the polar express

Adapted from Chris van Allsburg’s The Polar Express.

On Christmas Eve, many years ago, I lay quietly on my couch. I was listening for a sound – a sound Eric had told me I’d never hear – the ringing bells of Santa’s sleigh.



Late that night I did hear sounds, though not of ringing bells. From outside came the sounds of hissing steam and squeaking metal. I looked through my window and saw a train standing perfectly still in front of my house.



A conductor stood at the open door of one of the cars. “All aboard!” the conductor cried out.



“Well,” he said, “are you coming?”
“Where?” I asked.
“Why, to the North Pole of course,” was his answer. “This is the Polar Express.”

The train was filled with other children, all in their pajamas and nightgowns.



We drank hot cocoa as thick and rich as melted chocolate bars.





Outside, the lights of towns and villages flickered in the distance as the Polar Express raced northward.





The North Pole. At first we saw no elves.

“They are gathering at the center of the city,” the conductor told us. “That is where Santa will give the first gift of Christmas.”

“Look,” shouted one of the children, “the elves.” As our train drew closer to the center of the North Pole, we slowed to a crawl, so crowded were the streets with Santa’s helpers.





The elves moved apart and Santa Claus appeared. The elves cheered wildly.



He marched over to us and, pointing to me, said, “Let’s have this child here.” He asked, “Now, what would you like for Christmas?”



I knew that I could have any gift I could imagine. But the thing I wanted most for Christmas was not inside Santa’s giant bag. What I wanted more than anything was one silver bell from Santa’s sleigh. When I asked, Santa smiled. Then he gave me a hug and told an elf to cut a bell from a reindeer’s harness. The elf tossed it up to Santa. He stood, holding the bell high above him, and called out, “The first gift of Christmas!”



As soon as we were back inside the Polar Express, the other children asked to see the bell. I reached into my pocket, but the only thing I felt was a hole. I had lost the silver bell from Santa Claus’s sleigh. It broke my heart to lose the bell.

On Christmas morning, Eric and I opened our presents. When it looked as if everything had been unwrapped, Eric found one last small box behind the tree.



It had my name on it. Inside was the silver bell! I shook the bell. It made the most beautiful sound Eric and I had ever heard.

At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Eric found one Christmas that he could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.

days are still getting shorter...

Although I like having the sunlight streaming through my window to help me wake up in the morning, I occasionally have the opportunity to stop and enjoy the later sunrises. I woke up on December 1st and caught the orange glow of the approaching sun stretch across the horizon. The silhouetting of the buildings and the airplanes departing from LaGuardia Airport transformed the landscape I'm used to seeing out my dorm room window from a sprawling mess of buildings into a murky formless shape, nighttime lights still faintly shining from windows and streetlamps, all sharply contrasted against the ever-brightening sky above.

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standing tall

a walk in the woods

I took the train from Harlem out to White Plains yesterday. What a contrast between the two places! Having read Kozol's work and hearing about the disparities between urban New York City and its suburban counterparts, I made sure to keep my eyes fixed on the landscape outside.

Harlem/125th St - Fordham - Bronxville - Scarsdale - Hartsdale - and so on. Dilapidated and graffiti-ed buildings quickly gave way to quaint, tree-lined streets, quiet neighborhoods, and inviting delis and storefronts. Map the area and zoom in on the large patches of green; I don't know if I've ever seen a higher concentration of country clubs than in Westchester County.

In Hartsdale, Sarah and I discovered the Hart's Brook Nature Preserve and Arboretum. Tucked away between several major roads and highways, this small sanctuary hosted several walking trails through sections of beeches, maples, oaks, spruces, and more. Dead and drying leaves blanketed the ground as we trudged along, stopping to admire the sun's light as it squeezed through the trees and lit up bare branches.

The few other visitors to the park meandered about, enjoying the warm afternoon with their dogs. Vines climbed up tree trunks as if pythons in the jungle. The remaining birds, not yet migrated, occasionally reminded us of their presence with flitting wings and shrill song. Squirrels and chipmunks scampered about, finding and storing acorns for the upcoming winter. Life in these woods seemed to be slowly coming to a halt.

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The setting sun in late afternoon provided a warm glow to everything in the woods. These evergreens presented some of the remaining bits of live color in the arboretum, a stark juxtaposition to the bare branches of the deciduous trees left to claw away at the sky.

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Sarah took one look at this upended tree and immediately saw a boar's head. It took me a second to recognize the features, and I then undertook the challenge of capturing the sight in a photograph. I had to find the right angle, lighting and shadows, and perspective to make the camera see what we saw. I imagine it to be an old boar, his face showing signs of a long and full life. Now, he simply seeks a place where he can remain undisturbed, his weary soul ready to rest.

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The archway, formed by a recently split tree, initially captured my eye. But as I took in the entire scene, I found myself drawn to the trees' shadows intersecting the orange-leaved path through the woods. They resemble railroad ties, forging tracks for us to explore as we worked our way deeper into the forest.

