Hope Gray

High Vibrations

Summer vacation has been the highlight of my life. Considering the first four years of my

life have been mostly lost with age, I cannot remember a time before I looked forward to

seasonal breaks. The Summer breaks beginning as a kindergartener are engrained in my memory.

The last day of school I can remember the exhileration that came with no longer having to bring

my backpack – a literal weight lifted off of my shoulders representing the impending freedom

from school. Instead of a backpack and class, we donned white shirts and had Field Day,

competing over how many kids signatures you could accumulate and how many games you

could win.

As a student, the summer holds the same allure as it used to, just not for the same

reasons. Oooo, I think to myself as finals wrap up, Now I get to work twice as many hours! Yay,

money! The real attraction to summer as an adult has no longer become the end of school, but,

rather, the change of weather, opening of snow cone stands, and revisiting of the nostalgia of my

childhood. The heat is a welcome change of pace, even if I have to stand outside my car until it

cools, and who doesn’t love a good tornado siren? It invites the craving of cold shaved ice that

just isn’t as good if you aren’t sweating while you eat it. Classic Rock doesn’t seem quite as

good if your windows aren’t rolled down on a backroad and the days aren’t stretched out. The

music not as meaningful when the nights don’t smell like honeysuckle. It’s as if the Earth

operates at a higher vibration, all life upon it at its highest state of renewal, when your

hemisphere leans closer to the sun.

This Land is My Land

 It was tradition when we visited Mississippi, conscious or not, to take walks with my

grandmother around my family’s land; the land her family had occupied for generations. They

were long, taken around sunset when the Earth was cooling and the cicadas’ song filled the thick

pine forest. It was just me and my grandmother as we made the trek from the farthest reaches of

the property to the house, dodging fire ant mounds, when her green eyes spotted something.

“Here.” My grandmother said, bending down, one hand still on her walking stick as she

picked up a bit of red dirt and handed it to me. “It’s clay. The Indians used to use it.”

I held the thumb-sized bit of clay in my young hands, their soft plumpness in sharp

contrast to my grandma’s wrinkled ones as she placed the small clump of Mississippi mud within

them. It wasn’t much, and I wondered what anyone could have possibly used it for. I puzzled

over where the Indians had gone if the street was named WALTERS Rd. after my grandmother’s

side of the family, only to later realize that the Indians she spoke of were the ancestors of the

same tribal members now living in my home state of Oklahoma. Of course, I lived in and

descended from the Cherokee Nation, in a town named after the Osage Chief Claremont and not

in the Muscogee (Creek) and Choctaw Lands whose peoples had inhabited my family’s land.

Who had owned my family’s land, their presence evident by the many arrowheads my father had

collected there: precisely sharpened pieces of slate that tipped Native arrows. Some, like the ones

he kept, were finished, others, like the one my grandfather presented me with a few years later,

were not. Still, it was fascinating to see how sharp the edge was, a stone found and crafted years

ago by someone who was long dead. It made me wonder why it had never been completed.

A ten-minute walk from my grandparents’ house was the Walters cemetery, a large, ever

growing family tree beneath the earth making it possible to trace my ancestry seven generations

to the oldest discernable tombstone. Buried in the back of the lot, nearly forgotten and marked by
a bit of jagged granite, was Lily Walters: DIED: 1854. She was the granddaughter-in-law of the

oldest Walters to set foot on the land in the 1830’s. My family migrating from South Carolina to

carve out a farm in the pine belt of Mississippi. Unfortunately, the land I love, the land soaked in

the blood, sweat, and tears of my ancestors, is also a land soaked in the blood and tears of natives

that were confined to shrinking territories and then uprooted to Indian Territory in modern day

Oklahoma, along with the Cherokee ancestors I descended from on the “The Trail of Tears”.

It was almost comical how one side of my family would likely ask me to thank Andrew

Jackson, and the other would have me spit a curse upon his grave. Only the last time I walked on

the land in Mississippi, I realized the ancestral connection it had to both sides of my heritage,

like the red earth beneath my feet was speaking to me. Red clay that I would later find in my

backyard in Norman, the earth was speaking again, relaying the connection of lands to me like

the vast network of tree roots under the needles on the Pine Belt forest floor. The dirt seemed to

speak to me, as I hope it did to the Natives driven there, saying: home.

