A Long Goodbye

This is my final summer working in middle Georgia with the bear project, and my final summer as a graduate student.
In 2013, I wrote a blog about coming here; much of my sentiments could be reversed in this post.

This is my fourth summer here, and I could fill a book with everything I have learned here, in this dirt and on this ground. I hope to do just that, someday.  But in the meantime, I'm trying to get my head around the idea that I'll be leaving here soon, and leaving the life I've built here.

The first few days I came down to the field site in June, I was here alone.  It's a good thing, because I was an emotional mess.  I was minding my own business, organizing supplies in our brand new storage building, when it hit me that all these supplies, the storage building, the check station, the trailer, the dirt I was standing on...was about to not be "mine" anymore.  This place has been home for my summers, some autumns, and some winters.  It's been the place I ran to for comfort, for mud, for bears, for new experiences, and for peace.  There's nothing that quite replaces sitting on the front porch watching the sun rise through those oaks in the front yard.

It's been a hard fought four years here: lots of blood, sweat, tears, pain, joy, dirt, rain, bugs, love, and laughter.  Before coming here, I'd never driven a truck (consistently), never driven a four-wheeler, never driven in mud, never handled barbed wire, never hauled a trailer, never touched a bear, never cried so much over bears, never plugged a tire, never cursed so frequently, never loved so profoundly, and never suffered loss so profoundly.

It feels like I've grown up here, even though I was in my twenties when I came.  In a way, I have grown up: I've learned what it takes to be a technician, crew leader, boss, team manager, research coordinator, go-fer, hunter, listener, and doer.  I've learned to deal with conflict that involves me, is because of me, and doesn't involve me at all.  I've learned how to talk to all sorts of people from all sorts of walks of life, and I've learned how to earn their respect.  None of these things have I done perfectly, and some I haven't even done well...but I've tried above all to be aware of opportunities to take lessons from every day I've spent here.  Whether it be learning mechanics, or history, fungus or tracking, hunting or wine-making, I have tried to keep both my eyes and both my ears open, holding my hands out palm up, waiting for whatever someone passed to me.  Not to say that was easy, or always fun.  It hasn't been only sunshine and rainbows.  But, my time here has been invaluable to me.
I think what has struck me the most has been the genuine spirits of everyone I've met.  If they like you, they'll give you the shirt off their back...if they don't like you, you know it--which I think is better than pretending.  Everyone I've come to know here is eager to talk about what they know and how they've learned it, especially if you're eager to listen.  I am forever in debt to the people here for taking me in, teaching me things, and pulling me out of trouble more than I'd like to admit.

***

I've successfully defended my thesis now, and all that remains are last-minute edits, format checks, and wrapping up the fifth and final season here.  After that, we'll all have pulled up our stakes from Ocmulgee dirt and moved on.

Only thing is...I don't know exactly to where I'm moving.  For the first time in my life, I have little direction.  I have, mostly, always known exactly what my next step is.  Now...I could take a step in any direction, and make something of myself.  It is terrifying.  It is also terribly freeing.  The world is my oyster right now: I could go anywhere, and be anything.  Some days I am okay with it: my free spirit soaring at the thought of riding into the sunset.  Some days...I wish to go backwards in time to when I had a singular path.  I know, though, that right now is exactly where I'm meant to be, whether I know what the future holds or not.

I keep telling myself, in my moments of panic, that as long as I can wake up each morning, remember how it is that I'm here--not through abilities acquired on my own, but through what I've been given--give thanks to God for what He has done, and step out of bed knowing that I. can. do. this.  It's not going to be easy, or straightforward, but it will be good, so help me God.

"9Now about your love for one another we do not need to write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love each other.  10And in fact, you do love all of God's family throughout Macedonia.  yet we urge you, brothers and sisters, to do so more and more, 11and to make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, 12so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody." 1 Thessalonians 4:9-12

Let it be so with me.

Unless

This day comes around every year, and every year it makes me nostalgic for kid's books, summers rolling in the grass, and a strong sense of discomfort.  Seems a strange combination, no?
Today is March 2nd, Dr. Seuss's birthday.  Every year on this day, I read The Lorax, and every year that book and what it stands for becomes more important to me.
I'll try not to spend time re-typing it, or quoting a ton of it, except for the ending:

"That was long, long ago. 
But each day since that day 
I've sat here and worried and worried away. 
Through the years, while my buildings 
have fallen apart, 
I've worried about it 
with all of my heart. 
"But now," says the Once-ler, 
"Now that you're here, the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear. 
UNLESS someone like you 
cares a whole awful lot, 
nothing is going to get better. 
It's not. 
"SO... 
Catch!" calls the Once-ler. 
He lets something fall. 
"It's a Truffula Seed. 
It's the last one of all! 
You're in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds. 
And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs. 
Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care. 
Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air. 
Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack. 
Then the Lorax 
and all of his friends 
may come back." 

I cannot read that without being filled with fear...and hope.  Today, especially today, after our -ah-interesting Super Tuesday, the Lorax's message screams to me.  Yes, I know that Dr. Seuss was primarily talking about deforestation, preaching a preservation message, railing against consumerism, but every year, this passage speaks to a different place in my life.

