[Lab Field Notebook - 1]

[Gil Puga – Biol2] [Feb 11th, 2021 ~ 3:13 p.m.]

[Weather = Overcast, hazy, moisture in the air;

sparse openings in the cloud cover and chilly]

- A familiar tree in particular in my backyard is this vase-like one I’ve been walking under for the past 27 years.
I don’t know its name, but I know its habits. I know it blossoms more than once a year, with a few different
colors ranging from pink to purple. Its leaves are small and congregate only around the little nubs where the
blossoms appear. It has fair skinned branches, with bark that sheds profusely in long thin chips. It’s braided
and shaped like a sprig of broccoli, and creaks in the wind. Little droplets often rain down from the blossoms
come spring, but for now they are asleep waiting for the temperate weather to come ring them back to life. It’s
older than I am, but thin and lanky like my own self. It bends during the worst of storms so it rarely breaks.
There are seemingly much hardier trees in the neighborhood that cannot boast the same.
o How long has it been here?
o What is its species?
o Why does it look like seeing an old friend whenever I’m out doing whatever in the yard?

-
- I never considered myself to be much of an artist, and I certainly don’t have the patience to become competent
in the art of drawing, but it feels like an intimate thing to try and capture the essence of something by your
own hand. A field note journal seems to be a therapeutic device as much as it can be a tool of exploration and
learning. It’s a means of capturing the world through your lens; what you see and how you see it; what you
think about the world around you.
Like other fleet-footed things,
We walk, we crawl, embedded
In a web of wet and warmth;
Conditions conducive to life
And conducive to death.
If Nature is cyclical
And She is never late,
Of what use is our urgency?
Our stories are triadic
Of beginning, middle, end –
With underlying continuity
Of which we’re largely unaware.
If we could only for a moment,
Forget the Author’s tale,
We’ll find our true selves
On the blank page
From which Her life springs -
And at last, Eternity,
At our fingertips.
G. P.