Rays

Since the dawn of time, we have worshipped the sun. The bringer of light, warmth, and,

thus, life to Earth. It shines through the Autumn leaves, enhancing the vibrant reds and yellows

they have turned. It brings warmth to the cold metal treestand when hunting in winter as you see

it rise and illuminate the shadowy wood you walked into. Spidersilk shining between tree

branches in the morning light showcases the arachnids’ intricate webs. When rowing in the early

hours of the morning, dawn relieves hesitation in the poor lighting on black water, its rays

revealing bridges and turning the still river into a reflection of the sherbet colored clouds.

In March, when I travel south over my short break, the sun has already brought it’s

warmth to southern states, and the green it springs forth evokes wonder – a stark contrast to the
gray clouds still hanging over my home leaving all the trees barren bones. When summer arrives

and road trips ensue, the bright sphere brings out the golden hue the long grasses in pastures

take, reflecting them into your eyes. When I can make it to the lake for a late summer sunset,

there’s no better place to be than sitting on the sandstone that frames the water, the rock warmed

from a day in the sun. The clouds that stretch like cotton pulled apart are like a work of art,

painted in golds blended into soft oranges and rosy pinks that touch the violet sky and the night

that closes in, speckled with stars not nearly as important to planet Earth as the one sinking

below the horizon.

Season’s Meanings

The scent of a crisp morning, my breath blooming in clouds in the morning rays of a less

oppressive sun, the signs reading “Pumpkin Spice is Back!” at Starbucks, they all mean one

thing. I should wear a sweater today and order that PSL hot, because even if the high for the day

is 85 degrees, Fall has arrived. Camo coats and coveralls replace the summer-sport section in my

retail job. Hunters rush the store for archery licenses and Hot Hands hand warmers needed for

cool mornings in “the stand”.

As I spend my football season Saturdays hanging coats and listening to the OU game

over the loudspeaker, I think of the first deer I shot. It was the day before thanksgiving in the

sixth grade; a lone doe approached the spot where my father and I lied in wait. I hold my breath,

still as a statue and pray my camo jacket conceals me from the doe’s keen eyes. She stares me

down, sniffing the wind with her wet, brown nose. Satisfied she is alone, she returns to munching

on corn and herbs. The doe is broadside, ten feet from where I slowly poise my rifle. Lining up

the scope just behind her shoulder, I release a held breath and squeeze the trigger.
 Bang! The 308 fires, nudging my shoulder and striking her heart. My ears ring as I pursue

her, tracking hair and blood and evidence of struggle on the fall leaves that crunch beneath my

feet. My dad strays from the path I follow like a bloodhound. “She’s over here!” I call, excitedly,

spotting my fallen quarry. The shadows of the oaks elongate, a chill on the breeze as the last rays

of light fade. Waiting for the truck to load the deer, I look at the doe’s dark eyes and ponder the

circle of life. Her meat would make chili, stew, and sausage. The organs left in the woods would

feed scavengers. Her bones and pelt would return nitrogen to the Earth, fueling the plants she

once ate.

It was a deep memory to ponder while zipping up coats and craving pumpkin spice, but it

reminds me of the importance of fall beyond Starbucks and Sooner football. Death is a part of

life, vital to creation and recreation. The chill of fall, and the death it eases us into, prepares

humanity for the bitter winds of winter that snatch away all life. It offers us the opportunity to

sustain our life through the oncoming season. Something primal in humanity seeks the hunt in

fall, knowing what comes next. Eight hunting seasons after my first deer, I think about buying a

hunting license at the end of my shift.

Domesticated Chaos

Promethius didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he granted humanity fire.

