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Dinosaurs or bust

Zealandia is truly like stepping into Jurassic Park. Seriously, I am all for bringing back the moa and going full on science fiction. Except, you know, it would be real life. Here comes the pervasive concept of time again. Excuse me, but it was like stepping back in time. Or, maybe it was a glimpse into a hopeful future. It is an oasis right near a city, but it is so different from the parks in Sydney or anywhere else. This specific experiment in an original environment getting back to its roots (pun intended) is impressive, to say the least. 

From the moment we arrived, I was blown away by the sheer effort that was put into the endeavor. The start of the tour, with a video that was creative and interesting, set the tone for a carefully curated experience. Maybe curated is the wrong word, but it’s hard to find the words for something that is so well done. I loved, more than anything, seeing birds that were seriously endangered flying free. It sounds cheesy, but it was lovely to see. At Te Papa in the nature section there is an exhibit on New Zealand birds, and you can press a button to hear different bird sounds, or songs if you will. I pressed every button and listened to the sounds, both beautiful and a little piercing. Some were plentiful still, many were endangered, and a large handful were indeed extinct. At Zealandia, I got to hear some of those endangered bird noises live in person. I am enchanted by the fascinating tui, who are not threatened in terms of endangerment. They make such complex and interesting noises, adding even more color and life to Zealandia.

I think about our readings on nature and the city, and I very much believe that this is the best case scenario. It draws people in, it informs them, and it probably makes one more interested in conservation. The pest eradication efforts have done wonders for reviving species, and seeing these creatures up close makes it impossible, I believe, to not want to keep this beautiful experiment going. Not only that, but the gift shop is impeccable. Clearly that is the most important part.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Zealandia, especially because of our extremely talented guide (thanks, Maria!). The only thing that would make it better? Moa, baby. Full on dinosaurs. Jurassic Park up in this joint. 

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Living just enough for the city

I put on my yoga pants that I have never once done yoga in, tossed on my t-shirt that is a joke shirt from HBO’s Veep that I bought to support arts education in public schools but really just looks like I’m endorsing someone for president, threw on my baseball cap bearing the symbol of my Reform Jewish summer camp, and clipped me water bottle to my crossbody wallet: and thus an uber tourist was born. Sometimes this school goes a little overboard with the whole “we are not tourists, we are global citizens, gosh darn it” schtick. Sure, we are global citizens, whatever that truly means, but...we are also tourists. The Coogee to Bondi coastal walk was replete with stunning views, interesting things to look at at every turn, and opportunities for some fun rock scrambling and picture taking. Also, throngs of tourists. I think the fact that our little cohort stops at every lovely vista to take a picture says something about our status as tourists. I am guilty of this too, of course, but it makes me ponder what this says about us. Does this photographing just mean we want a picture of ourselves in front of something beautiful? Or does it signify something deeper - such as the othering of nature from ourselves. Nature is something to experience, to immerse oneself in, but perhaps without knowing it we are further separating ourselves from nature by thinking of it as a lovely spectacle, or a background for our latest instagram post. This might be a cynical interpretation, but it almost seems like this treatment of nature fits into the category of holding up nature as superior to humankind.

On another note, this is somewhat adjacent to how nature is viewed in cities. In one word, I would say nature in cities is ornamental. Nature in cities usually manifests as parks, and “these landscape gardens are a physical manifestation of idealised landscapes based on landscape paintings in the early modern times” (Kuhne, 2012, p. 63). They are pretty, something to remind us of the great outdoors but something that is also manageable and aesthetically pleasing. Aesthetics are the key word here. And yet, at the same time, is it not good to have some green, some life in our cities? It could actually encourage people to seek out more forms of nature, outside of cities, or at least to have a small bit of appreciation for it. Human beings as we have evolved have emancipated ourselves “from interior and exterior ‘nature’” (Kuhne, 2012, p. 63). The natural is shoved aside in favor of the aesthetics. Perhaps we can find a happier medium. I enjoy seeing trees and shrubs and flowers when I am in a city, even more so when there are little placquards signifying what type of plant is what. I think it can pique ever more interest in nature, and spread a little knowledge. But then again, it is also a little strange to be labelling and putting into a category a living thing. Again, it comes back to aesthetics. There is this dichotomy between nature and aesthetics, or should I say forced aesthetics. It reeks of humans trying to shape nature to their own devices. It reminds me of the vegetables that rot because of our unwillingness to buy ugly carrots and such. We want beauty, we want, order, we want our nature in cities to reflect the relative order of the city.

