The Midland Window 2026

The Midland Window

A Literary Anthology 2026 Midland School, Los Olivos, CA

The Midland Window Edited and compiled by John Isaacson ‘94 and Rick Sawyer ‘70 Contents: Poetry Z. Kuria ~ 2026 Poet Laureate ~ “A Simple School” “Grass Mountain” Evie Hill​

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“The Creek Through Middle Yard”

Mia Bair​

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“Study Late”

Austin Kimball​​

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“Spring Sickness”

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“A Typical Midland Morning”

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“Speak, Child of the Forest”

Short Story Esme Malone ​ ​ Chapel Talk Amelie Grant​ ​

Dedicated to the class of 2026: Sascha Yurchak​​

Art Studio at University of Vermont

Veronica Tate​ ​

Biochemistry at Smith College

Kathy Zhan ​

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Bioengineering at Santa Clara University

Seraphina Nevels​

Biology University of Illinois Springfield

Melanie Muller​​

Business Management at Case Western Reserve University

Z Kuria​​

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Chemistry at UC Santa Cruz

Mingda Du​

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Economics at Carleton College

Stella Tannahill​​

Environmental Science at Colorado College

Hayden Payson​​

Food Systems at the University of Vermont

Jay Lui​​

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Geophysical Sciences at University of Chicago

Kevin Lyu​

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International Relations at Claremont McKenna College

Guillermo Rodriguez​ Marine Science at Cal Poly Emma Homrig​​

Mathematics at University of Texas at Austin

EZ Ward​

Mechanical Engineering at Colorado School of

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Mines Maude Giroux​ ​

Natural Resources and Conservation at University of British Columbia

Mia Bair​

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Nursing at Hope College

Shae Roberts​ ​

Nursing at Purdue University

River Peace​

Plant Science at Cal Poly

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Mateo Timpson​

Political Science at Gettysburg College

Alice Gibbs​

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Psychology at Reed College

Julissa Castillo​ ​

Undecided at UC Berkeley

Poetry

Z Kuria ‘26

"A Simple School that wouldn't have the amenities of Thacher or Webb, but that would give what a fellow really needed."

And instantly, in one echoing refrain, there is, nestled within a divulgence of not having, there is, my home.

I know now, after many years, the call of the house finch.

I know how, hollow, it reverberates through the young morning fog of antiquity, along the river, into the horse barn, through class, giving shape, becoming auditory light.

Perhaps I know something

now too, of why I've put up with all this dust.

Z Kuria ‘26

Grass Mountain I see you blush every spring, the color of innumerable poppies.

I have feelings, heavy as earth in my chest, and they belong to you, a mountain.

Romantically, I lose myself; I blink, I've taken more steps, rudely, on your face, and it dawns on me, in the asinine way a falling leaf makes you look up, that I've been talking to you!

Yes, you, a mountain.

Evie Hill ‘29

The Creek Through Middle Yard It is raining again.

Water is rushing under the bridge with a clear and cool Alamo Pintado alive again.

Another appears by informal request from every being who cries out for change.

In answer, nature offers up a small solution: the creek through middle yard.

Puddles join hands along an expanse of misty ponds and muddy spots parading to the rhythm of the raindrops.

Continue, continue, continue.

Umbrellas and raincoats prove that we cannot move on with "business as usual” when clouds have more pressing plans.

Sudden and urgent, it comes.

Leisurely and patient, it goes.

The creek says, “Be like me.

You can’t take your usual route.

Forge a new path around me.”

Carving rock so slowly but so powerfully, majesty and beauty in rushing shallows that will curve and meander until the sun comes out again.

Mia Bair ‘26

Study Late Someone once told me, And this is the key: Study late, Mess with your fate.

Late one night, I found myself in a great fight The moon was full, and with it sleep was null.

As tiredness vanished I opened spanish I felt near dead As I read.

It was not fun, But work needed to be done My dear roommate slept, And I near wept’ For with every turn, I watched the night burn.

At the hour of three, Something startled me, At the door there was a light tap, Then a cabin shaking rap.

Free from by sheet, I carefully moved my feet.

I opened the door, But I saw nothing more.

I put on my hat,

And was surprised by a cat.

