Table of Contents Preamble
Roots
Arboles De Almendros by Andrea Gonzalez Cabrera Haghighat // God // I by Hannah Haugenes stem cut timing by Natalie Pistole From the ground Up by Annastasia Pedersen What Remains by Hannah Lewis (no title) by Hannah Lewis (no title) by Hannah Lewis Singing to the Flowers by Yujing Wu The Leaves Forgot What Water Is by Fernando Romo
Footprints
Roots by Megan Conner The Sweetest Last Drop by Iman Kazah North Berkeley Blooms by Allegra Saggese This is Industry by Emma Reich Joshua Tree by Ching Fang Eucalyptus by Victoria Glynn (no title) by Hannah Lewis The Place of an Environmentalist in the Climate Justice Movement by Meredith Jacobson Berkeley Mushrooms: Where there is soil, there is life by Hannah Spinner Compost Of Berkeley by Andrea Gonzalez Cabrera
Growth
a couple of things i learned from a tree by Hannah Haugenes (no title) by Michelle Margolies Love Poem for the Sea by Beatrix Scolari the sound water makes by Sam Klein River Poem by Danielle Satin playing in the creek by Sam Klein A Poem on Belonging by Taj Hittenberger Perceptions by Hannah Haugenes Refocus by Yeshe Salz The Map is not the Territory by Alex Roe Invisibility Cloak by Carli Jipsen
Human Nature 2
4 4 5 5 6 7 7 8 8
9 10 11 12 13 14 14 15 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 23 24 26 26 27 28
Reflections
First Light by Yeshe Salz Ruby Rose by Annastasia Pedersen Humans in Nature: A Dual Role by Akshara Sree Challa Musings of a Berkeley Oak by Abbey Cliffe Rosa by Charlotte Sanger Hull (no title) by Allegra Saggese First Nature by Ashlyn Sloane Indian Creek by Oliver Abbitt The River Kingdom by Dakota Goodman
29 29 30
Reflections Acknowledgments & Staff Translucent by Victoria Glynn - Back Cover
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31 32 32 33 34 34
Preamble
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elcome to the third edition of Words of the Watershed! This is an environmental journal that brings together students and UC Berkeley community members who use their voices and colors to explore personal, local, and global intersections between humans and nature. The theme of this third volume is “Human Nature”. As you will come to see, this year’s works thrive in 4 sections—Roots, Footprints, Growth, and Reflections. The point of these sections is not to create unnecessary boundaries, but to begin to contextualize the relationship between nature and humans and demonstrate the interplay of its various moving and evolving parts. We present these ideas during a time when nature affects not only our sense of place on this planet, but also has significant impacts on our survival, health, and future as a species. It seemed inevitable to consider the voices that explore our supposed symbiosis when the cohabitations between humans and nature are perhaps the most impactful and consequential they have ever been. Through Roots, Footprints, Growth, and Reflections, we want to showcase the interactions and connections creatures have at all levels of a watershed. Roots are like origins, though unlike most birthplaces, they are dynamic. Moving deeper into the earth with time, they are sources of pure strength that grow in their ability to nourish. This first section is full of art that portrays human-less nature—the creatures and non-human life that flourish independent of human influence. We wanted to begin the journal with Roots to recognize the life that springs from these origins and to acknowledge the voices that speak in a language that is often silenced or ignored. This sections tells the story of Nature in its own words. Footprints denote places of impact—interactions that have left their mark. After laying the foundation with Roots, we wanted to introduce the human dimension and begin to unpack our relationships with Nature. To say that humans have left their mark on the Earth is quite the understatement; our imprints are indelible and ever-expanding. The spaces depicted in these works range in scale from sidewalk cracks, to mountainscapes, to the social and environmental impacts of global movements; with such diversity in perspectives, it is our hope that Footprints will leave its own mark on you. Growth includes pieces that depict the personal blooming that can stem from observing natural growth. Lessons learned from nature can help us all settle into ourselves and the foundations we build. The art in this section deals with the action of taking the time to cultivate our personhood,
