Month: April 2024

On SUNY Geneseo’s campus, it can be extremely difficult to escape the concrete and pavement that seems to circumscribe any green areas. That isn’t even going into the fences and signs that don’t allow us to get to one of the few dedicated green spaces near any academic buildings. One of the only places a student living on SUNY Geneseo’s campus can go to really experience nature without a car is the Roemer Arboretum. Despite being one of the farthest areas from academic buildings, it is fairly easily accessible, though it may be a bit of a walk. I have been going to the arboretum for four years now, anytime I needed an escape from classes – my freshman year, on zoom, or, since then, the fluorescent lighting and cold, inorganic classrooms. I have seen the Arboretum develop over the years – as a freshman, living in Onondaga Hall (which is very close to the arboretum), in order to get to the gazebo and actually out of sight of the parking lots, you had to balance on one of two wooden planks that went over a marshy area, and try your best to keep that balance when they inevitably bowed under your weight. I experienced when they replaced those boards with newer, sturdier boards, and now, as there is an actual footbridge over the wet, marshy area. To me, the arboretum has always been a place of peace and quiet, to escape the chaos of campus and classes and the world, in general. It has been, since my freshman year, when it became a 15 minute walk instead of a 3 minute walk, somewhere that I have always gone alone. No one I’ve lived with has really wanted to make that trek, so it became a time of true quiet and contemplation whenever I’d go there. One of my favorite things about the arboretum is, if you go there on a clear night, you can see the stars and constellations – this is something that is not possible anywhere else on campus.

One thing that I always find comforting about nature (especially when it is not tampered with by human hands) is how slow, consistent, and expected any changes are. Though people have changed some things in the arboretum – adding a bee box, cutting down a few trees, or replacing the footbridge – everything else is consistently what you expect. The trees get green, and then colorful, and then the leaves fall, and then they bud again. The plants consistently look the same as they do at this point in the season any year I go. When life moves as fast as it seems to be – maybe more to me, since it seems my whole life is being uprooted as graduation looms on the horizon – a place where everything is slow and consistent and unchanged is of immense comfort.

On my very last GREAT Day before I graduate, I met with my group to go to the Arboretum to be in nature for a while. It was a chilly, rainy day, and I had already had to be at an event for GREAT Day, so I was in a skirt. The misty rain and the brutal wind made the walk a little less enjoyable than usual, but, in a way, it allowed me to feel a little deeper what this part of the season is for the plants in the arboretum. Though it was fairly dark and dreary, there was no sun to be seen, and the windblown raindrops felt like tiny pebbles against my legs, you could see the plants getting greener and the buds growing. The dark day was made so much brighter by the deepest green coming out in the buds on the plants, and in the growing grass, and the small blossoms blooming on some of the shrubbery. Standing in the gazebo, the only sounds other than the group talking about this experience was the raindrops on the roof of the gazebo, the wind blowing through the trees, and the birds flying around, landing and taking off from the trees, and singing, despite the gloom of the day.

The entire experience was one of immense hope – despite the objective imperfections of the day, everyone could tell that these kinds of days are what is needed to have beautiful green sunny days in the future. It’s a feeling I’m choosing to hold onto, as I get through the stress of my last finals period in my undergrad, and the uncertainty that is coming with graduation – nature needs the gloomy periods in order to have beautiful, bright, and better days.

I went to the Arboretum while it rained and sat under the shelter of the gazebo. I learned from my father early in life that the best times to observe nature can be during bad weather, because no one else will be around. While this usually meant going out to Niagara Falls when it was twenty degrees and covered in ice, I understood what he meant. For one, the silence of nothing but you and the falls is something that really makes you listen to what it is saying. Second, even though it felt miserable to be there while it was so cold, the ice that covered the trees and sidewalks from the mist of the falls looked like diamonds in the sunlight.

Nature can be loud when it wants to be. I’ve been through enough thunderstorms and blizzards to know nature can be very, very loud. Sometimes it can be annoying, or debilitating. But, those with the frankly stupid courage that I have, venture out to listen to the loudness. During the Christmas Blizzard that buried my hometown in five feet of snow and drifts taller than the street signs, I wrapped myself in ski gear and ventured into my backyard. I laid in the snow and listened as the wind roared. It’s hard to describe because it doesn’t seem like it, but it was incredibly calming. Just lying on the snow as the world screams around you, low enough to the ground that the wind doesn’t touch you and allows you to sit and stare in wonder.