Sometimes it's about our natural resources: we are soon to be in dire straits in the energy and climate discussion.
Sometimes it's about relationships: we forget to nourish one another quite often.
Sometimes it's about faith: the seeds of truth should be planted and nourished, helped to grow in love and mercy, and flourish.

Sometimes...like this year...it's a little bit of everything: our environment is in trouble, our relationships are struggling, our integrity as a people is failing...
It's no wonder the Lorax lifted himself up by the seat of his pants.
It's no wonder the Once-ler hides in his Lerkim on top of his store.
It's no wonder our culture wants more, more, more!

Part of me wants to run away with the Lorax,
to disappear into the air with one sad, backwards glance.

But.  (That's my favorite word, "but," there's so much potential, so much hope in that one little word.)

But, I can't.  I can't just leave.
While I identify with the Lorax, and speak for the trees,
I can't just leave, because
I'm also in charge of the last Truffula seeds.
So are you, and you, and you!

Whether it's nature, or faith, or people, or space,
It's up to us to improve this place.
We use what we have,
and learn what we don't.
and hope that one day...
the Lorax, he won't:
won't look at us with those sad, oldish eyes,
won't look at us in a way we're despised,
instead he and his friends,
they'll come back.

Why--and How--do we choose to nurture Nature?

There are some people who leave college knowing their chosen degrees will make them money, make them successful, and take them to fancy restaurants and big cities.  There are other people who leave college knowing that... Well... They love being outside.  And they'll probably live in lots of places across the country before coming back to school for more credentials.  And then they'll probably live in a few more places before they land a job in which they feel secure enough to stay.  That life sounds adventurous, to be sure, but it is often not secure, assured, easy, or lucrative.

Why bother?  Do these people have more drive, more lofty sense of destiny than those in the fancy careers with money and power?  No.  Not more drive, just different drive.  I do not believe that someone in one career could begin to assume that someone in another career has less drive or less of an eternal perspective.  Many people are here to do many different things.

So why willingly go into a career you know could mean never taking international vacations for lack of funds?  Why choose to go back to graduate school for more school and more school if you know that you will still walk into a salary at what some business people walk into at the age of 22?

We must.  Someone must.  It might as well be those that hear the cry.

That sounds pretty fatalist: as if I were resigning myself to a fate that is less than appealing.  You know, some days, it is just that.  That's part of why I'm forcing myself to write this now.  There are reasons those of us in the natural resource field stick it out--reasons I, too, need to be reminded of this week.

. . .

The out of doors is the best classroom.  Sure, this isn't true for all people, as we all come to understand new concepts differently.  But there are some of us that learn best while we are standing in the middle of cold rain, or among greenbriar vines, or in the warming spring sun.  Some of us learn best by experiencing firsthand why trees grow the way they do, or what exactly a "wetland" is, or why poison ivy's scientific name is Toxicodendron radicans...  We need that kind of classroom.

The out of doors is the only place like it.  As far as we know, there's only one Earth, and we're on it.  We all have one outdoor classroom in which to learn.  Whether we immerse ourselves in it daily, or just on the weekends, we all need the out of doors, and we have one shot to keep it.

The out of doors needs help.  Most everyone knows this by now, with the news often riddled with stories of the newest animal-born disease, or climate change (yes, it's happening, just accept it). or the impending "big one" in California and the other "big one" in Yellowstone.

Who better to help it than those that learn the best in it?  Those that need it to stay sane?  Those who stand on a mountain and hear its cry?  Those that would much rather spend days in muddy boots, holey pants, and beat up trucks than suits, ties, and fancy cars.  We love this land, we are who we are because of this land, so we will do our damnedest to protect it.

. . .

All this sounds very inspiring and logical, or to me it does, but...that doesn't make the process easier.  That doesn't particularly help me, now, when I'm feeling run down and discouraged at career outlooks, research outcomes, red tape ridiculousness, and budget shortcomings.

Maybe that's why this post has been brewing for days, instead of getting churned out in an hour.

How do you write to inspire love for the very thing with which you are currently disenchanted?  How do you separate yourself from your insecurities surrounding your practical ability to be an agent of change?  

. . .

When I become disenchanted, I think of Aldo Leopold, John Muir, and UGA's own Bob Warren. These men inspire others with their essays, their legacies, and their face-to-face communications.  They have all stood and listened to the call of the Earth, the call for respect, for awe, for fear, and for help.  They have all--at least briefly--understood the howl of the wolf, they have understood what it means to be in a landscape without wolves--or deer--or fire--or natural balance.  They have all seen the natural world during and through times of struggle.  It is a hard road.  Hard.  It would be easier to throw my hands up and say, "whatever, this world will make it until I'm dead, probably, or at least until I'm too old to care."

I can't.  We can't.  I have stood on the mountain and listened.  I have heard and seen what a world without balance looks like.  I have seen hillsides scarred by our own work.  I cannot, no matter how frustrated I get, give up on that cry, that yearning to understand the howl of the wolf.  Those of us that hear it, is it not our duty to be human voices for it?  Those of us that hear the cry of the Earth asking us to nurture it, can we not turn deaf ears to it?  Those of us who need the out of doors to stay sane, can we not stifle that and lead lives of quiet desperation?

No.  Well, we could.  But.  That call is irresistible, even in the darkest of moods.  The call reaches there, in the deepest part of us, to remind us that we don't know, we can't fully know the objective cry of the wolf.  But we have to try.