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often with support and comfort that illuminations from nature provide. Whether light and playful, or poignant and momentous, these pieces illustrate the lessons we may sow when we commit ourselves to growth. Reflections are not limited to the familiar semblances one may encounter along a glassy streambed; they also include the projections of our fantasies and characteristics onto the world around us, to the realization of observed natural rhythms mirrored in ourselves. Pieces in this section deal with the ruminations that arise from observing the cyclical nature of the environment, and seeing it mirrored in your own organic processes. We chose to conclude the journal with Reflections, to encourage all of us to reflect on our natures, and the traits that reverberate past ourselves, connecting us to the watershed around us. Within these pages, we hope you find the connections, inspiration, and life that struck both of us so sincerely upon reading these words and viewing this artwork. Also, in the spirit of a sustainable relationship with nature, we are thrilled to inform you that this journal is printed locally and on post-consumer paper using soy-based inks. We’d love to keep in touch! To sign up for our mailing list, e-mail us at wordsofthewatershed@gmail.com. You can also check out our Words of the Watershed Facebook and our website: serc.berkeley.edu/words-of-the-watershed where you’ll find online versions of previous journals and our blog, Wild Words. Share your copy with a friend, consider submitting to next year’s issue, and finally, thank you in advance for spreading the Words of the Watershed. Warmly,
Abbey Cliffe
Ashlyn Sloane
Editors-in-Chief, 2016
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Haghighat // God // I Hannah Haugenes
So I’m told, so I’m told You are the wind You are the stone When mellow sun Beams melt through snow You are the chill You are the bone The breeze and cloud Grass and groan You are the wild You are the loam I do not question You in your dismay The tear droplets Thunder Warm, hot rage I do not ask for you to be sunny You too are shivers You too are storms The mold and rust Death and decay You are all life You are today
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Arboles De Almendros Andrea Gonzalez Cabrera
From the ground Up Annastasia Pedersen
stem cut timing Natalie Pistole
I am a clump of browning needles still on a tree. Soon I will drop to the ground where a bed of old corpse neighbors awaits me. But for now I extend away from the trunk twiddling to internal beats.
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What Remains Hannah Lewis
The surging tide is now ours as we snake into Shoup’s glacial domain. Cascading droplets, slopes of emerald concealing tawny fur, ripples on milky glass: it all emanates from her chilling stillness, silent sovereign, queen of this enchanted Alaskan land. Closer now, she has aged. Retreated, cracked, browned at the lips. She is vulnerable. She of centuries past is barely concealed. She was, is, but may not be. Her attempt is what remains. The wind breathes for me. Bitter air swells my diaphragm, pierces my chest, freezes my inhale. High camp sleeps, but I see this night’s orb of fire, illuminating the dry powder whipping past. The snow floor is in motion, swirls of golden dust. Only I exist under this light—The Eye, knows I am a last witness. Cold fingers penetrate my insides, they have full control; paralyzed, I merely can behold. The wind bites my last breath and I must retreat. Gleaming powder flickers behind my eyelids; light fades, the snow will cease. My memory remains. There are rocks atop North America, charcoal black, made from time, where crystals that reflect all light lay alone before. I stand on top of the continent, an ocean of peaks and clouds below, hazy ribbon of rainbow against the dying of the day. Denali, the High One, formidable, unyielding, a temptress. Will she last? Minutely, she is laid bare, earth’s warming, to her rocky skeleton. Who then, will court her? Thin snow, rock cavities, ghost of her prime; traces of a fuller self, turned to lore. Her legend will remain. Memories, of mountain mirrors and a magic blue room between snow and tumbling water, of bare skin embraced by glacial waters, of killer whales dancing, of humpbacks breaching, misting my cheek, and of the world turned quiet in the chilled charged presence of a glacier. Here, same clothes, same skin, same company: existing, living, alive. I am in harmony with myself, closer than possible. But there’s ice, tinged with black, and ash, fire’s fingerprint. Rainbow reminiscence of past oil accidents. Even deep in the last frontier, with my senses submerged in creation, material humanity’s damage seeps, stains. All the beauty, all the loss. Concrete confuses, separates. I am dimming—connection falters. I need to get back, back to myself as a real human being. I must protect our world, relics of a more grounded reality; for only what we cherish may heal, and what we preserve can remain.
