flit.

Right now, in my writing class, we're reading a book called Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, written by Annie Dillard. It's a nature journal, similar to Thoreau's Walden, but in more modern (and for me, understandable) language. I came into writing class this afternoon, and my usual desk-mate came in a few minutes later and sat next to me. He pulled out his book, flipped through a few pages, and said to me, "I do not like this book." I laughed a bit and asked why, and he told me that it was monotonous.


Ms. Dillard lived near a creek that supported wildlife, and she took her free time to go down to the river aand observe it. How monotonous.

Ms. Dillard lived almost secluded near a steady creek with which she knew every corner of, and yet nothing about at all. She stalked the nature around her, anticipating any movement its Mother may make, so that she may notice it. She stared at a frog as it was being eaten alive by a giant water beetle. She sneakily crept up on a coot, only to find it wasn't afraid of her. She waved her limbs violently to scare away deer after she got bored with them. She observed the nature around her while remaining completely still and invisible to it.

How monotonous.
I looked at this guy, and told him that I was enjoying the book. And it was the honest truth.

Even though this entire book is simply a journal of observations and comparisons in nature, it defines exactly how I spend my moments in nature. I wander, simply, looking all around me, and I stop when my eyes tell me to stop.

When I worked at Trellis Cafe, I had my own special moment in nature, you could say. I was outside, placing table settings in the warm late-summer sun. A curious dragonfly caught my eye, and I expected to only be able to watch it fly away, on its own business. As I watched, it began hovering directly in front of the windows of the cafe. It twitched impatiently, but nevertheless continued to stare into the building from the window, and buzzed from one window to another, trying to get a closer look. I stopped working for the few minutes it was there. I put down my settings, and stared at each movement this incredible insect was making. It was you average dragonfly; nothing unique about its appearance; but anyone who's willing to see this dragonfly attempting to look into a building through a window methodically and with angst must wonder why this dragonfly is so unique. The dragonfly eventually gave up, and whizzed a few feet back out to the gardens, only to turn around for one final attempt. I tried looking into the building with the dragonfly, but i was so far away, all I could see was my reflection in the tinted glass. I focused back on the dragonfly, who decided to focus back on other matters in its life, and it flew away. Then I remembered where I was and what I was doing, and picked up the next bread plate.

My mind never really returned back to work for the rest of the day, though.