He likely wouldn’t have, had he known Zeus would doom him to an eternity of torture, watching

ravens pick at his own liver. As much as humans take it for granted, without fire, humans would

be nowhere. Small fires for warmth and cooking in the early days of man have since been traded

up for heating systems and gas stoves. Torches and candles changed to kerosine lamps and, now,

light bulbs. The fire that burned the Library of Alexandria, ironically destroying the recipe for

Greek Fire, has since been domesticated to candle flame like a house cat (both of which might
destroy your curtains). As a weapon, fire has been replaced with more efficient, contained

chemical reactions in the form of nuclear and hydrogen bombs. The same thing we use to

destroy, that tears uncontrollably through California, we also use to light our cigarettes, heat our

coffee, and warm our homes.

In November 2007, an ice storm layed a thick sheet on everything in Oklahoma.

Powerlines, branches, and roofs caved beneath the pressure leaving most families, like mine,

without power for one or two weeks. Without electricity to fuel central heating, my parents and I

huddled on a blow-up mattress in the living room, directly in front of the fireplace. The crackling

of the logs my father had cut that summer was a counter melody to the trees collapsing noisily

under the layers of ice. Craaaaaack! The branches and saplings exploded like gunfire.

Candles scented like wedding cake were the only light in the house, besides that of the

fireplace. It made bathroom trips reminecent of those in the Victorian era, or so I liked to think.

That week, fire was our best friend, in the form of lighters and candles and fireplace fires; our

own domesticated chaos keeping us warm.

Streetlights and Starry Nights

While I love a few things about living in town – pizza delivery, shopping less than thirty

minutes away, coffee shops – there are far more things that I hate. While I was extremely excited

to find out that I could get food delivered to my dorm upon moving to Norman, I deflated when I

looked at the night sky. Despite the lack of clouds or full moon to obscure them, there were very

few visible stars. At home, where the nearest streetlight was miles away and the night was black

as pitch, you could look up on a clear night and see the milky way if you let your eyes adjust.

Thousands of twinkling dots speckled the black sky, so many it made me question how Abraham

could have possibly counted them.

 He took him outside and said, "Look up at the sky and count the stars-if indeed you can

count them." Then he said to him, "So shall your offspring be." Genesis 15:5

When I laid in the dewy grass, clutching a blanket to me as I shivered and stared at the

expanse of constellations, all seemed right with the world. All of these stars were the size of the

sun, if not much larger, meaning they were lightyears away to seem so small. It made me realize

just how small I was, just how insignificant my problems, and even the problems of the Earth,

were. I picked out the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper and Orion easily, the same sets of stars

named by civilizations long fallen. The same stars Van Gogh put on canvas. Time passed, and

the stars remained, just as they would long after my bones were dust. I wished on meteors and

stars that could have died thousands of years ago, their light still reaching my eyes.

I had become so used to seeing the diamond embroidered sky, that the first time I saw a

totally black sky, it startled me. It was at a football game, where, beneath the blinding stadium

lights, the stars were blacked out, making for a plain, black sky. It was the only time before

moving into town that I had seen a sky devoid of thousands of specks of light and it made me

feel an emptiness I hadn’t felt before. My friends are just the opposite. They find the expanse of

galaxy above them scares them, reminding them how minute they are in the universe. Still, it

seems the sky is lacking something when I look up and see only the Eastern star accompanied by

the little dipper. I would argue had Abraham lived in Norman, it would have made his task too

easy. Perhaps God would have had him count streetlights instead. He would have sent an angel

to take him to Robinson Street and said: “Look up at the poles and count the streetlights – if

indeed you can count them. And, so, shall your offspring be.” Book of Norman, 24:7. Still, as I

try to find the darkest spots in town to admire the stars Don Mclean’s voice echoes in my head as

I find myself humming along. Starry, starry night...Flaming flowers brightly blaze...and I know

they’re still up there, even if the streetlights eclipse them for now.
 So, You Wanted Four Seasons

I have heard more than one student state their reason for coming to the University of

Oklahoma as “I wanted to go somewhere with four seasons.” These students come from

Alabama or Alaska or somewhere else too cold or too hot. But if they wanted four seasons,

Oklahoma wasn’t the best decision. Oklahoma has three winters at least, plus a false winter. Add

that to football season, hunting season, and tornado season, and we’re already well past four.