The kitty was little, But played a fiddle, He wore long tie, And the song I noted was american pie.

The song was sharp, Similar to that of a stressed harp, He turned to me and said, “You got out of bed” I nodded, He further prodded, “You were quite bold, But the night is so cold.

Give me a few, I know what to do” Then he shook and gave a pleased look.

“I will make you a cat, How about that?”

The fiddler resumed his song And in not long, And with little fight, I was his height.

He gave a pur And my skin turned to fur.

“Now your not cold, But the night is getting old.

I earlier saw a mouse Over by Faith’s house It's not a feat To get a good eat,

Strike quick, And you get your pick” Before we parted, I started “Why did you do this?

He gave a hiss: "Someone once told me And this is the key: Study late Mess with your fate”

Austin Kimball ‘28

Spring Sickness Now is the time when trembling on its stem Each person descends into sickness; Coughs and sneezes blow in the breeze; A rumbling breath, a harsh and intense cough!

Each person descends into sickness; The masks make a person run away; A rumbling breath, a harsh and intense cough!

The air is sick and fresh like a balance in the universe.

The masks make a person run away; Weak immune system, fighting the germs.

The air is sick and fresh like a balance in the universe.

The cough drowns out the noise in its wake.

Weak immune system, fighting the germs, Keeps its system from the sickening past.

The cough drowns out the noise in its wake.

Like the germs flying right towards me!

Short Story

Esme Maloney ‘28

A Typical Midland Morning BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! .​

The sound of my 7 o’clock alarm jolts me awake. It's time for another

long day at Midland. Barely awake, I reach to turn off my alarm, but in my half-awake state, I can’t figure out how to turn off the alarm I have had for over a year.I end up unplugging despite the fact that one of my biggest pet peeves is having to reset my alarm clock. I get up and grab some warm pants and a thick jacket. I take a deep breath, open the door, and am instantly startled awake by the cold air. My face hurts and I'm so cold. I complain about how cold I am to everyone I walk by. ​

Instead of the typical "Good morning, how are you?" I greet everyone

with an "I'm so cold." After the long trek to Stillman, I finally enter, only to have the FOD be late. Sighing, I turn to the few other early risers and immediately complain about how the FOD never gets laps for being late, but if we are a second late, we get so many laps. I grab something to drink and take a seat and wait for the FOD. Julia's husband comes in to get food, his wife,Julia knows better than to come early or else she will end up doing the FOD's job. After a while the FOD enters and gets greeted with something like, “You have one job." "You're late." “I have been here forever." The FOD always responds with something like “Sorry I forgot," “I slept in," and the worst one being “There was a mix-up." I sign in, get my meds, and make the long journey back to my cabin, but before I even step out of Stillman, I get stopped with "Esme, can you cover my job?"

I turn around and agree; for some reason I agree, so that's how I end up doing dish house in slides or waitering in shorts or doing farm in my PJs. By the time I am done with the job, I have only ten minutes to get ready. I run back to my room and think of the warmth I get to be greeted by. I

grab a pile of stuff and shove it in my backpack and run back into the cold to make it to class. The teacher greets us with a joyful hello. I can tell this is going to be a long class. At this point the teacher asks us a simple question, like, "How did you sleep?" To me, it's the same thing as asking, "If I have ten cows and one is yellow, how many cookies can I make if my gas tank is only half full?" I look the teacher in the eye and say, "Huh?" The teacher laughs and moves on. This is going to be a long day…

Chapel Talk Amelie Grant ‘27

Speak, Child of the Forest There is a certain pride that comes from pain– the scrapes and scabs that whisper of a thorny embrace, the violet-black bruises that sing of a rock and a hard place. Growing up in the forgotten stretch of California where the coast bends east-west, you learn a certain adversity from the sprawling wildlands. My home address has changed streets and even zip codes, but has always neighbored the Los Padres National Forest.

Between the Silicon Valley startups and the vibing Hollywood pop culture scene lies a set of mountains that have remained undeveloped, almost quiet, but are inexplicably loud to those who listen with enough patience.

The trails existed at some point, but budget cuts and quick-growing plants have swallowed them to not much more than lines on maps and reminiscence.

