Roosting

Why can't college apps finish themselves? Can't we just dictate the most important facts of our lives to a microphone and be done in a few minutes? Why must they vary?

The season is stressing me out, and I need to relax. Finding a quiet area in a busy suburb town can be difficult, to say the least, but having a nearby canyon is pretty handy. 

Other than the occasional energy bar wrappers and crushed Arizona cans, Mills Canyon is like the drought-tolerant Central Park of Burlingame. I started going there at an early age with neighborhood friends, and when I fell out with them, continued to go there alone. Pretty soon, established trails started to bore me – I think at one point I could’ve walked some paths blindfolded – so I began to pick areas adjacent to the path that weren’t covered with poison oak and simply went wading through the dried foxtails. This year, I went off the path in a new place where I hadn't thought to go before. It was through this venture that I discovered what I call Roost.

Roost is a huge boulder, perhaps 15 feet tall and 20 feet in width, that lies at the bottom of the canyon, directly next to a small creek. It partially juts out over the water, creating a small pebbly cove where I hide whenever I hear people on the trail. A tall but skinny oak tree lies between Roost and a smaller boulder a few paces away; other than that, the surrounding ground is relatively clear of foliage. On Roost’s other side, an older, taller oak tree grows nearly flush to its side. All around this clearing, dark ivy covers the banks. Oak and bay trees are more densely clustered; their canopy filters the sunlight and casts dappled patterns on every surface. When I was younger, I would pretend the wind was alive and sentient. It would tell me of the places it had been, and whenever it rose from a gentle breeze to a strong gale, I believed it was I who, through some magical force, had controlled the change. I still do believe it, sometimes.

You cannot begin to imagine the feel of wind against your uplifted face and closed eyelids unless you have actually experienced it first-hand.

Of all my sanctuaries, it was Roost who taught me to breathe. I could relax atop it, secure in the knowledge that no one below could see me, and listen to the sounds around me. I could hold on to a thick branch of the adjacent oak tree and run my thumb over its rough bark – in concentrating solely on the texture of the branch, I could drive out all other unpleasant thoughts. It is my site of meditation, my eye of the hurricane, where I can doze and let my troubles leach out of me into the granite below. Without Roost, I don’t know how I would’ve stayed calm all those years. Maybe I wouldn’t have. The thought makes me appreciate all the more what Roost means to me. It will be hard to replace in the coming years.

I'm sure the site of a haven varies wildly for other people. They may find their place of contentment in a dusty library, or perhaps in a summer house. Maybe their peaceful environment is their backyard pool, or situated among the white noise of a large city. I, I climb the highest point I can find and let the wind breathe for me.

 Sensitive Plant (Mimosa pudica)

I came across this plant ages ago, when river tubing (Is that the name? We were using inner tubes) down a river in Puerto Vallarta in Mexico. The tour guide had pointed it out where it grew along the path, and invited us to touch the leaves. What would you expect to happen?

The sensitive plant has a most amazing defense mechanism: it withers and folds in on itself whenever it is touched, or otherwise warmed, blown upon, or shaken. They reopen minutes later (so you can touch them again and watch them fold... and again... and again... unconscious hypnosis). They also close during the night, and open again during the day. There are about 10-26 leaflets per pinna (leaf stem thingymajigger, I don't know. Context, man). Their seeds are contained in brown pods and are mainly pollinated by insects. They produce round flower heads that range from pink to pale lavender. Have a picture, I can't describe the shape: 

They are most commonly found in South and Central America

If you have taken Biology, hopefully you know what turgid means. If you don't, here's my best explanation: The reason plants are usually so crispy (think of the base of a romanian lettuce leaf) is because the spare space in their cells is filled with water. If our cells were like that, they would burst under pressure, but because of the strong cell walls that plant cells possess, they merely swell up but keep their shape. This is part of the reason why plants can remain upright without a skeleton-like system (I think... it makes sense, right?).

Knowing this, when a sensitive plant is touched, specific cells release chemicals like potassium that force the water out of the cells and cause them to lose their turgidity - i.e., they become soft and wilted. As the signals go away, the chemicals are no longer released and the plant resumes its natural form.

This is so cool I can't even handle it. Why bother with a Cool Facts list?

Cough, cough.

Cool Facts:

• The sudden movement might also serve to dislodge harmful insects.
• It's other common names include humble plant, shameful plant, sleeping grass, touch-me-not, chuimui (that which dies upon touch), pickerweed, and ant-plant. There are a lot more cool names in different languages.
•  Aqueous extracts of the roots have been adept at neutralizing the effects of the venom of the monocled cobra.
• They are used as groundcover by some landscapers. I don't comprehend why, but ok.
• It is one of the world's worst invasive weeds.

This song has been bothering me as of late, because of how strongly I connect with it. Or rather, how I think its theme must have connected with someone I used to know. Our relationship has perhaps been one of the biggest regrets of my life, and I wish we could have mended ourselves before they left. I wish that I would be able to at least see them again - alas, most likely, I never will.

Say Something, by A Great Big World :