The winding coastal walk was stunning, yes. But was it almost too aesthetically pleasing? I guess this does not always have to be a bad thing. Being able to safely walk to the edge of cliffs and look out at the waves, traipse alongside the ocean, smelling the salty air - not half bad, really. But it was also strange to look directly to my left and see multi million dollar houses. The juxtaposition of the sculptures we saw, which were truly interesting and appreciated, again pointed out nature in cities. I believe the ocean is not only one of the most important thing son this earth but also one of the most expansively beautiful. And yet, here look - artwork! I think it was meant to add to the beauty, and maybe it did, but once again the aesthetics are being held up, human culture is being held up as more important than the natural. It was truly unlike any walk we have done - with food stands within reach, people clogging up the path, and a quick jaunt through a cemetery. Not complaining about that last one though, I love a good cemetery jaunt - especially with quality mausoleums.

If I am a tourist in a city, am I also a tourist in, say, Yuraygir Park? Tourist almost does not seem like the right word. I do not know where the line is drawn, where I am a tourist and where I am not. I am also not sure it matters, as long as I treat the place I am in with respect. It is interesting to ponder the idea that we, as humans, have turned towards the aesthetic in all areas of our lives. Certainly in cities, and certainly in other areas as well. Perhaps it is not surprising though. Our culture is aesthetics, we worship at the altar of aesthetics. It seems silly, since going outside cities to places such as, say, the Rainbow Reef, provides you with some of the most beautiful “aesthetics” of all.

Kühne, O. (2012). Urban Nature Between Modern and Postmodern Aesthetics: Reflections Based on the Social Constructivist Approach. Quaestiones Geographicae, 31(2). doi: 10.2478/v10117-012-0019-3

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If women are more connected to nature does that mean men are more connected to time? I’ll show myself out

This trip was definitely one of my favorites. Probably because of the playground. The lily pads were nice too. Protestors Falls was, if nothing else, just a lovely place for a walk. The path was easy to walk on, with only some scrambling up rocks thrown in to complicate its easiness. I found myself noticing the creeping moss more and more. It clung to the damp of the forest, on rocks and trees. There were some spectacular tree roots coming out of the ground just covered in this gorgeous moss. Here I go, already, describing nature as feminine. Okay, the moss was incredibly robust and handsome. In fact, the moss was just great, to be safe.

The term Mother Nature has never carried much weight for me. My own mother looms larger than life. Deborah Jill Rosen is the northern star, so the Earth really pales in comparison to that. The Earth is, for me, just that - the Earth. No nickname, no particular family member, and certainly no gender. Before these readings, and before this class, while I might not have clung to Mother Earth as a concept I certainly would not have had disdain for it. Yet, here we are, my disdain ever growing. As Deborah Bird Rose points out to us, nature is described oftentimes just as a man describes a woman. She is pristine, she is fertile, she is beautiful (2004, p. 102). Ecofeminists argue that the environment, and this earth, are the way they are because of the deep connection between the Earth and women and how they are treated. So, we pillage and rape nature just as women have been similarly decimated.

At Protestors Falls the women in the group proceeded towards a sacred place for inidigenous women who used to give birth there. As I clumsily maneuvered my way up and around some boulders, it seemed almost embarrassing that pregnant women could climb up here to give birth while I almost rolled an ankle in my very unpregnant state. Our group is predominantly women, yet having this time, and this space, set aside for us to take in our surroundings and have a discussion amongst ourselves felt mammoth in size. The rock face was stunning, and the small trickle of a waterfall that fell down into the pool was beautiful as well. Or handsome! Or just wonderful! Not a gender! It gets a little frustrating once you recognize it, I will admit. We perched atop rocks and discussed ecofeminism. We all agreed that gynofeminism was, in a word, lame. A lot of feminism tends to be less than intersectional, and quite exclusionary. Constricting womanhood to just people with vaginas, or centering the conversation mainly white women, is truly just unhelpful. Our conversation evolved from there into less academic realms. I won’t type out all the gory details but suffice it to say I hope the two Jesus-haired grimy men washing themselves in trickle of a waterfall enjoyed hearing about our periods.

I wonder what it is like to be a man. I wonder what it is like to be a man in relation to Mother Nature. Is it hard to relate to the Earth because of our gendering of it? Or does it not even matter? Either way, I have little trouble with letting go of Mother Earth as a concept. I did not have skin in the game to begin with. Val Plumwood asks an excellent question: “how should women now approach the ideals of the feminine and the contributions of past women?” (2004, p. 48). Women and men are both equally a part of nature. It is time we started acting like it. This might mean, for some of us, letting go of the idea that as women we have a special connection with nature. Giving birth is what it is (amazing, disgusting, what have you) but it does not give us license to co-opt all of nature into our sorority. I cringed writing that, but I stand by it. Maybe women need to take charge when it comes to bringing men into this whole “one with nature” thing. I do not think it is too much to ask that we drop our exclusive bond with the Earth in order to change some hearts and minds. Will this have long lasting effects on the environment? Who knows. I sure hope so. But I think it cannot hurt, so might as well. If we are taking the lead in terms of gender equality, let us just throw in attempting to save the planet for free. And then some of us will have children, and train them to do the same. Should we be asking that of our children? Of course we should. On using children as free labor: “why do you think I had four kids?” (Deborah Jill Rosen, on countless occasions).

