The Traveling Onion Interpretation

The text I chose to interpret was “The Traveling Onion” by Naomi Shihab Nye. This poem is simplistic in form. In my opinion this is what makes it so relevant and gives the reader a sense of understanding. In essence, the poem follows the travels of the onion. It travels far to come to the stew that I make. Yet so much of the onion is forgotten. The many small miracles are overlooked. Such as the cracking of the paper as it is peeled and the layers that fall apart as the knife cuts through it, revealing a history that only each onion can share. One cannot berate the onion because it causes tears, for tears are what should come when such a thing that is so mistreated and neglected. Instead we sit down to eat and talk about the aroma or the meat in the stew and we forget the onion which is now divided and now longer strong. Nor do we remember how far the onion has come and how much it has been a part of our lives. Instead, the onion disappears for the sake of others.

I believe that this text has relevant cultural value. Yes the poem speaks of an onion. However there is a deeper social context in the poem that I think speaks much larger volumes than the few lines represented. The onion in this sense is a metaphor or symbol to an idea that is grander than just the simplicity of onion and stew. Instead, I find that this poem represents the small, forgotten things in life. If taken out of the picture, then the entire weave would unravel and would fall to ground, broken, or in this case the stew would be missing a key element.

The beginning of the poem is simply to lift up those things that we take for granted. Though they are small and though they seem insignificant at first, subtle in nature, they demand appreciation. The second part, however, drives my conclusion home. “It is right that tears should fall for something so small and forgotten.” To this I find that we should lament over what has become of these things. Instead we should marvel at the simplicity of them. These could simply be the miracles of everyday life, those things that we overlook when they should make us pause. Instead we find that we focus on the grandeur and the flashy, showy, brilliant things in life. We focus on the outer experience or those things that are front row. In this case I see the meat and the aroma as akin to actors and movies. In my field of work I find that some of the most important members are those who stand behind the scene, overshadowed by the colossus of celebrity fame, yet key to the creation of a piece of art, happily falling translucently away for the good of the stew. So we must take joy in these small things. If we don’t take the time to appreciate the simple things of life then we are missing the joys inherent in life. It would be sad if we ended our lives without enjoying the small things we have experienced.

When we read this poem, think of how it can be applied to our lives. I open my computer bag and pull out my laptop, a pen, a highlighter, some paper, and my book. I neglect to appreciate what went into the making of each of those items. The ink from my pen may have come from India. The hard plastic from my highlighter was made in China. The paper was made from trees that were cut down all over the world, shipped, and grinded into dust. My book had to go through numerous processes of writing, editing, publishing, and printing to become the educational tool that I use it fore. The computer must be assembled after making each small individual circuit, key, pixel, and copper wire that send billions of tiny electronic signals. These things are forgotten, however, as I open them to write a paper or to study for an exam. For the grand picture to be realized, these small things must become the onion in the stew.

Each day we take many things for granted. We often find these to be unimportant. Yet, without them, vital parts of our lives would change. Often people find that they suffer for the greater good of others, much like Christ or the disciples. Many more have died for great causes, people who will never be mentioned in books or in history, yet these are the men and women who deserve greatness. They are divided and weakened so that the whole will become stronger. As Vincent Van Gogh says, “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” Let us remember the small things. Let us give voice to those who cannot speak. As the traveling onion lays to rest, bring stew and heart to completeness, let us remember what sacrifice it made to give us such pleasure. Let us remember how far these small things have traveled to make our lives a little bit brighter.

My Reactions to Waiting for Godot

For the most part, my reactions to this play were a mix of confusion and outright astonishment. Some of the things that happen are so out of the realm of realistic understanding that I find myself just awed at the fact that it was said or done. For example when Pozzo is leading his slave around by a rope collared about the neck, I was almost disgusted. The man was full of himself, completely pompous and rude, yet, Didi and Gogo were not really effected by this. They had a discussion with him as if having a man tied by a long rope wasn't that strange. In fact, they made fun of the man and laughed about it.

Also when the men speak of hanging themselves I was confused. How is that a logical choice to these men? There was no despair in their speech. They did not seem at the end of the rope. They just assumed it was a good thing to do at the moment then debated against it. I had to look deeper into this to try to understand any metaphor or symbolisms inside but it still seems to me as if this story is meant to give the option of creating your own opinion.

To be honest, I think that this play has no real ending. It just goes back in an endles cycle and never stops. It is only different each day. They continue to wait, they think of hanging themselves, they see Pozzo again and so on and so on until the end of time because Godot is never going to come.

Possible Meaning to Godot?

Waiting for Godot basically confused me. There are so many interpretations of the story that I get lost in the translations. However, I have come to a loose conclusion of my own making. When I formulated this idea it was based on the items in the play and then I would ask questions as to why they were there and what purpose these things play in the action.

First, there are two men. What do these men have in common? How do they differ? What I noticed is they both have been waiting a long time for this Godot. It seems to me that it is a never ending cycle. They wait one day, think of hanging themselves, think against it. The day ends, they come back, banter, think of hanging themselves, and think against it, and repeat each day. So what I got from them is a never ending cycle of events that is slightly different each day. I also noticed that these men have a fear of being alone waiting there day after day. When they speak of hanging themselves, one of them mentions that if one were to die, the other would be alone. It's like a couple who complains about each other but could not bear to be apart.

Second, I noticed the road and the tree. What I took from this is a representation of a point in life. The road represents life that continues on in one direction. The tree represents a point in life where we sometimes wait by, expecting something and continue to wait until that thing comes before we can move on. We never want to be alone while we wait. We gather our friends and those in our position who are at the same point in life and we come together. When Godot comes, we'll be saved from this and we'll be able to move on.