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Singing to the Flowers Yujing Wu
The Leaves Forgot What Water Is Fernando Romo
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Roots
Megan Conner Fistfulls of it. Grass blades consumed by knuckles, and maybe it’s a hug but not the sort taken with a flutter blush. The roots dangle in dirt crumbs up in the air in her hand in a way she can’t explain why. There’s just the motion. The texture of the rip. A child’s habit she relearns each time she sits on the grass. Picnics of pulling followed by a gaze at her palms full of it. She loves it without cares and then this. This dying green. “Why do you do that?” he asks as they sit crisscrossed, picnicking. “I don’t know.” “Maybe it’s something in the roots.” “Maybe.” Yet she stares at the displaced earth resting along her fingers, take a good long read of her palm like a fortuneteller, and knows there is more than just roots. Roots explain the beginning, the ease of action, but lack reason for pursuing. Habit and flappable compassion build a nest here. The roots only supported. “Well, moreso than that,” she posits, “it’s the way I blindly accept this air as clean.” “It’s not clean?” he inquires. “Taste this and you’ll see.” She holds the grass towards him. He takes it. He chews. “Bitter as sin,” he affirms. “I know,” she whispers, and with this the heavens part. The skies stop hesitating. Sun beats the land as that thick air traps the beatings. Plants wither. The four-footed run helplessly away from the equator, the expanding coasts, and the evaporating seasons. Birds turn to sky and disappears. Fish turn to floor and sleep. Man turns to woman and says, “This is it? The end of paradise?” “I think so.” “And you did this?” “And you, too.” So they sit, waiting and wishing they had listened.
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The Sweetest Last Drop Iman Kazah
Ever since the drought started in California, many don’t realize that their actions are only making the drought worse. This illustration depicts the irony that we are causing to our ecosystem. To gush out the last drops of water from a fragile flower is what many are willing to sacrifice for their last drinkable sips of water, yet they don’t realize that the action is hurting the life of the flower. What would you do for your last drops of water?
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North Berkeley Blooms Allegra Saggese
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This is Industry Emma Reich
We are only a part of nature when it’s convenient. (The grass stands up like skyscrapers, the breeze is a hurricane: This, this is industry.) This is the nature we drive to, the tranquility we buy with a campsite fee. On hikes we step in the footprints of others to feel alone. To feel wild, we take a map. (The trees here were planted. Their trunks are steel, their branches hold buildings.) We breathe in fresh air from a package like it’s water from a bottle. Everything is wrapped for us, processed and sold. (The gravel grinds down like coins in a jar; the sunlight transmutes the foliage into plastic.) People buy commodities and consume nature.
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Joshua Tree Ching Fang
Photo A group of climbers on the Solarium rock in Joshua Tree National Park.
Although Joshua Tree is a well-Âmaintained climbing haven, many climbing destinations suffer from careless climbing practices: blatant chalk lines, excessive bolts drilled into the faces of rocks, manÂ-made holds chipped into the rocks, and human waste left in snow or desert environments. Even for aware climbers, much of the damage to the ecosystem inevitably comes with the sport. The vegetation at the base of rocks are often trampled, and many animals, especially nesting birds, are displaced from their natural habitats. Just the use of a rock face for climbing results in a decrease of vegetation cover and diversity, as well as an introduction of nonnative plants. With a 16% increase in rock climbing participation over the last 3 years, the conversation on environmentalism and ethics for climbing has only grown more complex. Although curbing the increase in outdoor climbing is unrealistic, the damage to natural ecosystems from the sheer amount of climbers calls for increased awareness and discussion.
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Eucalyptus Victoria Glynn
Hannah Lewis
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The Place of an Environmentalist in the Climate Justice Movement Meredith Jacobson
Environmentalism was my gateway drug into a broader progressive belief system. I have been an environmentalist for as long as I can remember, since I was a child, when I viewed myself as a defendant of nature. My passion toward fighting climate change originally stemmed from a desire to protect the earth from the evil of humans. So I entered the climate movement with no abandon. And in doing so, I met and worked with some inspiring change-makers who shaped my worldview, who opened my eyes to truths I had not realized, to privileges embedded in me that were distorting my vision for change. I began to realize that I wished to protect the earth from humans, because I grew up in a white, upper middle class family, in a neighborhood that didn’t need to be protected from cancer-inducing pollution or violence or crime. I had the privilege to put nature first. In the past five years or so, the climate justice movement has emerged as something distinct from environmentalism. They share an oval in a Venn diagram, they intersect, but they are separate. Climate justice activists have reshaped the narrative around climate to one of social justice and equality. It is about tackling extractive and exploitative systems that are oppressing people. It is a movement to bring about justice of all forms through the lens of climate chaos. It puts people first. It acknowledges that climate solutions should benefit the people most affected by the ravages of climate change. It seeks to create systemic change that brings about economic justice, racial justice, and environmental justice, therefore creating intersectional allyships with other progressive movements fighting for change. Many climate justice activists say, “The earth doesn’t need saving. The earth will rebound. It is ourselves we need to save.” Many of my fellow activists do not call themselves environmentalists, to distinguish this new climate justice movement as something different. They seek to distance it from the historically elitist, white, and privileged environmental movement. This distinction is good, and important, and propelling the movement to new heights with new momentum. I say all of this to make clear that climate justice does not equal environmentalism. It can’t and it shouldn’t. Both are bigger than their overlap. But this does not mean that eco-centric environmentalism has become obsolete. Here are three ways I see traditional its role within and alongside the climate justice movement: 1.
