The first day of March is 60 degrees. It is a gorgeous Friday. I am done with classes, and I have little work to do for the weekend. I decide to take a walk to appreciate one of the most beautiful times at Swarthmore: the nascent days of our spring.
There is an armada of robins standing to greet me as I step out of my dorm. Ten or so are on the lawn right outside the door, hopping around and pecking at the ground. I had seen a few of them the days before, but now it is like they had emerged from their nests, with the warm weather, to frolic.
On the walkway out from my dorm there is a set of magnolia trees. Their glossy leaves burst forth from the branches in hands; like human hands, the tops and bottoms are different colors. The tops of the leaves are a reflective and waxy green; the bottoms are a fuzzy and warm brown. They only show their green to the sky, revealing their gentle side to us. Picking off a leaf to feel its multiple textures is a tiny little joy.
After that, there is a gorgeous Japanese plum tree. Its flowers are tiny and white, covering the branches and littering the ground. The surrounding air smells sweet; the centers of the flowers are dotted with tiny red motes of color, permeating the space with the smell of fresh fruit.
Swarthmore is home to many fascinating cultivar variants of normal plants–ones that would never survive in the wild, but here are cared for to grow into their bizarre, yet impressive, selves. A little over six feet tall, dwarf trees are examples of this. Their branches arc down to the ground to form a cage. Despite their miniature size, they are incredibly sturdy. They are domes sitting on a plane of grass.
The squirrels love Swarthmore. Dozens of them sit upright on the lawn, scampering, skittering, dashing up the trees to hide from a very slight noise or inquisitive dog. I often dream of buying a massive bag of walnuts, and slowly gaining their trust until I have a wave of squirrels I can bring into any classroom I choose.
The trees are of truly staggering size sometimes. Pines, oaks, elms, hollies, many of the biggest I’ve ever seen.
Bundles of daffodils are just beginning to sprout, the yellow bursting up.
Something I notice is a series of trees with a fascinating evolutionary strategy. They have thick bases, perhaps the size of a shoebox. This base is filled with holes and water, and perhaps seven trunks shoot up from it. Their strategy is simple: climb. Climb very fast. They send up bare stems as fast as possible (each trunk has a few very large leaves coming directly off of it when it is in bloom) to try and crowd out all other plants.
The sides of buildings are often smeared with climbing plants. They shade the buildings a verdant green. Up the side of Parrish Hall, well-pruned Ivy reaches for the sky.
Crocuses sprout from the ground, poking their shy little heads above ground for the spring.
I can hear birds chirping. They seem to be competing, trying to outdo each other with their complex songs. The lower bird seems to be winning.
I walk into the Crum Woods. Water is rushing through the creek. In a few months, students will be boating down it during the Crum Regatta, with many of the ill-fated vessels destined to sink.
Despite the birds, the noise, the water, the ground crunching beneath my feet, the weight of work, the upcoming exams, the gentle roll of small rocks down the hills, I feel calm.
As calm as I can be.
I close my eyes.
I feel like it will be calm forever.