Nature is also silent when it wants to be. My father would take me and my sisters out far from the city to traverse into the woods and find owls. Coming from a largely populated county, it was such a different experience being out so far at night. It’s colder, darker, quieter. But my father always made hot chocolate to combat the cold, and the darkness let me see more stars than I ever could have back at home. But the quiet was intimidating to an eight you old who still fell for when my father claimed tigers lived in the woods. Absolute silence, minus the occasional call of a frog from the water or the migrating canada geese above our heads. Now, I understand the quiet isn’t so terrifying. It forces you to be quiet and listen for any sounds, for the calls of owls my dad searched for.

As I sat in the gazebo, I thought back to all these times that nature commanded me to be quiet and to listen. To listen to it’s screaming or it’s silence. The rain was particularly quiet, letting me sit in contempt as it fluttered around. I shrunk into myself from the bracing winds and stared out over the leafless trees and barren ground, still not awoken by the call of Spring. Hopefully it will wake soon.

Standing at the brink of the Canadian side of Niagara Falls for my first time, I was taken by the awe-inspiring spectacle of water thundering down into the abyss. The mist spraying onto my face felt both invigorating and chilling, a vivid reminder of nature’s raw power and elegance. This was not my first visit to the falls; I had been here several times before, yet the experience was as mesmerizing and profound as ever, perhaps even more so from this fresh perspective.

From where I stood, the view was a vibrant picture of water, mist, and foliage. The vast white curtain of the falls contrasted starkly with the differing greens of the water and the trees clinging to the banks. Small twigs and patches of foliage, caught in the relentless flow, danced chaotically toward the edge of the falls. Every detail, from the largest roar of the water to the smallest leaf swirling paint a picture of dynamic beauty, reflecting the always changing dance of nature.

This visit was particularly reflective, bringing back vivid memories of my first visit to Niagara Falls many years ago on the American side with my father. Standing there with him as a 12 year old boy, I felt an initial sense of wonder that has deeply influenced my perception of nature. Now, revisiting the falls from a new vantage point on the Canadian side, I recognized that different perspectives can profoundly alter and enrich our experiences. This shift in viewpoint provided a deeper understanding of the falls’ majesty, expanding my appreciation for this natural wonder.

As I breathed in the cool, misty air, my thoughts turned to Thoreau and his writings in Walden, where he advocates for a deep, personal connection with nature. Thoreau saw the act of observing nature as a reflective, almost meditative practice, integrating the observer’s subjectivity into the experience. This type of observation and personal reflection was precisely what I was experiencing—a vivid, personal reconnection with nature, grounded in the sensory and emotional landscape around me.

Thoreau emphasized being fully present and awake to capture the essence of the natural world. Standing here at Niagara Falls, I felt a profound alignment with this philosophy. The thunderous cascade of water, the serene greenery, and the frothy turmoil of leaves and twigs below—all served as potent reminders of life’s transient yet timeless nature. My observations went beyond the mere visual; they became a deep, introspective journey reflecting my inner thoughts and memories.

Capturing this moment with a photograph, I knew that no single image could encompass the depth of what I felt. However, it could serve as a gateway back to this experience, a visual anchor to the emotions and revelations encountered here. This experience, like Thoreau’s vivid depictions in Walden, was not just an observation of nature but an intimate dialogue with it. It reminded me that each interaction with the natural world is a personal voyage, one that resonates with our thoughts, invokes our memories, and deepens our connection to the earth. Here at Niagara Falls, from a new perspective, I was reminded once again of the beauty and profound complexity of nature, a perpetual source of inspiration and wonder in my life.

On Wednesday, April 24th my class group and I took a fun trip to the Roemer Arboretum to see some nature that surrounds us at SUNY Geneseo. We all sat in the gazebo and walked around for a bit to see what it was like over in that area. We went in the late morning so there was a nice quietness and we were able to hear lots of birds chirping, even though it was a little bit rainy. We heard many different bird calls and it made me wonder where they were, since I didn’t see any when I looked around except for one hawk. This hawk soared through the sky so majestically and it flew so effortlessly above us. I thought that was very cool to see and it makes me wonder what life would be like from so far up, compared to being down on the ground.

It was drizzling while we were there so I wore my raincoat and visually the rain left a beautiful dew on all the grass, plants, and flowers. I normally hate the rain because the feeling of wet/damp clothes kind of grosses me out and is very uncomfortable, but I do like the way it makes nature look. I can appreciate the fact that rain brings new life, as well. For example, I love flowers and without the rain nourishing them, they would not be able to grow. They need the water to flourish and become so beautiful, otherwise they’d be wilted and dead, looking lifeless and dull. In fact, most of their beauty comes from their bright colors and full shape.

While on our trip to the arboretum, we saw that there is a whole garden with many different plants such as: blue-eyed grass, creeping phlox, and Culver’s root. These plants were all ones that I’ve never seen before and it was cool to see them in their natural state. The blue-eyed grass is a small flower with skinny blue leaves that have ridges on them. The creeping phlox has narrow leaves, is low to the ground, and is whitish pink. The third plant I saw was Culver’s root which is skinny and long, with fuzzy, white flowers. These were all pretty to see and I wonder which of these I might be able to see around campus in other places.