For most of the year, heat exhaustion haunts like a shadow, rattlesnakes rule patches of sun, and wildfire perches awaiting the smallest spark. If we’re lucky, it rains for a few months, the clouds' tickling embrace seeding superblooms and unfurling oily poison oak leaves. From a satellite view, the forest is a labyrinth of hot chaparral and overgrown trickling drainages.

Under its thick skin, however, lies some of the most pristine and unknown beauty available. 200+ foot waterfalls, indigenous culture painted and carved into rock faces, icy-cold swimming holes, fern-blanketed slopes, arrays of flora, and elliptical wind caves. But the Los Padres protects itself from a world seeking to take, to see, to bulldoze, and to leave. If you enter its never-ending expanses, it leaves an unforgettable mark.

I grew up with my parents and my grandparents in the same house. I played store with my grandma, our commodity beautiful flowers and our currency small, smooth, black stones. My mom and I would go on rainy-day walks to listen to the thunder every time it boomed. My brother and I made

forts in the sagebrush. My dad took me to explore the canyons, taught me to identify the lichens, and showed me where to find the choice chanterelle mushrooms. There was a tree outside my house under which I stored all my nature treasures, my mom glad to keep their dirt outside. I was a child of never-ending energy, a ball of excitement. I would run to my grandfather's rocking chair to tell him of my latest adventure, and his eyes would twinkle as he told me, "Speak, child of the forest.”

This line is one of his favorites– his tone always exuding the same calmness. I am not the first, nor the last, to be addressed this way. In fact, I think he would say this to someone regardless of their age or relationship with nature. Within the nuance of these five simple words lies an opportunity to expand our view of the human-nature bond: regardless of proximity to nature or degree of urban development, we are all children of the land. We are sustained by invertebrates that burst from busy soil, the air we breathe teems with molecules and microorganisms that shape our body systems, and every material we interact with originated from the earth. It's easy to forget the lifeblood of our planet while walking through skyscrapers that obscure the sky. But through training our ears to listen beyond the artificial buzz of industrialization, the forest becomes audible: a chirping swallow that flutters between buildings, a cricket lost on the concrete, and the ever-present essence of the trillions of species that elude our senses but exist within the air. When we realize we are children of the forest, we are renewed with the ability to speak and listen.

I was born in 2009: my childhood has been defined by climate change discourse and the rise of the concept of sustainability. What does it mean to steward a landscape? How is that balanced with recreation, profit, and resources? I was lucky to have access to a national forest that gave me the opportunity to ponder these questions. Perhaps, if I had not spent time in this landscape, I would not care enough to even consider my impact.

Most often, impact is described as the human effect on the land. I feel responsible to use my power to attempt to impact the forest in a way that

is beneficial. Whether via purposeful purchasing or advocacy, anyone (regardless of forest proximity) can shape the outcome of a forest by controlling their actions to determine the tone through which they speak to it. For me, however, the impact that feels most relevant is that which the forest has imprinted on me: beyond a set of memories and scabs, the reflection I have gained from the place has shaped my moral compass and mental state. A scientific journal I read last week detailed how exposure to green spaces can train our immune system to cut excess inflammation that causes chemical depression. It took me a second to decode the jargon of this paper, but on second look I deeply felt the meaning: the forest trains my body to feel fulfilled. The way that I speak to the forest affects my impact on it but also determines how it responds and impacts me. Within that conversation lies a potential for a mutually beneficial relationship of reciprocity. When we give the forest the patience and space to form a bond, we open the door to a new set of chemical and mental possibilities within our bodies. We must start that conversation to form the connection, and as that evolves, so do we.

My love for this natural space is not 3-dimensional, not parasitic, not conformative to ‘hobby,’ and almost contradictory to the modern scientific definitions of the consciousness of place and nature. Although I feel the word limits my relationship, my love for the Los Padres is akin to what many define as spiritual.