To speak for the trees, and the birds, and the bees
We know that not all strategies for reducing carbon are great for the local environment. We’ve seen how wind turbines can affect bird migrations, and large-scale solar farms can be detrimental to desert tortoises. We know that hydropower is clean and renewable, but dams damage riparian ecosystems. The earth still needs spokespeople for non-human life, to raise concerns and demand that climate solutions are accountable to nature. This sort of defense will not get in the way of carbon reduction, but rather force us to innovate solutions that are beneficial to all forms of life. Like bird-friendly wind turbine designs and localized rather than centralized solar. The climate movement needs checks and balances in order to be the Continues on next page
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best that it can be. Biodiversity does need saving, not just for the services that it provides human civilization, but because it deserves to continue to flourish. Let us be the civilization that learns to control itself so that other forms of life can be. 2.
To be a gateway drug
Like I said, environmentalism was my gateway drug into the fight for all forms of justice (think race, gender, class, sexuality). One of the slogans of the People’s Climate March was “To change everything, we need everyone.” We need the underprivileged and we need the privileged. And many privileged people will feel their heartstrings pulled more by a plea to save nature, than a plea to save humanity. Like child-me. But then, once the movement has them in its grip, it will teach them, like it did for me, that this is about justice for everyone in every way. It will open bleeding environmental hearts into new frontiers. 3.
To remind us how to fall in love with places
“I realized that I was dealing with environmentalists with no attachment to any actual environment. Their talk was of parts-per-million of carbon, peer-reviewed papers, sustainable technologies, renewable supergrids, green growth, and the fifteenth conference of the parties. There were campaigns about “the planet” and “the Earth,” but there was no specificity: no sign of any real, felt attachment to any small part of that Earth.” – Paul Kingsworth, “Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist” Paul Kingsworth, a British writer and thinker, has recently denounced the modern climate movement as being so distant from the tangible earth that it has become useless. I disagree, but I think his warning is important. I firmly believe that finding love for land is essential to what it means to be human and a convivial being in this universe. It is what makes life worth living on a multi-generational scale. There is something soul-affirming about tending to and connecting with the non-human world. Something that is so important, and desperately needed. Our hands need to be in dirt. Environmentalism brought us the idea of protecting wilderness, and with it, a philosophy of caring for nature. It taught us to seek the experience of awe and wonder for the natural world, and for that I am grateful. But let us remember the dynamic of have and have nots in the world of wonder. Not everyone has the privilege to backpack Yosemite; not everyone has the time to spend outdoors contemplating nature as they struggle to make ends meet. Not everyone feels safe in the woods because of the color of their skin. I have the privilege to care for nature. It’s not bad to have this privilege, it’s actually very good. But it’s only good if I check it and know it, and let my acknowledgement of it guide the way I use it. That’s how privilege works. And so environmentalists must, at their very core, fight for everyone’s ability to fall in love with places. Especially in an era in which places are being gobbled up by sea level rise, by capitalism and exploitation. We may already be past a point of no return for the climate and for life on earth as we know it. We may not be. And so we need to reconnect with places and love them fiercely, and let that love motivate us to fight with all we have for each other and our home. Falling in love with places, with earth, is more important than getting carbon out of the atmosphere. If this love is lost, we are nowhere.
