The Nature of Things

Attended a workshop on nature writing on Saturday. It was actually a workshop applicable to any sort of writing, slanted in many ways toward the natural world.

First was the writing of short poems. Write what? I hadn't written a poem for about 45 years, and that one wasn't any good. I used to think a poem had to rhyme, and I'm particularly bad at that sort of thing. I was reminded that rhyming isn't strictly necessary, but I still didn't try it. Anyway, I wrote a few lines about a piece of fruit that Katie had put on the table. Mine was a green chili. What I wrote isn't good enough to put here, so I won't.

Then another, this time about something that had been impressive. In my case, it was how a cold fog had filled our valley a couple of mornings before, accompanied by light snow.

So now I'd written two poems, for an approximate average of one every twenty two years. This will probably do me for a while since real poems are written by the likes of Robert Frost, not by me. I feel strongly that if I can't write a good poem, then I won't write poems at all.

An exercise followed where we were led around outside with eyes closed, feeling the texture of things. Granite, wood, metal, dirt, plants, and a bell. Then an introduction to haiku, which was a little over the top for me, though I can see how some would get into it.

Then an exercise where we wrote a letter as to a friend, telling about a place we'd been, or where we imagined ourselves to be. I imagined the first couple of miles of a San Juan River trip. I always wonder about the people who were there long ago, who left petroglyphs on the walls. I know what the petroglyphs look like, but what was it like to be one of those people?

Thought has developed over the years from when nature was the enemy, and wild country was where the devil lived. Finally, there appeared John Muir, Edward Abbey, and Rachael Carson. I won't get into the backwardness of certain politicians who are in office today.