Science agrees that plants respirate, that birds communicate, and that soil births. But science rarely purports that these things act in response and harmony with the humans that tread among them. It is considered coincidence when I lie beneath a sweeping valley oak canopy and feel my heartbeat slow to match the ancient tree's rhythm. When the cliff swallows begin to soar and sing above me during each pivotal moment of joy I experience in these places, I associate that with spirit rather than random repetition. Science and I can agree that forest exposure alters how my body functions, but my experience dives deeper than epigenetic protein responses or chemical triggers. Throughout each successive moment of connection I

feel with this entity, I have given the forest the space to occupy consciousness, to act in response to my actions, and to express itself independent of the previous inanimate definition of ‘land.’ Without necessarily using an audible voice, I have offered the forest a relationship where I stand as a part of it rather than an intruder or classifier of it. When I have spoken to the forest, these experiences have led me to undoubtedly reason that it is speaking to me.

One can only make it so far on the saying my grandpa repeats so often– we must give the forest equal time to respond, listening for that voice ever so astutely. When that balance is found, a song is revealed, and it becomes apparent that each living thing has been waiting, all along, to converse. But the language of that connection is unique to each who wanders the forests, and it takes a lifetime to become fluent in this ever-shifting tongue.

My father has lived in or around the Los Padres for 51 years, and he is still learning the nuanced language. I feel as though I have inherited a piece of this code in my DNA, but I must also learn the language of my soul within the forest in order to unlock the earth's mother tongue.

This forest friendship moves at a pace that many overlook, but with the right patience, the elaborated code begins to illuminate a set of armor used by the forest to distinguish those who garner respect and protect from those who don’t linger long enough to realize the forest is an entity to be respected. As I have learned to listen, I have learned the adversity that is required to love and be loved. With each successive adventure, I better understand how to find joy within the challenge. When crawling over thorns becomes an act of laughter, I realize the sharp protrusions are a form of cracking a joke. The bushes that leave scratches are a longing embrace– a love language of touch. The poison oak that guards waterfalls is a reminder not to take advantage of their beauty, a recurring (and itchy) gesture of reminiscence.

Perhaps my fulfillment comes partially from a set of immunoresponses triggered by exposure that diminish unnecessary inflammation. My gut tells me that is not enough to ward off the loneliness or lack of purpose that sometimes knocks at my door. However, the forest is an

unconditional listener; its arms always extend for embrace; even in urban settings stark of plants, its love pushes through sidewalks and hums in the soil, waiting to be heard. This soulful affection embeds in me, chemically or memorially.

My body holds a cache of certain sensory reactions that invoke love– I can identify who is walking through my house by the way their steps greet the creaky wood floor. I know the hum of my father’s truck motor and the low buzz of my mother’s electric car from years of listening to them return from work. I recognize the smell of my brother's laundry detergent and can sense the faint scent of redwood that lingers on his skin when he returns from his college in the Northern California forest. The first year we lived apart, I realized that my brother speaks the dialect of the forest most similar to mine.

That alone will tie us together forever. When he returned for Thanksgiving, we drove up the mountain to sit in the dry grass as the sun fell. He held a fistful of the carcasses of spring blooms in his hand. I swatted mosquitos off my freckled arm. The coulter pines were painted deep gold, their bark wafting undertones of dust and vanilla. The wind blew with a frequency that only happens in the fall. We looked at each other, knowing we both felt it. We both know these tangible expressions of the forest like we know those of our family. They don’t occur anywhere else in the world, and after a childhood spent roaming the hills, steeped in these signals of constant motion, our bodies yearn to feel this dancing wind on our skin. In that moment, the forest spoke to us like it had before. That wind was a reminder of motion and time passing; it marked the familial reunion of us children and the mountain under which our parents were wedded and our placentas were buried. It whispered of the babies now full-grown and saplings now casting shade. It told us that the forest is as much in our blood as we are in its: the spiraling fall wind stirred us back together and held us in unity. ​

If everyone had the time to befriend the world that they inhabit, to

truly become a part of it, we would see it for its expression of life, for its constant movement, for its wisdom, and for its awareness. If everyone gave

their local nature an invitation to speak to them, an opportunity to reflect, not only would laws change, the broken workings of many minds would begin to rewire. I guarantee that loving a forest the way I love the Los Padres would lead to protecting it, and in turn, the forest would protect us. The real change will occur when we realize that we’re all parts of the natural world– it's just a game of learning to communicate across the barriers of language, species, genus, kingdom, and even the definition of consciousness.

Let us become children of the forest: speak, listen, and hear the world's joyous response.

Photos by Rick Sawyer ‘70