White, R. D., & Plumwood, V. (2004). Gender, Ecofeminism and the Environment. In Controversies in environmental sociology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rose, D. B. (2004). Reports from a wild country: ethics for decolonisation. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press Ltd.

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In which I am a travel mug?

I cannot speak to Tavoro Waterfalls as I was not there. However, I can speak to vanua. Vanua, panua, banua - these terms are specific to people and places in the Pacific but the underlying themes of land, home, culture, and ties that cannot be severed is somewhat universal. Around this time I celebrated Yom Kippur, one of the holiest days in Judaism and a day of repentance. We repent for our sins against G-d and our sins against our fellow man. This year I observed this holiday in Fiji. Far from the home I love, I prayed alone and fasted alone, to my detriment in a tropical climate with no access to air conditioning. Let me tell you folks, I do not recommend it. It made me realize that I am not Fijian (wow, an enormous shocker) in this way, being tied to a place. Vanua is bigger than that, but also land is integral to the concept. I am landless, it seems. Cincinnati, Ohio is where my family home is, and I have love for it, but I don’t have vanua-level connection. Israel? Forget about it. I feel more connection to Mobile, Alabama then I do to Israel. And that’s saying something - I once made prolonged eye contact there with a man sitting in the bed of a pickup truck stroking a cross bow whilst staring at me intently. My point being that place is not in my lexicon when it comes to connection. I envy the Fijians, in this way. I can take parts of my people, my culture, my deep connections with me on the go, like a travel  mug, but oftentimes I still feel a bit bereft, empty, like a travel mug. 

Maybe I’m lucky that I do not have a concept of home similar to banua and vanua, because then I am less likely to feel like my connection to my ancestors and to my people and land have been upended by constant development projects. Maybe I connect more with panua, “an environmental concept that involves people, community, and identity” (Lin, 2015). Except I tend not to connect as closely with the environment (sorry, everyone). The environment is a much more critical issue in Fiji than where I usually dwell thanks to climate change, and thanks to the onslaught of development that has perhaps jeopardized panua in a way. It changes a community and a people, in a way. Development is usually billed as helpful to the places that are being developed when really there is an underlying story here that has nothing to do with those people’s wellbeing.  

Truly. “’the land,’ as in vanua in Fiji, has too often been treated as a set of static and ahistorical cultural values and essentialized as an integral part of the indigenous identity, especially in the current political climate in Fiji which is shadowed by ethnic tensions” (Lin, 2015). For the sake of development, the land has been violated, thus vanua has been violated. This is something that the people in charge should be repenting for. Violating vanua is tantamount to well, I don’t exactly know a direct comparison because maybe their isn’t one. I am so quick to compare another’s terms and cultures with my own that maybe I do not pause to appreciate the weight of vanua, of ties that I cannot possibly understand. I envy having ties such as this, even though in these times maybe it hurts less to not. Connection is really all we have as human beings. What trumps that? What could possibly be of greater important than that? I’ll ponder and perhaps get back to you next Yom Kippur, where I will be languishing in air conditioning as I fast, like a proper Jew. 

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In which I did not slip and fall and now I feel superior

Climate racism is not exactly something that is taught in secondary schools, at least not in the United States. Racism and climate as separate subject were barely taught. So the readings for this week were wonderfully enlightening, in that they presented new ideas that make complete and total sense. Climate change is going to affect minorities the most? Yes, makes perfect sense. The effects of capitalism have a negative ecological effect on people of color? Of course. But to be honest, walking around the pools at Colo-I-Suva hardly felt related to climate racism at all. That may be because of the strange vibe (the academic term, of course) that had permeated our little group at that point in Fiji. Or maybe it is because I do not immediately think about race and nature in the same breath. While race may be a construct “…the death-dealing effects of racism are all too easily measured in a host of demographic data on phenomena ranging from disease to toxicity, incarceration, and gun violence” (Ahuja, 2016, p. 27). This doesn’t mean that I have to put on my race goggles through which to view everything at all times, but it still adds necessary context to every situation I find myself, such as a wet walk in a rainforest.