Next to the gazebo there was a big clearing surrounded by trees that we were able to walk in. There was a bunch of cut down trees in this field as well, which makes me wonder why they are all there. I think that maybe they’ll be used for lumber or possibly a home for an animal, but I’m not quite sure. There were benches to sit on, over by the edge of the clearing and it looked like some of them might be dedicated to certain people. I think that this is such a peaceful place to spend time, no matter what the season may be. In the winter, it would be beautiful to see snowfall and the trees draped with snow. In the summer, all the flowers will be in bloom and the sunshine would be warm and comforting. I’ll have to come back to the arboretum soon to see what changes in growth from week to week. My new experience definitely was exciting to see and it was nice to get into nature and take a break from the fast moving pace of my normal life.

For the first time in my college career, I have lived off campus this year. I live on Center Street, and while living off campus affords me a bigger room and my own personal laundry services, it also necessitates quite a walk to class. As a relatively poor college student, I declined to pay extra for a commuter parking pass (a parking pass which is so limited in the parking spots it affords you it is hardly worth the money) and as such I walk to class, rain or shine. I wholeheartedly endorse a walk to class; the time spent outdoors invigorates the mind and body in a way that a morning commute in a car cannot.

Ever since Spring began and the trees began to flower again, my morning walks have been scored by the sounds of birds calling to each other in the trees lining the street. It is common to hear the songs of the American robin (Turdus migratorius) and the downy woodpecker (Picoides pubescens) from the trees in the morning, and I’ve become familiar with the sights and sounds of many of the birds that live in Geneseo. The robins can be seen scavenging for insects and earthworms in the front yards of the houses on Center Street, and are largely unconcerned with the passersby on their way to class.

The birds of Center Street talk all morning with each other, communicating in ways that we can only truly guess at. For all the scientific analysis in the world, we’ll never truly know what one bird said to another from the power lines bounding Center Street. From the tops of trees and the powerlines these birds call out to the world, and I can’t help but think of it as an avian social network, a community forum of sorts for birds.

Twitter is the obvious comparison, low-hanging bird pun aside. The birds calling reminds me more however, of our earliest examples of social networks. The power lines and trees of Geneseo constitute the bird equivalent of the free-for-all group chats like those previously found on Echo. Early social networks could seem like users screaming their thoughts into the world to be heard by whoever happened to be online, and this social network of birds that spans my walk to work seems no different to me. This comparison is only strengthened by the birds’ habit of sitting either on power lines or the trees lining Center Street; the power lines which carry the electricity needed to power our own social networks and the trees which inspired the very shape of the internet that allows us to socialize.

There is, of course, a more rational and scientific explanation for the bird songs on Center Street. April is the beginning of many common birds’ mating season, and many of the calls I hear are likely efforts to find a suitable mate (perhaps not so different than Twitter after all). As it is wont to do, nature returns to the four F’s (ask your favorite biology professor to explain). It is however, I think, more enjoyable to think oneself surrounded by social discourse than surrounded by these calls for a mate.

My grandmother’s house in the countryside of Central New York has always been an escape for me.
With the exception of National Parks, visiting there was the closest I had ever gotten to almost complete isolation in the rolling hills.
Beyond the garden, I had never gone past the trails my grandfather had made.
So, when I had visited for holiday, and the weather was nice (and Winston the puppy needed a walk), I went up, and observed.

Stepping out of the house with the dog so many feet ahead of me (Springer Spaniels are hyper dogs), I took in the rolling hills as the sun began to set.
I saw the vast trees and the farm buildings many miles away.
The sound of horses broke my trance as I saw her neighbor’s horses grazing in the field.
Before I traveled further back I stopped in the wide front to see my grandfather’s apple trees (as well as his next door neighbor’s sheep).
They (being in springtime) weren’t ready yet.
So I made my way up the hill with the sheep’s call echoing behind me.

The garden’s bounty was yet to come (with me looking forward to an abundance of redcurrant and blueberry).
The peony bloomed outside near the start of the trail (which is shown here), courtesy of my grandmother.
Walking up the back trail, I could hear the neighbors cows in the distance, breaking the silence of the woods.
The tall grass was soft to the touch, in contrast to the small amount of mud that stuck to my shoe.
Once I reached a clearing, I looked around the small field where nothing had grown, but an old shed stood to the right near the edge.
I continued on the trail once I spotted a wild turkey ahead.

