Well, the week is over. Here are a couple pages from the book that I altered into a scrapbook. When the week began, I was set on utilizing the idea of geocaching. I included a found log that you could write your name onto if you find this book hidden among the others in the MRS library. I also included numerous whimsy writings of my experience in the book.
Here's the collection of those:
There's a story to be told here. Beyond the research, beyond the vacational stays, beyond the student groups. A history that is only whispered between the trees. An event only witnessed by the birds. Why am I here? Why are you reading this? To uncover the intimate and the mystical moments left untold.
I met a jay this morning, I asked him to sing me a tune, He graciously replied. Tell me what you've seen I begged, Then he whistled a note and fleeted away.
I climbed the trail to a peak, I scoured the land for our camp, And I found I was lost, An eagle flew to a nearby rock, "Follow me" he whispered.
The snow in my hair began to melt as I wandered the woods, I stopped in a meadow and caught my breath, I was startled by a loud sigh, He was standing behind me taking in the mountain air and view.
I wandered through the cabins, curious as to what I might find, A striped tail brushed my boot, "Come inside" he said, I stomped the snow off at the threshold, We shivered in the dark until I lit my light, I found an old forgotten pair of jeans with holes on every side, Lace someone's grandmother was saving and her unfinished embroidery.
"What do you want with that old junk" he pondered, "They are treasures" I replied, "No" he said "These are treasures!" I glanced across the room to his little pile of old beer cans and caps, Pieces of a broken mirror, "Oh" I mumbled.
Walking through the forest, I found a patch of dead brown trees, Solemnly, I hiked through the grave, Why why oh why, At the edge of life and death, I saw a little black dot, a foe to the trees, the cause of destruction.
On a midnight excursion, I walked into a puddle, Looking down I realized it wasn't a puddle at all, It was a babbling brook, The gossip of the forest, "It's your fault" she cried, Throwing a worn stick and a lumberjack's tree core at me.
"You know she's right," A deep voice loomed overhead, I glanced up taking in the height of my addresser, "You killed my brothers and sisters in this meadow."
"For their bodies, For that book."
"Take this bark in remembrance of me."
I started to run, Only stopping to see the flowers.
Thanking them for the clean air, And the beauty on the path.
They are a blessing, They are a gift, A pleasant surprise.
A reason for the journey, A cause for the walk.
I stumbled and fell into a thorny bush, I heard a discernible grunt, Pellets left by rabbits crunched beneath my knees, I peeled back some branches to see a bear picking berries, I stole one as a momento of a shared lunch with the queen.
As I packed my ride, An owl hooted for my attention, "Yes?" I asked, He dropped two feathers out of his beak, "For your collection." He explained, "Oh" I was startled by the act of generosity, I stuck them in and placed this book at his talons, "Here, for yours."