Our final project of the semester was a collaborative one that took its final form as an ArcGIS story map. After considering various forms of walking, the consensus was that most of it is task-driven: rushing to class or some other Point B from our current Point A. Even our exercise is fit-bitted and measured. So the projects turned to the question of what we find along the way, hidden in plain sight, and the strange history of treasure maps came up. Usually we associate them with pirates’ booty or other monetary riches. But isn’t there also a fascination with some mysterious map that tells you how to get there? Perhaps there’s an overlap here with nature writing in this close attention to the important details surrounding us. Click here to read “How to Get There: A Collection of Treasure Maps.”
Winter is a time of many different emotions and mentalities; each being who makes their way in the cold and dark has their own unique outlook on surviving the season. Most humans who live in regions that experience winter have developed uplifting mindsets of sorts in order to maintain high spirits through the seemingly dismal aura surrounding winter. Many cultures celebrate the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, with rejoice for new beginnings in the form of the eventual spring. During this time of hope and raised spirits, the aura of good cheer can generate beautiful moments of true magic and wonder. One legend that awakens during the snowy season is that of Santa Claus, the jolly old toymaker, who astounds and mystifies children of nearly any age. In my personal opinion, the idea of Santa Claus (or any other uplifting winter legend) is perfect for opening the eyes of children to the wonders of imagination and the magic of winter. In fact, I experienced a moment of pure wonder and awe just the other day. Of course, my credibility might go down a notch if I said I believed in legends such as Santa Claus, so I won’t go that far (although I admit it is quite fun to ponder the existence of such a legend).
I remember getting out of bed, following my usual routine, and making my way to the water fountain to fill up my bottle. On the way down the stairs, I glanced out the window, and was greeted with the full, pale face of the moon casting its reflected light down towards me. Caught in its powerful gaze, I could only stare at the beauty of its marbled surface. As I stood there, I simply contemplated the way humans have always gawked at the wonder and mystery of space. –Travis Best
Everyone had their reasons for being at Geneseo. For many it reprised the lines and chords that their parents or siblings had gone through in a suburban environment: a Wegmans fifteen minutes away, mom-and pop shops nearby, a pleasurable tension of knowing your neighbors’ business.
I came for the money and the breathing space; quite literally the AQI was way better up here and I wouldn’t feel like a sardine in my classroom. I didn’t have to worry about not having a seat if I arrived late to class. The little things were forgiven: pauses were made and small talk seemed much more earnest without the competition for space, time, and attention. I didn’t have to rush in or be forced to grab a chair elsewhere for my spot.
On walks to the arboretum, I’d be met with a similar sweet opening and sour end. Initially—sweet like the taste of hot apple cider from Red Jacket—my view was more expansive the higher up the hill I went. Without metropolitan smog, my clarity and progression of thoughts modeled the twilight sky. Celestial concepts inhabited my headspace during frequent five-minute walks between commitments. I was a part of a larger, starry movement tracking the inhale and exhale of the campus day. Like lining up for metaphase, there was an ease in becoming the common Geneseo student—motivated, multifaceted, and driven. Still, I felt power in this reprieve at the arboretum; somehow I thought I’d get some sort of break from the buzz in a manmade forest, away from all of my manufactured problems. It was always humbling, though, to dance around Genesee beer cans amid thoughts of my own right to a claim a place here and the legacy I would want to leave. —Jess