I know this is probably a terrible interpretation but I find that perhaps this play was meant to be interpreted by each individual in his or her own way. We see what we see and we take from it what we wish to take from it. Maybe it's more than one theme but a myriad of ideas that each individual can grasp and apply to his or her own life.

Godot?

Waiting for Godot is one confusing play if you read it only once. I have found that I must reread each line over again and again to try to piece by piece the picture together. Still I understand the basic outline I think, but there are many parts I am confused about. What I find most interesting about this book, however, is the clever use of words and banter between the characters. The example that I wish to draw from the text is in the first act where the first two characters are introduced. In this section, Vladimir and Estragon are having a conversation on why there are there, what they should do, and what is generally going on.

These guys are bored. They're waiting for this man that they don't have much of a clue about and it seems that they need to find something to pass the time. Vladimir begins to tell a story about Christ hanging with two thieves and the inconsistency between the four accounts of the scene. One begins to tell of a dream and the conversation turns suddenly. What I found funny was the dialogue about hanging themselves. It seems that they find the dull act of waiting that suicide is a possible alternative. When Vladimir insists that Estragon go first, Estragon states that if he does go first he'll die and then Vladimir will hang and the branch will break and he'll be left alone. "Gogo light - bough no break - Gogo dead. Didi heavy - bough break - Didi alone."

Overall this is a story that uses clever banter to describe a deeper idea. I have not yet gotten to the bottom of the play but I plan to unearth the secrets soon.

Peace in Nature? I wish...

I went to Lake Bonny Park and spent one hour there. I wish I could have stayed their longer, reading a book or just letting some of my pent up stress out. However, my life is too busy and too hectic for me to spend any more than one hour to enjoy something that I live in. The sad thing is, I didn't even have the opportunity to let my mind clear and relax. I am running in high gear, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of classwork that my being sick has put me behind in, the days ahead of me at work for preview days that I must spend hours and hours setting up and preparing media for prospective students, and my utter failure at getting my extremely tight schedule set for next semester. I look out at nature and I see an entire world. My small one is crashing in on me but out there, nature is wide open.

Nature represents a freedom to me. When I was young, I would play in the woods and creeks around my house. Going out into those woods was a haven away from my parents, from my homework, and from my chores. When I looked around in Lake Bonny Park I wanted nothing more than to wander away and forget about the relentless pounding of stress that I must endure every day. I just want to roam the woods and swim the lake and be forgotten. If I could be one with nature, that would be my role. The silent roamer. Hah! It has a ring to it.

I wasn't able to get much out of my experience at Lake Bonny Park. Sometimes even the glorious creations of God cannot stand tall against the never-ending mountain of the human mind, constantly obsessing over everything. Even in the quiet, one's thoughts continue to scream out. I love nature, but life is a bitter sweet thing that I must endure.

I couldn't go to the park :(

Last week I was sick. I was unable to visit the park like the rest of the class. I stayed home in my bed with a fever of 102.5 F. So when I thought of what to write for this post, I realized that I cannot write as was prompted by Professor Corrigan. I decided to write on one of the nature poems we had to read previously by Mary Oliver. I reflected on one poem a couple posts back, however this time I chose "Messenger" to re-read and re-reflect on, and I'll admit, I gained a lot more out of the poem this time than I did last time.

The first line caught me sqarely. "My work is loving the world." Does that not sound like something God would say? I found that as I read this there was a stirring of emotion. I enjoy working with my hands. It's something I like to do. I enjoy work. That line took that and twisted it to me. My work is enjoying what life is, enjoying what I do, loving the world. The author describes herself as old, torn, and still cannot obtain even half of perfection. However, she reminds herself that she must always maintain focus on the things that do matter. In this case, her work of loving the world, standing and being astonished, rejoicing, giving gratitude, and shouting joy. That is how she exherts love.

That is how we should all exhert love, not just in people but in all things. Sometimes it is more important to stand back and be awed than to overcrowd something that is beautiful. We express joy in more ways than one. The same goes for any emotion. Sometimes we need to take a step back and take a view of what we've been given to live on. Watch the waters of the rivers and lakes trickle and flow. Listen to the sounds that the birds make or the wind in the trees. Gaze over the fields of green with dots of colorful flowers. See the brightness of day as it turns to red and to the black of night speckled with light. These things should be loved and loved dearly for we only have our short lives to view them. Soon we'll be old and torn with wisdom's revelation that we are far from perfect, but the creations of this world and the grand design in which it all revolves around... is.

Walking Home

There is something about reading poems that are almost nostalgic when read. They seem to hit harder to me, especially when I can create a personal connection. Walking Home from Oak-Head gives me that feeling. It is much like a poem that I would write or I feel that I would write.

“There’s something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness of time.”

Those last two lines are what got me at first. At first I am given a vision or view of a late winter afternoon. Then I am brought deeper inside myself to explore the possibilities of how I feel as I walk through such a thing as familiar as a winter afternoon. When we go through life, sometimes we take such things for granted. When I go to my parent’s cabin in North Carolina and view out at the mountains in the distanced I often have this feeling. Eventually I will go home and back to the usual busying about of life, the ceaseless scurrying to get homework done and make ends meet. However, in that place I forget why time had a purpose. Instead I am lost in that moment staring at a part of God’s creation oblivious to what other duties await me outside of that place.

This poem gets at me in this way. It is because I stand sometimes during storms, sunsets, sunrises, or any thing that makes me pause and take notice and I lose track of life. I have come to realize that the poems that I like are ones that I can personally relate to, whether in style of writing or in the message. Of course, if I cannot understand it then I cannot see the relation, even if it nails my personality perfectly.