Our time at Colo-I-Suva was most notably characterized by the several students who slipped on the wet ground on our trek and fell. It was truly hilarious. Be sure  - no students were harmed and yes I know I have a problem when it comes to laughing and other people falling. Truly though, the pools were the real showstoppers here for me. I love the water, and I love having a calm place to just float. I was quite surprised when Soenke brought up the fact that this place was not formed by the earth and weather and time. In fact, this was a nature reserve that Fiji had created. It should not have made a difference but I viewed the pools and the rainforest surrounding it a little differently after that. It seemed somehow less beautiful. As if because it had been molded by humans the trees were less majestic, the bird calls less lovely, the pools less inviting, the colors less vibrant. Maybe it is similar as to how I thought about climate change after these readings. The harrowing effects of climate change have always been just that - harrowing. But add in the layer of race to it and suddenly it seems even more terrible. What human beings do to each other effects everything in our lives. In terms of people being displaced from their land, “forms of knowledge produced in displacement are increasingly fetishized as indigenous resources for climate resilience…” (Ahuja, 2016, p. 30). So, not only do we have displaced peoples and climate change, but now when indigenous people are forced off of their homelands and have to develop new ways of living their methods are being mooned over by idiots crying climate change? The irony is too thick, I cannot possibly swim through it.

Does the racist aspect of climate change make it worse or more unjust? I would think so. Or, is climate change the same amount of awful but humans manage to make it even worse? And, the big money question, does it even matter? Maybe climate change unchecked is going to kill us all, and that is all the fact we need. At this rate it really seems like a toss up as to which will be solved or remedied first - racism or climate change. Let’s throw making contact with intelligent life forms in the race just for fun. Maybe time travel too, while we’re at it. In actuality the lens of climate racism is incredibly important in informing how we can create sustainable and socially just solutions. The relaxing moments we spent swimming in the pools, the slippery fun we had watching our classmates slide and struggle (maybe just me), the exciting chaos at the rope swing, and the entire excursion were proof that even though this was not a naturally occurring place and in fact had some help from humans it still had a lot of beauty to offer. Humans can always make a p[lace worse, but sometimes they make it better. I was never there before this reserve was created, but it seems like an asset. And I know my friends certainly made that place better for me. That’s all the proof I need.

Ahuja, N. (2016). Race, Human Security, and the Climate Refugee. English Language Notes, 54(2), 25-32. doi:10.1215/00138282-54.2.25

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In which I use the word vomit quite liberally

My vomit is basically a piece of Lupita pottery at this point. Let us take stock: both have been buried in the sand dunes, both are pieces of trash to some but important historical art to others, and okay I will stop now. On this episode of Emma’s Misadventures we explore the Sigatoka Sand Dunes and experience the effects of naan made with ghee and how that interacts, scientifically of course, with a dairy allergy and a hike. I truly wish I had been feeling less near death-y because these dunes were gorgeous. I may hate sand, one of many qualities I share with Anakin Skywalker, but I think you would have to be seriously deranged to not find the rolling, stark yet glittering view of the sand dunes pretty magnificent. 

Our walk started not in the blistering sun but in the shade. We trekked with our friendly guide, whose name eludes me due to so much of my brain space being taken up by Star Wars references and hilarious zingers, to a semi-shady spot to plant trees at. I am from Ohio and I am a Jew so my history with planting trees is storied and expansive. It really is a part of my culture. I am quite at home with a shovel, but alas I was given the trowel to dig with instead. But my tree, which I named Eitz Chaim, or the Tree of Life, was planted nonetheless alongside those of my classmates. It was a nice way to start our hike. I warm to the idea of giving back to a place before we trudge all over it. At this point my stomach was already rolling towards something terrible, but because of my dedication to the class and my group I chose to soldier on ahead. In actuality it was my stubbornness and pride that kept me from turning back, but those qualities are a little less, well, glamorous so let’s go with the former. In the first reading, the example of the Tower of Babel was put forth not just as representative of the power of communication, but also the power of cities (Edgar & Sedgwick, 1999, p. 102). Cities are important when we talk about culture because a city is where different people all come together, and where culture is born because one does not realize they have a culture until you meet someone else who has a completely different culture and opposing opinions. 

In my family, when you need rest, you rest. Even if you do not know you need it for sure, it is better to err on the side of caution. It has always been a part of me, so a part of my culture. But in life, and especially here in Global, I have met people who push and push and push. They push boundaries, they push proverbial buttons, they push themselves. I have always admired it, and sought to emulate it. So, there I was, at the Sigatoka Sand Dunes, pushing myself to go on this hike even though I felt ill. I pushed myself and ended up feeling worse physically and mentally. I am grateful to have seen what I was privileged enough to see on this hike, and who is to say what  was the ultimate right decision when it comes down to it. Should I have turned back, like my mother would tell me to? Or was I right to have pushed forward, trying to fit into this school’s culture even though I paid some sort of price? And if nature is “outside human society and culture” (Edgar & Sedgwick, 1999, p. 256) then how do I reconcile being somewhere that most would describe as nature, the sand dunes, with my own view of them informed by my experiences and my culture? Perhaps these are some convoluted questions. At the core is how does my own (constantly at war) culture of one interact with nature? At the dunes they seemed to be at odds. If you do not understand or relate to nature, does this help you realize your own culture more fully? If my sick stomach and my weak, rebellious body, pushed forward by my own hubris, clashed with nature maybe this should help me to know myself better. Or maybe, because nature is supposedly outside what we humans create culturally, none of this applies. I don’t really know - a shock, I know. What I do know is those pieces of Lupita pottery in the sand make the Lupita people immortal. As the reading says, “cultures endure even though the individuals who built them die” (Edgar & Sedgwick, 1999, p. 103). I dug a tidy hole to vomit into in that same sand and that definitely does not make me immortal. But maybe the less tidy hole I dug to plant a tree into makes me a little bit immortal. That tree will die someday, but the act is what matters, in terms of culture. My people have always done this - planted trees, even in places we will never return to. 

