how you said you'd always love me, no matter what I did?"
"Yes, yes! Joy, please, what is it?"
I confessed the whole sordid tale, then braced myself to hear my punishment. But my dad didn't yell--he sighed in relief! The binoculars weren't that important, he told me; it was my safety that concerned him. He told me firmly not to go into the woods alone again.
Together, the next day, we retraced my journey, and I brought him to the sound of The Plop. With a long tree branch, he poked and prodded around the bottom of the pond. Then he tapped at something. With one long, careful lift, he raised the branch. The renegade binoculars emerged from the water, dripping with mud and covered with leaves.
After the binoculars were professionally cleaned, my father gave them to me to keep, for future forest trips--together.
The winter I turned eleven, I still didn't know how to ice skate. All of my friends were twirling and leaping on the town lake, but I was too embarrassed to learn to skate in public. One early Saturday morning, with my sister's old skates tied together and slung over my shoulder, I followed my dad to the Binocular Pond. He threw a large rock at its center. It thumped and skidded to a stop. "Safe to skate." After we laced up our clunky, impossible skates, he held both of my hands and glided backwards, and I clumsily trudged forwards and sideways on the blades. Around and around we went. He'd free me and I'd falter. Finally, exhausted from all the legwork, I rested on a rock while my father etched smooth, grand figure eights on the ice, not one sound except for his skates, clicking and wooshing across its surface. Snow had carpeted the forest with white velvet and the trees wore a hundred million twinkling diamonds, glittering from every branch. When morning melted into afternoon, we headed home for lunch. I didn't master skating that January, but I will never forget that day's perfection.
Although in our hearts, the forest was "ours," it didn't really belong to us at all. By the time I was in college, the woods in its entirety was sold to developers. The summer after my senior year of college, when I went home to my parents' house, I looked out the window of my childhood bedroom, only to see the single line of trees, a mere screen between our yard and the new yard behind ours. On the very edge of our property, where the woods once began, I could see the little ring of rocks that marked the burial site of Snoopy the cat. The grave was shaded by my sister's five "miniature" Christmas trees, by then so tall, they dwarfed our house.
But the forest is gone now; all of it, gone. Magic Rock, the tadpole stream, the wildflower meadow, Binocular Pond. In their places are new landmarks. Swing-sets and swimming pools, circular driveways, three-car garages, front yards and back yards, houses and more houses. For miles and miles.
It was many years ago that we sold our house. My parents have long since passed away. My sister and I live on opposite ends of the United States. Much time has passed; many things have changed. But when I close my eyes at the end of a long day, it's the old woods at Willow Lane that I'm picturing. I'm at the very edge of it, and I'm starting down the dirt path, following my dad, just as I drift off to sleep.
Dedicated to my father, Charles Johnson (1924-2002), who lived a green life long before it was the popular thing to do, and perfected the art of kindness.