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Berkeley Mushrooms: Where there is soil there is life Hannah Spinner
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Compost Of Berkeley Andrea Gonzalez Cabrera
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a couple of things i learned from a tree Hannah Haugenes
a couple of things i learned from a tree
to be a metamorphosis -
grow up and grow out there is no turning back
do not fall with the night
once you have begun you are one with an aura that could never be defined stand tall and when the wind comes do not pine rather sing with it in a raspy, muffled tone you will take this lay next to the rippling tide of seemingly static bracken see the life so near you existing because of you and for you and with you see the relativity and do not hold your breath rather allow every moment
there is no need to look around see you are doing right you will never be as they will be self expression leads to the prettiest vines and the most vivacious deaths throughout autumn allow the fungi of this to seep through your pores follow cobwebs up your spine nip at your toenails chase you through time it is fine to stand still for awhile you are here as always in eternity this tree is content why shouldn’t i be
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Michelle Margolies
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Love Poem for the Sea Beatrix Scolari
You, A handsome swath of muscle, Undulating, forever. And I, my love, I Tremble. Your crashing bellow sails over the dunes, Overwhelms my brittle frame; And I laugh too. Sand crabs Crowd my lips, depart, And trickle down my chin like peach juice. Let me peal back your chiffon tongue, Abide in your belly Where I will bid the Sun, And jealous she will melt. Two lovers cast in gold. Could I promise you a more perfect eternity? I am A fragment A scrap A speck Possibly nothing at all, Suspended in your cool blood. Uninhibited by contours, The horizon is an ambitious frontier, But I will follow you there. And kiss your heels the duration. Time—I sense his blade! Whittles my passion into a grain of sand To settle at your ankles, Amongst the other ossified souls Who dared write a love poem for the Sea.
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the sound water makes Sam Klein
I like how the cool creek feels on my hands breathing deeply it makes space for living things muted acknowledgement of the sacred importance of being fingers claws cellulose the crayfish quietly rummaging in the mud underneath but not all water is soft and accommodating some crashes down from a thousand foot granite walls into the Yosemite valley an old asian man slips under and his skull splits open on the pounding rocks two young men complain that his blood gets on their clothes breath gurgling the water makes space for the air as it tries to rejoin the atmosphere when I walk across campus the water in my metal bottle sloshes about sounding like the noises of cold tahoe water hitting the sides of that small red rowboat my cousins and I found one summer everyday we were out on the lake bailing water burning in the sun laying down eyes closed against the wet bottom rocking gently making daring voyages in a sinking rowboat across a vast blue blue like my fathers eyes when he looked at me wondering why his 10 year old daughter was having panic attacks before bed it was around that time that I stopped believing in god each night terrified I would never wake back up relating those nothing spaces between dreams to the great nothing at the end missing the sloshing of water against a boat I like how light looks fractured through water from the bottom of a pool at jeffery’s house party when i was 15 too drunk to feel much but the warmth and the pretty lights then the cold when my friend pulled me out wet jeans against my legs we never spoke about that night again I think he’s in the army now sometimes I wonder if maybe after our bones and all the mountains I know the names of have been dissolved into a post glacial sludge It will be somewhat clear why I was there and not a crayfish at the bottom of strawberry creek
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playing in the creek Sam Klein
River Poem Danielle Satin
Let me be a river, because familiarity is frightening, and the deafening ticking of the clock that grows louder with routine is quieted by the rapids, by every splash of sparkling water, leaping away as quickly and gracefully as it arrived. Changing always. Let me be a river, Carving valleys into mountains with my pencil. Stronger than even the most colossal stone, far more solid than I, while still softly kissing the pebbles that I envelope lightly, beautifully, glossed over with the stillness of glass, yet under the surface gallons of passionate fury, continually carrying me forward. Let me be a river, so I can wash away the painful footsteps on my shores that no longer serve me well, so time can be my ally, and space can be my sketch book instead of obstacles to conquer, villains to face. Let me be a river.