I was struck by inspiration (out of necessity, mind you) when I was trying to scramble up a sand dune. Everyone was waiting at the top, and the heat of the day combined with the heat of embarrassment was beating down on me as I failed to gain much ground up the steep sand. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed, to little avail. And then I dropped to my hands and knees, leaving my last granule-sized shred of dignity behind, and crawled/clawed my way up. I pushed myself in a different way. It was the combining of two cultures in the name of getting shit done. Another saying comes to mind: meeting people where they’re at. I met myself where I was at. Did I want to drag myself up a dune? Definitely not. But that was how I was going to get to where I need to go. It was not my best option, it was not my worst option, it just simply was. We are not superior to nature, we are not inferior to nature, we just are. Maybe if humans started meeting nature where it’s at - really just existing and waxing and waning - things would be easier. If we did not have to conquer and cower in fear it seems like human culture and nature could coexist more comfortably, and maybe even get somethings done together. Maybe plant a few more trees, or invent a new fangled technology that could locate my last shred of dignity amongst the sands and bring it back to me. But that’s just one idea. 

Edgar, A., & Sedgwick, P. (1999). Key Concepts in Cultural Theory (pp. 101-103 & 256-259). London, England: Routledge.

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Yet again The Circle Game plays in my head

My father always says he is socially liberal, but fiscally conservative. I never thought this was a strange thing to be - in fact, I thought was practical given he is a banker This was of course before I came to understand that economic policy is social policy, that there is no social justice without economic justice. In this same vein, I am reexamining my thoughts on the economy in relation to the environment. If “global free trade has caused world-wide environmental destruction in an asymmetric pattern” (Shiva, 2000, p. 113) then economic policy is environmental policy is social policy. Everything is linked, cyclical, and we make progress in one area when we make progress in all areas.

Minyon Falls are less of a falls currently and more a testament to this interconnected web of issues. There is a drought going on right now. Australia’s environmental policies and practices are doing nothing to prevent climate change. National parks are meant to preserve land but fail to give the land back to its original custodians. It is all connected, and it has led to a very dry hike on a hot day. Looking out on the area from the overlook provided some stunning views, even sans waterfall. Soenke pointed out variations in the fauna; how the greener trees in the subtropical forest indicated where the water flows. I wish things were this easy and clear-cut in my own life. Or in terms of climate change. I wish there were a way to see the path, have all the answers and the steps we need to talk ourselves off the ledge and act decisively. But then, as Shiva’s reading has made abundantly clear, would we act? Because it seems generous to believe that the people who hold enough power to act would not do as they normally do: exploit the developing world and worship profit as a god. Maybe the march flies are a more apt analogy for those in power: loud, annoying, and bloodsucking. They make a lot of noise and it almost distracts you from their bite, until you feel it, and then it’s too late.

The hike down to the gorge, or for me, to the end of the ridge before the big descent, was also like a march fly. I guess I pictured something I bit more downhill at first, but as we kept going round bends and kept climbing up, I was annoyed. The way back was slightly less uphill, but annoying nonetheless. Maybe I came into it with a bad attitude, and with not enough sleep. But nonetheless my head and heart were not in it. My legs, yes, but nothing more. It felt like eating those genetically modified foods Shiva broke down for us - maybe they taste all right, but they are not all right, and they are not a solution. Maybe this hike seemed nice, but for me it was not, and it did not fix anything for me. Obviously this did not really matter as I had to go for class, and I would still like an A (hey, fourth wall) but it had me questioning whether I even like nature. I won’t hearken back to that fateful subject too much (What is nature? Who cares? Tune in next week to find out) but it rattled me a little.

I choose to view it as fatigue. Fatigue from life in general, and fatigue from reading articles like Shiva’s, that leave me feeling a little hollow. “By the year 2025 two thirds of the people of the world will face severe water shortages” (Shiva, 2000, p. 124) so need I say more? No water at Minyon Falls, and none for so many people around the world as well. I will be fine, I know this, but it does not provide me with comfort. But I keep on walking. Over rocks and through foliage, trying not to step on anything that looks alive, until I get back to the overlook, and I can see more again. I know I have to keep reading more about climate change for class, but more than that I have to in order to face myself. These problems are not going anywhere, and I cannot just choose to care about social justice or military ethics without also caring about climate change and climate change solutions. It’s all connected. Depressing and exhausting maybe, but connected.