I ended up reaching the backwoods about five or ten minutes into my walk, looking out into the trees, spotting my grandfather’s tree stand.
As I continued walking, I found some wild leeks in the ground.
I ended up taking them with me, thinking it could be useful for salad.
I raced Winston down the hill, accidentally falling on my side, getting leaves and sticks in my hair.
Once I reached the clearing before the start of the right trail, I looked back out onto the vast hill, breathing in the fresh air, with a new perspective.

Living on the outskirts of the Geneseo dormitories, I took it easily upon myself to walk a small distance around my residence hall (Seneca), circling the few surrounding buildings and observing small pockets of nature and wildlife. During this past week particularly, I have taken special interest in the flowering white trees around campus—the type of tree, I am unsure of, but its small blossoms decorate the landscape almost entirely, and quite endearingly, and although they do not smell strongly I think of them with immense pleasure and often stop and note any changes to their size or frequency. I quite like how their branches frame the sky, and how unsparingly the buds bloom; having not experienced Spring in Geneseo before, I have been sure to notice how here, there seem so many trees that flower—at home, really, all I’ve noticed is the dogwood in a few parks. The branches of these nameless trees are curved and layered, and they bend angularly, with many kinks. The blossoms form in clusters, almost like how lupine looks and tapers, spear-like, but more rounded, and carrying more weight at the bottom.

While looking at one of the white trees that line a parking lot, I heard distantly the skitter of paper on concrete and turned to watch as a piece of scrap writing moved on the ground from afar. Though at some points it drew wide turns and appeared as though it were about to fly off, it would often return to its resting position, momentarily flipping over but always repositioning itself in what appeared to be some sort of ceaseless cycle. As I lifted my gaze from the paper, I was startled to find people adjacent to me, picnicking—sprawled out on their blanket, talking—as they were hidden by a few bushes, and I was, I discovered, distracted.

Briefly, I caught a glimpse of a bird in some nearby shrubbery; the small tree it hid in was sparse and just beginning to thicken with spring. It did not stay long, but watching as it held itself up against the wind was almost meditative, and as it flew off I was reminded of the warming weather that was to be soon returning. Close by, too, there were robins scattered across the grass, and they prodded endlessly at the ground as if it were going to let anything up. I wondered at their success and continued walking.

As I was returning to my room, I came across a walkway that appeared a bit neglected. It was covered in a thin layer of moss, something I have realized, here, I do not see often. There is ivy, weeds, small plants, and plenty of daffodils—little moss, however. The moss being surprisingly close to an entrance I often utilized, I wondered how often I had failed to notice the things right in front of me, the subtle but incessant workings of nature.

Taking a step into nature and a break from staring at a computer screen all day was breathtaking. My first step on the bridge was right at the entrance of the path. Walking along the trails into the depths of nature was calming to say the least. The sun was beaming off the trees and the air was breezy. It was wonderful to be able to experience something so quiet and calming. Standing there with nature surrounding every bit of me was honestly more relaxing than I ever thought it would be.

The bird chirping was the set of my mood as soon as I entered. Listening to the birds having conversations and seeing the dandelions dispersed throughout the scenery was something beautiful to witness. Getting a sense of the new spring season, the trees are turning and getting fuller by the day.

Listening in on the sounds and movements around me really puts into perspective how much I am missing out on when I am enclosed in a classroom all day. Hearing the different sounds of the squirrels scurrying through the bushes and leaf piles and observing all the different plants, I could get used to this.

What I noticed throughout my journey in nature was the involvement of all the different insects, birds, and a variety of animals. And then I came across a variation of different plants in which they were labeled. These plants were so unfamiliar to me. I bent down so I could get a better visual of these interesting things that consisted of nature. What could be the purpose of these plants? I thought to myself for a moment. I sat there and took it all in. Each plant was different in a very unique way. The Robin’s Plantain plants were newly buds that had completely bloomed. These small white flowers attract bees as to why there was a Bee Barn located directly across from these plants. The Robin’s Plantain brought me joy in many ways because daisies are my favorite flower and they reminded me so much of them.

Despite the joy I was given with the plants, the green grass was extremely overwhelming with color. I noticed that there were patches of stiff, old grass from the Winter season but also new patches of brighter, greener grass. I made a personal connection to the thought of this new grass growing. The thought of even after a gloomy season of Winter the grass will continue to grow during the Spring season regardless of how brutal the weather affected nature. New trees were growing, new plants were prospering, and the animals were enjoying their homes that were made all throughout the natural world.

Nature is a beautiful thing and I realized that today when I took time to personally engage myself in the outside world. With the involvement of different animals, rodents, plants and how the weather treats nature, it is truly a remarkable experience to encounter. Step outside, put your phone away and enjoy the life nature has given us. The gift of nature will never go unnoticed.