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A Poem on Belonging Taj Hittenberger
One cannot know the value of leaving the trees to stand upon the hillside, and the stream to wind and swell at will. The bees too, cannot be calculated. The badgers, the elk, the hawks, the bears none can be given appropriate priority over all else. Nor do any wish for much more than to make and keep a home. I like to think the falcon takes some pleasure in soaring down high ridges, and casting shade across the face of red cliffs, but the small rodent in its talons affirms my suspicion that the wild draws no line between work and play. There is an ease to the sky and water, an ease I hear at night walking through the forest, when the deer paces trailside, and the crickets and bullfrogs hum through the trees. It is the ease of staying. How alluring it is, how freeing the notion to become light again to cut the weight of burden and be taken by the wind. When our places require more than we have learned to give, let us recall how many of our generation have run to the mountains screaming, shedding weathered skins in hopes of finding resolve in the far reaches of isolation, and have come back empty handed. Or worse yet, the ones who tried and failed, and still wander about fearing the shame of return. Let us then name those who have remained planted in the rare rich soil directly underfoot, and have taken to the craft of endurance, learning day by day the lasting implications of care. When we are led to believe that we are better than our places, and our places are only worthy of us insofar as they can serve us,
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we become blind to the true value of belonging. When we break down the glowing intricacies of near and distant connections, and assemble them once more as independent parts, replaceable to the end, we have built a machine again from our deepest wells of ignorance. And when we enchant our minds with the consumption of a place, like all else, we go deaf to the beauty of the wind song playing through the pines, and dumb to questions of how we may thank, in some reasonable fashion, that which has let us swallow it whole. Pleased to be fed at any single moment, a familiar usury ensues, until our places slowly fall beneath us. Our schools sink into the valleys, and our homes are traded amongst the boomers as trifles. The trees, twice cut from the hillside, leave the loose earth no choice but to slip down into the far reaches of our holy waters, choking them until even the fish return in vain. Fumbling in a landscape awash with the dry silt of earth, and caught again in the heat of deficit, we take to that familiar task of leaving, and for those unable to indulge, we leave only the entirety of our desert. So long as we believe that no place is better than the next, and no worse than the many left in our path, we have lost the pace necessary to teach each other the perils and triumphs of intimacy. We have lost faith in the act of giving ourselves up as caretakers, as mothers and fathers, as lovers, redeemers, believers, and martyrs. We have lost all memory of the past, and any familiar notion of the future. One cannot know the value of staying, of leaving roots woven in place, of letting arms sprawl and touch down again, or even of permitting death to find its right time. Let us thank the gods, for that which we cannot know, we are left to only feel.
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Perceptions
Hannah Haugenes The crawfish walks the creek floor The water bug glides above And further up, the human contemplates
Refocus Yeshe Salz
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The Map is not the Territory Alex Roe
In 7th grade my teacher introduced us to the idea that the map is not the territory. I would be lying if I said I remember a single thing from that class, but the idea has stuck with me, hanging like a mental splinter into adulthood. The concept is a familiar one–as human beings we create mental images to move through the world, often mistaking our pictures for reality itself. This idea fascinates me because it suggests a lack of completeness, an infinite work towards progressively deeper levels of complexity, as we create ever more accurate maps to reach towards reality. In college I’ve spent time learning about California’s forests. I have learned how to measure the diameter of a tree; spent hours memorizing Latin plant names, and studied the general ecology of the Sierra Nevada. I can tell you eleven different species of fungus that attack the mixed conifer forest. But my education in the Sierra Nevada felt hollow without lived experience. I had not taken the time to rest my hands in the grooves of the pines or sit in the stillness of the afternoon cicadas. I had not felt the chill of its rivers spread like frozen cobwebs through my rib cage or marveled at the fullness of its moons. As I drove toward the Lassen Wilderness Area, I was suspicious of the chasm between what I learned in school and what I could observe exploring on my own in the dense thickets of the forest. Pine trees still sit bow legged in my memory, the arc of previous winters’ snow pack engraved in their trunks, disturbed only by the occasional brush of wind and the abrupt arrival of our station wagon at the trailhead. Here the winds