Shiva, V. (2000). The World on Edge. In On the Edge: Living with Global              Capitalism (pp. 112–129).

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Time constructs are the real stinging tree, man

I remember mentioning during our inaugural picnic meet and greet that this semester I wanted to heal my mind-body disconnect. As I sit here now, post-camping trip, covered in scrapes and bruises and bug bites, I recant this declaration. Ideally I would like to be a floating consciousness. In the absence of that option I am forced to reckon with my mortal body. Our four day journey was a supreme reckoning.

The trip felt much more relaxed than most LIU Global trips, and for that I am grateful. The learning took place over a longer period of time. We were able to chew on some very profound questions, including: what is time? Deborah Bird Rose’s Reports from a Wild Country: Ethics for Decolonization was our guidebook of sorts, and it informed my whole experience. What is time? I think of the way I experienced and marked time throughout the trip. My time is marked by place. The campground and community we created was home base, where my time was spent reading, sleeping, cooking, cleaning, and messing around with my friends and teachers. The hike at Dorrigo National Park was a difficult time, though beautiful and worthwhile. My time seems to move slowly when I am struggling, or bored, and fast when I’m doing something I enjoy, like taking a morning swim in the saltwater creek adjacent to our campsite. Is this how I experience time? As a labor or a fast moving train? The phrase “a waste of my time” comes to mind. It purports that time is only well spent if you are productive, or having a good time. But it only applies to the past. If you say “this is a waste of my time” in the moment, you are not really in the present, but analyzing the now in the frame of the future. In our post-dinner discussion of the readings, this idea of living in the past for the future was a point most of us could agree upon. We truly are all “...suspended in a bereft and hapless moment” (Rose, 2004, p. 18). This means that the present, in Western culture, is free of accountability, because we are always striving towards future progress and what is happening now is already in the past. I read this section out loud to Morgan, and we both were having “aha” lightbulb moments like crazy. Not only was the reading engaging and enlightening, but the process of reading out loud and processing the brilliance of Rose with someone else was in fact an exercise in breaking that Western thinking that is embedded in us. It kept me grounded in the moment; I was not thinking about what I was going to say in the discussion later, or even really talks or readings from the past. It was a period of genuine intake and discourse. I attempted to mimic this in our element groups, mine being air, and was probably only half successful. This could have been due to the fun distractions of my group members and the group who shared the creek’s dock with us. Nonetheless, I feel inspired by this new (but not really) learning approach. Reading in solitude is something I love to do, but my mind wanders often. Another lesson learned thanks to Deborah Bird Rose - put it on the books.

The physicality of the camping trip is another way in which I, in all my Western upbringing, mark time. The concept of the now is not lost on me, but during the hike I did not feel particularly in the present. This changes in water, however. I feel more still and grounded (ironically) in those moments spent playing in the creek, floating in the ocean, or even swimming under the cruelly ice cold waterfall. I am present in water, able to experience my body in a different - light and lithe and free. The walk on the beach was tranquil and I thoroughly enjoyed it, but my mind was wandering in twenty different directions, many of them based in the past. The hike was certainly worse, in that sense. “This benighted ‘now’ in which we actually live our lives is circumscribed and rendered largely irrelevant through progress ideology” and my now was no different (Rose, 2004, p. 19). All I could think of was how I wish I had gotten into better shape before this semester, how my body had even gotten to this point, am I keeping people from walking faster and being done earlier? What should I do in the future to get better at this? Will I be able to hike in Fiji? How much water should I bring in the future? How will I even get in shape? Will I ever be able to be as physically fit as I would like? Will my body break down? Will I survive? And on and on and on. I need to begin “rejecting a paradigm of future social perfection or some form of redemption, and reevaluating the present as the real site of action in the world” (Rose, 2004, p. 19). These concepts are broad, but I am choosing to apply it to a personal issue because I need to do my own memory work before I move forward, or rather, into the present. If I can be present in my mind and body then I can be present for other people’s stories. I need to stop being violent with myself and denying that I even have a body, because that makes it impossible to make any real progress. But, I would still like to be a floating consciousness. I never said I was perfect.