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These people were among several we encountered who had their dogs with them for a stroll through the nature preserve. I love the way people peacefully co-exist in nature. There is much more of an attitude of sharing than of selfish competition for a slab of sidewalk or space on the subway car.

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This quiet farmhouse greeted us and bade us farewell during our visit. I wonder how long it's been there. I admire the foresight of those who owned the land and decided to preserve it for generations to come. In an era where land is a premium, development almost a hobby, and the neglect of our planet a sad reality, pockets of nature such as this arboretum remain to help all of us in our quest to reconnect with our roots in Nature.


more photos here

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I have a bit of an obsession with elephants. With some tweaking to saturation, tint, and temperature settings, I can now make a case that Mac should call its next OS "Pachyderm."

night photography

Walking back to my dormitory from the gym tonight, the slow-moving mist illuminated by lamps and other lights inspired me to bring out my camera and tripod for some night photography.

See the entire album here.


omniscience


soothing jazz in the night

last bits of fall

I reminisce about Fall afternoons spent on soccer fields, the grassy green pitch yielding to my every step as I run. Beneath a warm sun shining overhead, I lose myself in the game, and the world reduces to nothing more than a blur. Yet I know I subconsciously soak in my surroundings: the many colors of the leaves, flocks of birds beginning their migration to warmer climes, and squirrels gathering acorns for the dead of winter.

As the hour grows later, the orange glow of the setting sun reminds me of its presence with its long fingers reaching out across the landscape, crawling over rooftops and through tree branches. Everything in its way casts long shadows, keeping the sun at bay and leaving only as the sun himself recedes and submits to the dark of night. If I slow down long enough to notice, I feel these waning fingers, like a grandmother's hand, envelop me in a cocoon of heat before releasing me back into the gusty crisp air that can only signal the impending arrival of Winter.

As the last leaves wither and fall to the ground, leaving the trees bare and exposed to the ever chilling temperatures and whims of Mother Nature, here is a tribute to the most beautiful time of year. Until next September...

roaring into november

This weekend brought with it many photo-filled opportunities, including Heath's visit, a walk through Central Park, a visit to the American Museum of Natural History, the Village Halloween Parade, and the NYC Marathon. I'm the proud owner of a new Nikon D90, which is a huge upgrade from my Olympus E-300. Of course, the camera doesn't make the photographer, so hopefully I can create images that live up to the machine.

I've updated the NYC albums, both "urban" and "beyond urban", with nighttime photos of Times Square, macro images of bees and grasshoppers in the Conservatory Garden, and the silk cloth made from spider's silk, on display at the American Museum of Natural History. Check out my NYC marathon album, and my updates to Project Eat. (More to say on Project Eat in a later post.)

Images below to entice you to visit the full albums!

From NYC: Urban Images (13 new photos)



From NYC: Beyond the Urban Walls (52 new images)





From NYC Marathon 2009

my "backyard"

Here are a few photos I took during a free moment today in the courtyard behind my dormitory. The images are of small flower and vegetable garden tended by group of children, followed by a fall foliage shot taken in Morningside Park.

ode to autumn

cannon mountain in autumn

Ode to Autumn (third stanza)

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats, 1819


franconia notch bike path

Autumn has always captivated my attention. The cooling air, the changing colors in the leaves of trees, the maturation of spring blooms and births, and the still evenings make autumn a season I cherish. I first encountered Ode to Autumn as a high school senior, and to me, no one has ever captured the beauty and splendor of autumn as Keats does in this homage. He urges us to open our eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of this season; he warns us against thinking of the songs of spring, for autumn has its own music, too.

Reading this final stanza, I can hear the wailing and mourning of the small gnats, the bleating of the full-grown lambs, the singing of the crickets, the whistling of birds, and the fluttering of wings as our avian friends gather to journey south. I picture myself lying on a grassy hillside, soaking in the retreating rays of sun of another “soft-dying day.” Red, orange, and yellow leaves fall slowly from the trees, drifting back and forth before creating a colorful quilt as they reach the earth. In the valley below, harvested farms lie, as “stubble-plains,” waiting for another planting season. Yes, autumn is a time of death, but must one necessarily see it that way? I prefer to see in autumn a spell of preparation for another birth, renewal of life and spirits that will arrive in time.



Keats’s carefully chosen words invite us on a journey to see the beauty in a time when many shun the cooling temperatures, shortening days, and shedding trees. What is it in me that finds such comfort and life in this poem? My connection to this earth and desire for its well-being certainly allow me to see nature and its beauty in all its magnificent forms. I marvel at how the earth continues to live its life, keeping time independent of all its inhabitants, and it is out of awe for this process that I seek ways to cultivate a relationship with this ultimate of all places we call home. When I read this poem, I experience myself standing alongside Keats as he breathes in the crisp fall air and searches for words – none truly suffice – to express his wonder.



This year, finding myself city-bound, Ode to Autumn takes on greater significance. I miss the endless palette of autumn colors painted across the Western Massachusetts landscape. Where are the songs of Autumn, I ask myself. Ay, where are they?