Writing Places - The Pond

I can already imagine the sound of the fountains, the light gush of water tumbling onto water, when I turn the corner and find that the pond has been drained again. An empty concrete basin wallows in the field, all its fakery revealed - the rocks are propped onto stone stilts so they appear above the water's surface when the pond is full, the fountains are only black plastic boxes, and a grating suggests where all the cerulean water's gone.

Just two weeks ago, the pond was full. In fact, it may have been full more recently than that - the leavings of geese rest on the walls of the short channel walls that funnel water in and out of the pond. My spot is on these walls; a few years ago, I realized there was a tree I could rest against, and that other people rarely ventured away from the benches and picnic tables.

Today, though, I'm too wary of the goose droppings to sit there. I have a few hours left on campus today. Instead I plop down onto a stone bench and try to get comfortable. It doesn't work. From here, I can half-see my spot, and have a perfect view of the empty, silent pond.

It's remarkable how a place can embed itself in you. Two years ago, I read a book series about gryphons and intelligent owls, and something of this place has soaked into my memory along with the story. Two years ago, I tried hastily to finish a novel. I failed, but I can still remember the rush. Characters linger here; this will always be a step on their journeys.

And this is the place where I huddled against my tree with a bottle of 7-Up, and tried to forget how badly my stomach hurt the months I fought a bizarre stomach problem.

This is where I found a bird skeleton in the leaves and felt the odd duality of sadness and sympathy for its death, and awe at the thin bones and how sharp even a songbird's talons could be.

Every frigid winter semester, I've had a lab class at eight AM some day of the week. Sometimes they forgot to drain the pond before everything iced over, and there it would be in the cold pale-blue morning, a great glacier lost in our field. Despite all the times I was late getting to the science building for lab, I never remember rushing past the pond to get there.

Part of my childhood includes this pond. When my mom attended this school, she brought my siblings and I here. There's a picture of me, on the stone overhang that I can see from my tree-spot. I don't think all the foliage was here back then. Certainly my tree looks fairly young.

Today, I'm ousted from my spot and ousted from the peace. Without the fountains I can hear everyone's conversations too easily. Without my tree, I can't find a way to sit and rest my notebook properly on my lap. And every time I look up, there's the concrete basin or my goose-pooped spot taunting me.

Even so - this is my writing spot. And if all I can write is a diatribe about where I should be - then so be it.