Winter is a fickle thing in Oklahoma, usually arriving for a few days in fall bringing sleet and

maybe even some snow. Out-of-Staters may think, Oh! Winter has come early this year! Only to

find that after a day of cloudy breath and blustering winds, we have eighty-degree weather

twenty-four hours later.

She shows up again around late December into January in earnest. Some years are worse

than others. 2010 brought two feet of snow and sleet layered thick on the roads. It was a fun two-

week break from school and a torturous additional two-weeks taken from my summer vacation.

Some years I’ve built full igloos, others I haven’t gotten past the snow/mud -mixture-man like in

To Kill a Mockingbird. This winter freezes lakes and lays frost over grass and windshields before

sunrise. Runny noses and rosy cheeks adorn every kid on the school bus from our windy waits

for the yellow beacon of warmth. This is the winter that reminds us to be grateful when we can

fry eggs on the sidewalk.

Finally, after we’re all certain that spring has sprung, winter will bless us, just before

tornado season, with one last snow day. No one ever expects it, but it happens every year.

Bathing suits are already being sold when customers come in search of a winter coats (apparently

having lost theirs from only months before). Schools may even close as ODOT seems

unaccustomed, despite years of Oklahoma weather before, to this drastic weather change. But, a
seasoned, Oklahoma veteran knows the snow will melt as fast as it fell, and tornado sirens will

resume as our daffodils thaw and our third winter ushers in a short-lived spring. That’s the good

thing about Oklahoma weather: if you don’t like it, wait a minute, it’ll change.

The Other Word for Tornado Season

Early in April, perhaps late March if we’re lucky, the frost on the ground will turn to

dew. Spider webs woven between blades of grass will shake with collecting drops, rousing the

creator from its rest to look for prospective prey. The sun rises earlier and earlier as winter

recedes until next year, but the winds will remain. Wind is a year-round thing in Oklahoma. It

makes the summers more bearable, the fall leaves into little tornados, the winters bitter, and

shakes the redbuds in early spring.

Dogwoods and redbuds are the brave, first trees to bloom out and bring a pop of color to

the landscape. Daffodils peek from the earth, surviving frost and heavy rain to bring a ray of

sunshine to the barely-green grass. Spring in Oklahoma brings tornado sirens assaulting your

eardrums and Bradford Pears agravating your allergies. It’s a fickle thing, and if you blink, you’ll

miss it. A few days between ice and blistering heat that remind you that temperate weather

exists. But if you can catch it, listen for the sirens and baby birds up in the trees. Watch for the

magenta blooms between the oaks. Smell the scent of the oncoming storms. Touch the dew on

the spider silk. And stow it away in your memory; don’t let it fade until next year’s equinox.

Inexplicable

We live in the world of the physical. The reality. And we explain away that which we

don’t understand with science. And we forget to give our soul the room it needs to breathe. Then

again, many do not believe in the existence of the soul. The spirit that lives within us and beyond
us. Everything is just a series of chemical reactions, deciding for us why we are the way that we

are. I would argue that the soul lies within the unexplainable.

It is theorized that we are the sum of our experiences. That does not explain Fernweh, a

German term explaining the feeling of homesickness for a place that is not your home. The fact

that an entire civilization has a word for something that I have experience means that most other

humans likely experience this. We all have a place, perhaps even a time period we feel

inexplicably attracted to. Science can’t explain our love for art, literature, or beauty that does not

benefit our survival. I can’t remember where I once heard that “Art is room for the soul to

breathe.” It takes the constant pressures of life off of our inner being and allows it just to exist.

Science cannot explain the sublime. The experience of awe and wonder reported feeling in the

presence of imminent danger.

I cannot explain why my favorite color is the color of the ocean. Why I love a good

thunderstorm. Why I prefer night over day, despite my childhood fear of the dark. Why I love

classic rock and the sound of train horns and being barefoot. I cannot explain most of my life.

But I know that the greatest beauty lies in the unexplainable.