“Asking Stanford” is a series of small stories from Stanford students, each of which comes together to highlight the diversity of experiences and perspectives on campus. In honor of Earth Day and Stanford Climate Week, we’re sharing stories about the place we all call home.

Reverse photography

I have taken a few hundred photos capturing the Earth; none of the photos compare to the moments where the Earth has captured me. Outside Encina West, I saw a hummingbird dart between branches, and searched for its jewel-toned feathers in the leaves until I was nearly late for section. In Arches National Park, the shadows of the eons-old sandstone structures engulfed the shadows I cast. At the Grand Canyon South Rim, an elk looked me in the eye while chewing on a bone-shaped stick. Several minutes passed before I could remember my own name and uproot myself from where I stood. — Grace Liang

The known and newly discovered

The Earth I know smells like fishy, salty Galveston beaches. It’s the sprawling of mangroves along the coast and the beautiful, blue waters of the Great Lakes. It’s the fresh air of Muir Woods and the sunset by Half Moon Bay. The Earth that I live in changes. In Texas, it felt like a child’s playground. In Michigan, it felt like a canvas that I was tasked with painting. In California, it feels like a horizon that I have to decide to go into. Sometimes, the Earth is my world and sometimes they’re completely different. Sometimes the Earth feels impossibly ancient, indifferent to my brief passage across its surface. Other times, when I notice the bend of a particular branch or the quality of light on water that will never exist exactly that way again, it feels as ephemeral as I am — both of us caught in a moment together, inhabiting the same space, constrained by the same physical laws, participants in the same brief miracle. — Sonnet Xu

Flowers

A few days ago, my friend and I stopped on our walk to pick some flowers. We were making bouquets, and they needed some small pop of color. Climbing through the light brown weeds, we ritualistically snapped the stems, careful to avoid upsetting the bees foraging, and carefully interspersed them alongside the $4.99 Trader Joe’s dandelions. I gave up earlier than he did, and when I stepped onto the pavement again, a small piercing feeling ran through my body from my foot. A thistle had caught onto my sock, poking me in such a way that I exclaimed and insisted we leave. As if the thistles had all activated at the same time, my friend promptly began howling — having gone deeper into the flowers, his ankles were assailed with the tiny pricks. We began our walk of shame back to campus, stopping every few seconds to groan or bend down and remove a thistle. 

Maybe this was the earth’s way of telling us to “get off my territory. Stop messing with what isn’t yours to take.” I’m sorry for taking your flowers, earth. People take from you too often. If it’s any consolation, you made the recipients’ day. The bright orange petals sit in a makeshift purple vase. Thank you for your flowers, earth. Thank you for making life colorful. — Jennifer Levine