There was a lot to love about this trip. The community bonding will definitely stay with all of us. The bad jokes told will as well. I particularly enjoyed the parts of the hike we spent on plant life, especially the strangler fig and all the incredible subtropical flora. This paired nicely with the bush walk we did at Red Rock. Our guide’s knowledge about the soap tree and other such remedies demonstrates his relationship with the land, not to mention his clear connection with his ancestors who first discovered the uses for all these plants. I have a cut on my leg that has yet to heal, and looks a little infected after our trip, so I am using the Red Ash leaves to clean and heal. I guess it is a small act of memory work to not disregard a remedy because it does not come from a pharmacy or a Western doctor. Small acts of refusing to perpetuate violence can have a snowball effect, and can give you and others agency in the moment. It is a change for me, going from “I should learn about what different plants are for in the future and maybe use it someday” to hearing from someone who knows first hand and listening to that knowledge.

Letting go of my set ways has never led me astray. It is vital to be free from ignorance by listening and learning from someone else’s story in order to stop a different type of violence, defined by Emmanuel Levinas “as acting as if one were alone; it denies relationship, denies responsibility, and thus effectively denies others” (Rose, 2004, p. 13). The discussion we had about listening to violence and the limits of tolerance hits me where I live, as I unknowingly was a perpetuer of violence for much of my life. Again and again I heard that Israel was my home, my people’s homeland, and the place where I will always be safe from persecution or harm. This rhetoric was violence aimed at Palestinians. I listened to Palestinians who suffer under the occupation when I was in Israel and watched silently as my teachers and friends pushed back on everything they said and denied them their own truths. I never want to be silent when violence like this is spewed out ever again, and here in Australia I am finding the experiences I have had and the words I have read to be invaluable in the pursuit.

In conclusion, my talent show opera aria was mortifyingly bad but I am trying not to dwell on it, kangaroo meat is pretty good and right now, in the present, I feel as if I have been run over by a truck. Not a bad camping trip, overall.

Rose, Deborah Bird (2004). Reports from a wild country: Ethics for Decolonisation. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press Ltd., pp. 11-72

[insideemmasbrain]

In which I criticize myself

I have spent practically my whole life romanticizing indigenous people; their lore, their lifestyle, what have you. It is so easy to just see the beauty and the tradition - the other. It is almost exciting to picture these people in “the wild,” a place us Westerners might describe as unknown, unsettled, chaotic, primitive, unforgiving, or even shrouded in mystery. I have grown beyond this view post-adolescence with the help of good teachers, books (especially by Sherman Alexie), and just a general loathing of ignorance. But reading Reports from a Wild Country: Ethics for Decolonization by Deborah Bird Rose was particularly enlightening regarding wild country. In the words of indigenous historian, Lawman, and community leader Hobbles Danaiyarri, “Captain Cook was the real wild one” (Rose, 2004, p. 4). Considering all that is projected onto indigenous country, or “the wild,” it is incredibly important that we turn this concept around and label a heinous coloniser as the real wild one. Quiet Country is what most of us do not see - the place where generations of indigenous people have protected and tended to it. The irony of it all hit me when we were hiking up to the lighthouse, or in my case when I was using every last bit of my energy and willpower to claw my way up to the lighthouse, and Auntie Delta talked about how this lighthouse was placed on a sacred Arakwal place. And here it was- this towering white structure with an actual light that shines over the sea at night. This used to be Quiet Country I’m sure, at some point, and now there’s a monument where the community used to gather. That’s life in Australia, mate. I was struggling at first to figure out the bracelet making that Auntie Delta was instructing us in. When I went and asked her for help, she patiently showed me, her deft hands moving easily, and then watched me do it so she knew I had learned correctly. Although I have made strides to shed my Rousseian tendencies, I will admit at first I was in awe of how easily I picked it up after she taught me. Like she showed me a sliver of some Arakwal secret and then I was able to twist and pinch string with ease. But the truth of it is that she is an incredible teacher who cares if you learn something. I believe life is about constantly learning and unlearning, so today I unlearned some toxic misconceptions and in turn learned to recognize people and actions for what they actually are. To have a generous spirit is not a prerequisite for an indigenous person anymore than it is impossible for a white person to have a generous spirit. Rose’s readings cleared my mind - it allowed me to sweep away the young girl fantasies I had held onto about the earthly magic and deep seated all encompassing wisdom of indigenous peoples. Some things are not for me to understand, or to project my own wants and dreams onto. Furthermore, to romanticize people who have been continuously brutalized is stunningly naive. Decolonisation is perhaps similar in a way. My idea of what decolonisation should look like might not be the correct way, in fact it most certainly is not. This is because I and pretty much everyone else have not adequately reckoned with the past. Rose touches on this as well: to move forward is impossible if you do not understand what came before (Rose, 2004, p. 4). As I labored on this hike I thought of culture. The culture of exercise, for example, is a satanic art, and not the cool kind. All joking aside it is a sort of culture that people share. So is the culture of the place I am from - Midwest culture. State fairs, baseball games, casseroles, cornfields, cornhole, corn syrup, corn husking, and corn chips constitutes a culture in the community. There is culture everywhere - but we, as in white Westerners, generally lack depth in our culture. There is no real connection with the Earth usually, no deep, deep community ties that revolve around shared stories and traditions that you feel incredibly connected to. Before we can move forward we must look backward. When a culture is not consciously connective it tends to become something you don’t recognize or think about. And this leads to toxic tokenism, cultural appropriation, and violence. If Westerners dig deeper into their cultures and mine it to its very origins (shouldn’t be too hard for them), perhaps this will be a way to take pride in their own ways and gain more respect for those peoples who have lore, or just those who have a different, deeper connection. I don’t know if this will end white nationalism per say, or stop college kids from dressing up in Native American headdresses for fun, but if it makes a few people reevaluate the choices they make then I say it’s a win.