fold in on themselves like sheets of warm silk, and the gravel betrays a guttural rumble as wheels make contact with the dirt. We stand at the Cluster Lakes trailhead in Lassen National Forest, looking as it snakes from the parking lot into the tree line where the Jeffrey pines and Fir trees fight for space in rocky outcroppings along the hillside. We shoulder our packs and I feel the weight of three days worth of food and gear settle into the small of my back. I feel nervous as my boots collect dust, the red dirt clinging to my laces like pollen on a flower. In the feeble light of the evening red leopard lilies arch their stems by the trail, our feet caught between alluvial soil below and violet sky above. The forest here reminds me of the impossible stories my mother used to tell me, stories of the Devil raising earth and water, snapping trees like matchsticks and carrying off children in clouds of dust and darkness. I feel the tension between this memory and my knowledge that we are alone. There are no other cars in the parking lot and the trail register is empty. And yet I retain that familiar sensation: looking into the pines and feeling as though they were looking back–as though someone was looking back. Climbing out of the valley floor toward Little Bear Lake, I feel a bead of blood navigate its way from my nose to the arid ground, which absorbs the moisture greedily and completely. The acrid smoke of wildfire and the air bereft of any sign of moisture in drought retains a sharp quality, the air takes as much breath as it gives. We reach the lake basin and resume watching the clouds, as they pour over the successive mountaintops towards our camp. We watch them, although not in the same way we had watched them at home, sitting lazily while discerning shapes and animals within the forms. These clouds had gathered moisture over the ocean, and the mountains tricked water from the air, demanding our attention. A fire had claimed most Continues on next page
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of the forest surrounding the lake nearly two decades before, and so we sat huddled amongst the few remaining fir trees, the charred remains of trees lining the trail. The storm no longer a distant prospect quickly climbs the mountain ridgeline and begins filling the sky. As we sit in the lake basin watching the ridgeline, light fills my eyes as lightning arcs across the knifepoint of the horizon and into the ground. It arrives silently, but the strike punches a hole in the world. All sound begins to pour through, leaving a void in which the air hums as if forced through a shell as thunder cracks the clouds overhead. Then earth is pulled from beneath us. I am made to sit down as though the sound has struck me. And in that moment I realize that I am listening, I don’t know why but I am just listening to the sounds as they move back into the world. And I know now that I was right, that God or the Devil or whoever made that unearthly noise is out there waiting in the pines. My map of the forest, of nature, of the sky, of everything, is drenched in the fury of the rain, and for the first time I am content to just be, to just be with the sounds and the rhythms of the world as they unfold around me.
Invisibility Cloak Carli Jipsen
Clamber, climb Through a whisper of time Peel back curtains of leaves, Unveil the world of the trees Come, feel my moss-infused skin Climb upon my infinite limbs See the detail in my branches Watch my leaves dance their dances Breathe in my air, crisp and clean Feel yourself blend into the green Brush my leaves against your skin, Shake my arms, become the wind Grip my branches with your toes No one looks up, so nobody knows Feel your heart beating fast Quadrumanual at last
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First Light Yeshe Salz
Ruby Rose
Annastasia Pedersen
She had been born human, and she was angry about it. In that darkness, she had hoped for a caterpillar, or perhaps a sapling. She would have been satisfied had she been born a minnow, or an elk, or even a pigeon. But she had been born human. Humans are filled with mad guilt, and confusion. With mad rage, and shame. Humans are grieving creatures, and she had wanted to be born still, and satisfied. Not all hot and wet, and overwhelmed and scared. A sparrow would have woken slowly to life. The seedling of a maple, clung softly to its branch. The porcupine, would have quietly, become acquainted with its quills. But she, she had been born a wild and squealing human. And so crying for the joy and the sorrow that she was soon to feel, she faced light.
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Humans in Nature; A Dual Role Akshara Challa
Artist Statement This piece shows an optically illusory human face embedded at the center of an anthropomorphized tree. The face appears evil and worldly when viewed from the left (<=) and almost sad and tormented when viewed from the right (=>) to symbolize the dual role of humans in nature. Numerous â&#x20AC;&#x153;handsâ&#x20AC;? stem from the tree and either do positive (watering, recycling) or negative (hacking, trapping) actions to the tree itself. This demonstrates the cyclic nature of the actions we undertake on a daily basis â&#x20AC;&#x201C; whatever we do to the environment will in turn impact our own lives in the long run.