[insideemmasbrain]

31/8/19 I tend to pray with my feet

I tend to pray with my feet. Maybe it is because I spend so much time away from my community and my synagogue. Or maybe it is because I like the fluid combination of tradition, prayer, and movement. I have never felt that close to G-d, but I like the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement. Each footstep is a beat: step step step. As I silently walked with my classmates and professors I smelled, heard, tasted, touched, and witnessed Broken Head Beach. Each footstep was a note: Baruch A-tah Ado-nai Elo-hei-nu melech ha olam. Step step step. Shenatan lanu Hizdam-nut L’takein et ha o-lam. Blessed are you Adonai our G-d ruler of the universe who has given us the opportunity to mend the world. My steps are in tandem with age old melodies from synagogues and shtetls and new age melodies from summer camp and Sunday school.

The walk to Broken Head beach snaked up and winded back down, around corners and down steeper drops. The smell of salt on the breeze seemed almost sweet to me and made me think of how my landlocked childhood was broken up by trips to Florida. At one point we walked on a sort of concrete road, surrounded by lush grass and providing some stunning sea views. I was barefoot so the feeling of the concrete on my feet was a little rough, a tiny bit painful. It felt exactly like the quiet suburban roads in my parent’s neighborhood, the way they hurt your feet just a little bit but not enough to make you put on shoes. The slight discomfort made me more present, and my feet prayed again. Step step step. The concept of tikkun olam is to repair our shattered world. Ti-kkun O-lam step step step. What needed repairing at Broken Head Beach? I saw felled trees, but the trees surrounding the fallen trunk seemed to be thriving. There were dead leaves, dead palm fronds, and areas in slight disrepair, but do these actually need repairing? And who should repair it? Should humans repair nature, or should we observe how nature repairs itself and follow suit? Regeneration is the Earth’s way of repairing itself, and that was evident at Broken Head Beach. The way the vegetation on the cliffs survived and thrived under assault from salt water and wind and humans traipsing through is evidence of this. Adaptability is everything in nature - it is how you stay alive. Nature has always been here and always will be here. Nature survives because nature adapts.

The dialogue on the beach was addressing: what is nature? What is natural? My classmates all had interesting and thoughtful things to say, from “natural is a construct” to “nature is not man made.” I however got stuck on a particular idea. Instead of prayer and religion I turned to science. A conversion unlike any other! Do not tell my mother. The First Law of Thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created or destroyed. The Law of Conservation of Mass states that matter cannot be created or destroyed. All of the energy and matter in the universe has always been there and will always be there. Everything I saw on our Broken Head Beach trip, every mosquito, every bare foot, every boulder, is made up of matter, and uses energy. Is energy nature? Is matter nature? Nature is surely made up of matter and energy. Everything natural is also made up of matter and energy. So, does it go both ways? This is the question. Everything my classmates and professors said brought me back to this question. Matter and energy: as old as dirt, makes up the dirt, exists in nature, natural, etc. I am not sure I am even close to an answer on this one. But I do know that my footsteps carried me through the trail, using energy, touching on matter, existing as matter. Every staccato prayer came about because of energy. If natural is indeed a word that has been co opted but at its core is about things derived from the origin - Earth - then are not energy and matter natural? What is more original, more untouched by humans, than energy and matter? And if energy and matter are natural, then the universe is natural. If nature is made up of energy and matter, which it most certainly is, then could we not say nature is matter, is energy? Therefore everything exists in nature, everything is nature, because everything in the universe is made up of energy and matter. Perhaps my point is that everything is nature, everything is natural. They are words with a specific purpose but without meaning derived from hard fact or truth. Nature loosely defined is not useful. Nature is a tool, a descriptor. Natural is a tool, a descriptor. Everything is natural and everything is nature. This is certainly not an original thought, nor one steeped in wisdom or research, but I still feel a ring of truth about it.

We have the opportunity to mend the world, so nature is everything, and nature is what we say it is. To put the pieces of the planet back together maybe it is necessary to push an ideal - nature. Maybe it is necessary to co opt a word- nature. We can take it from meaning nothing in particular, or just meaning everything, into something to fight for.