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Musings of a Berkeley Oak Abbey Cliffe
I think it’s funny that people assume I can’t hear. Or think. Or feel. I may not have ears, or a brain, or any fingers, but who needs any of that anyway? I’ve lived through countless lunar cycles and sunrises, felt so many rains—longed for so many rains. And though I’ve stayed in this same spot, I have experienced the world. I have heard stories of travels to places where my kind bear fruits like coconuts and have bark like satin. I have felt what it’s like to jump in the ocean because I have heard people talk about it. The way the tide captures you and lets you go. I have experienced heartbreak, too. I know what it’s like to fall short of personal expectations, to lose a friend, to be so tired that not even sleep can help. I know many songs, thanks to those that hum, whistle, carry a tune while they walk. I know quite a lot, actually. All in a day, I can learn about anything from quantum mechanics, to the truth of consciousness, to Donald Trump’s latest ridiculous comments. People talk about everything. I guess it might be a good thing that they’re unaware that I can hear them, for they might speak more quietly or censor what they say if they knew. I’ve witnessed people’s best and worst moments, felt the heaviness of many silences, heard so many different laughs I could fill a room with. Occasionally, someone will touch my bark, pluck a leaf from my branches. Look so intently up at me that I know they must be searching for comfort. And this is what I hope to give back. My hope is that my leaves can provide shade and my trunk and roots, a natural loyalty. I want people to look at me and feel at home in this world. To find solace in my presence and a sense of their beauty in my own.
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Rosa
Charlotte Sanger Hull Orange is here conmigo otra vez in crisp persimmons and tiny pumpkins, with marigolds bursting just in time for Día de los Muertos. Even in California, the sky smells different cuando la luz cambia, stretching out into shadow, earlier y más temprano. But this year is quieter, not empty, necessarily, pero tranquilo and full of what you would say, if you were aún aquí, still here.
Allegra Saggese
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First Nature Ashlyn Sloane
my body fills with air and rises and arches and expands. like ridges under the force of quakes, my movements and trembles are as native and beautiful and filled with awe. my seismic writhings are no less devastating than when the earth convulses, both are whole and natural. my body flourishes and nourishes and flowers there is nothing disgusting about my natural processes. what drips out of me is as sweet as nectar and as life-giving. my body shakes quivers and quakes with ecstatic passion and sometimes pain just like this goddamn earth why should I be ashamed? She isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. my bodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nature, the rings and weathering have stories to tell ridges and receding and expanding flesh no territories here only fresh uncultivated soil for me to dig into with roots filling the expanse of my body.
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Indian Creek Oliver Abbitt
The River Kingdom Dakota Goodman
Layers of Stone Age Stacked as if man made Perfection of geometry in nature Columns appear along a bank Creating the walls Guarding an ancient kingdom A great flowing castle forever changing its foundation Under the depths of the surface Another world completely Guarded by ancient stone
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Use this canvas as a space for your own reflections.
Staff & Acknowledgments From left to right: Sam Klein, Hannah Haugenes, Lillian Weiland, Lily Holmes, Abbey Cliffe, Ashlyn Sloane, Noel Lily Pond-Danchik, Annastasia Pedersen, Whitney Witthaus Not pictured: Sara Fagan, Henry Hammel, Carli Jipsen, Eva Malis, Yeshe Salz, and Hannah Spinner
Fall 2015 DeCal Students: Abbey Cliffe, Victoria Berdin, Sara Fagan, Ching Fang, Hannah Haugenes, Henry Hammel, Carli Jipsen, Sam Klein, Eva Malis, Anna Pedersen, Fernando Romo, Yeshe Salz, Ashlyn Sloane, Manon von Kaenel, and Lillian Weiland Students in the DeCal helped spread the word (of the watershed), plan events, and build a foundation for this edition of the journal. If you are interested in eco-art and/or learning more about Words of the Watershed, look out for our DeCal in Fall 2016! Cover illustration by Whitney Witthaus and unlabeled illustrations created by Abbey Cliffe, Carli Jipsen, Sam Klein, and Ashlyn Sloane. Thanks toâ&#x20AC;Ś The dedicated and fruitful work of Henry Hammel, our Layout and Design Editor Extraordinaire. Our energetic faculty sponsor Kurt Spreyer and SERC advisor Katherine Walsh for giving us the freedom and support to run with all of our wild ideas. Hannah Miller and Meredith Jacobson for continuing to contribute to an everblooming project that they passionately cultivated and created, respectively. Manon von Kaenel for providing loving and supportive advice along every trail marker on this windy and rewarding path. Amy and all of the hardworking staff of 1984 printing for providing a platform that enables us to stay true to our roots by allowing us to print with earth-based and earth-friendly materials. Thank you to our sponsors and supporters for providing us with the nourishment to extend our branches and create a far-reaching community! The Associated Students of California (ASUC) The Student Environmental Resource Center (SERC) The Green Initiative Fund (TGIF) The Student Opportunity Fund (SOF)
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Translucent Victoria Glynn
A UC Berkeley journal of local environmental writing and art