( – promoted by buhdydharma )
Years ago in a book group we had an interesting discussion about our “sense of place.” It was all about where, in the natural world, we feel most at home. I found this a most intriguing question and was very interested in the variety of responses. For example, for some people, a canopy of trees is important. And for others, the wide open spaces and sky was something they were drawn to. I had a friend at the time who loved the desert; a place that, while I can appreciate its beauty, never appealed to me. Since many of these differences did not relate to where people grew up or currently lived, it seemed to me that they were attached to something primordial in our souls. But then, who knows.
As I sit here towards the end of February in what my family from Texas call “the tundra” and dream of warmth and sun, I thought it might be interesting to get over a hump day by talking about our sense of place. While I have deep roots in this place that I live and love the community, the natural world here has always felt in conflict with my soul. I hate the dark short days of winter and the hot, humid, mosquito-infested summers. So I only have a few months out of the year when I really want to be outside and experience the natural beauty that is in the area.
My soul has always been attracted to the ocean. The power of the surf and the endless horizon seems to connect with something deep in me. I feel a big “YES” happening in my bones when I sit and stare at the combination of motion and stillness. I love the sound of the surf and the power of giant waves.
But a few years ago, I had an experience that gave me a different sense of place. A friend and I took a September vacation to The Enchanted Circle of New Mexico. The cornerstone of the circle is Taos, but it also includes Red River, Questa, Eagles Nest and Angel Fire. Our home base for the trip was Angel Fire (named because the color of the aspen in the mountains during fall). One day we took a hike in the mountains around town. We stopped for a rest at one point in a stunning location. I was so moved by the scenery that I remember working on making a movie in my mind so that I could remember it all when I got home and needed to find a calm place in my mind. I noticed not only the visual scenery, but the sound, smell and taste of the place. As we continued walking, I broke out in tears. As I reflected on why, I knew they were not tears of sadness, but of cleansing. I was aware right then, of all the layers of masks I regularly wear to survive in my daily world. And they were all melting away, leaving just me in a pure form. I’ll never forget that moment. I’ve been back to the Enchanted Circle since then, and it always feels like coming home.
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about your experiences with a sense of place.
… Wednesday hump day essay, NL.
Your memory palace is a splendid one … put me in such a good frame of mind.
i hafta hafta be able to get there….stat…when need be 😉
but i have issues with ‘being’ where i am…and rarely ever connect with places. even at the beach, i tend to focus on the horizon, not on the water…its more the sound and the smell that draw me there, and i usually spend more time with my eyes closed than open…
although i do love searching the surf for unicorns
canopy of trees/mountain vistas. They make me feel claustrophobic. Trapped. Surrounded. Stuck in PA with Nazis all around…oh, sorry, that’s where I am.
Freedom is a wide vista: the shore, as you suggest, and the desert, and for the same reason: a feeling of relief, of not being trapped. One of the things I always loved about NYC was its proximity to the ocean. And if the towers were too oppressive, I could always look west (from certain streets) and see the Hudson. Or take a ride on the Staten Island ferry.
Where I live now claims to be the U.S.’s “oldest inland city.” Yet another reason to hate this town! (I live to hate this town. GET ME OUT OF PA!!! If you’re ever in the mood to meet a Nazi, PA is the place for you. Frank Rizzo, anybody?)
(sorry for the rant. my father–my only reason to be in this fucking place–died almost a year and a half ago and it is time to get out. the question is where to go. Canada? Mexico? Europe? and how to get there, with no money, because while there are tons of jobs here, if you have one of them you are going to be making about $7-15/hour. i’m on the not-a-living-wage end of the scale, oh joy oh rapture.)
but at age 18, moved to Alaska. Spent time in California, Arizona, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Missouri, Indiana. grew up in a city with a river, have a great love for rivers. the river beds with their rich soil and heavy mud. flat cornfields, the scent before a major thunderstorm, are all part of me. mountains fascinated, the desert climbed into my bones, and the ocean (Atlantic more than Pacific) became a siren.
used to say, if i could chose, it would be the desert. now, i’d go back East. winters are long, but the ocean, jesus. just nothing like it.
for awhile, read quite a bit about the power of place. many books out there addressing the idea. i can list some if anyone is interested.
read something once about new places having their own gods… also, in a walkabout, sometimes people just stop and sit, to let their souls catch up with their bodies. sometimes i think my soul is so used to wandering, it’s forgotten where i am. 🙂
The flat endless big sky midwest where if your dog ran away you could still see him three days later just by looking for the dustcloud near the horizon. Where the winters were 20 below zero with six feet of snow and lasted for half the year, and the summers were 100 degrees with strong winds full of topsoil all the time and clouds of mosquitos and black flies.
The one day I came out to the west coast for a visit.
Saw this…
And never could go back…. it gets inside you real fast. 😉
The woods and fields of Southern Indiana in the full summer green, somewhere between Milan (pronounced My-lun, accent on the first syllable) and Versailles (pronounced Ver-Sails) where my grandparents lived and where I escaped into the backfields when I was a kid.
The Foothill country around Grass Valley California, Rough and Ready, Smartsville, the old covered bridge behind Lake Wildwood where we used to go skinny-dipping back in the 70’s when California was magic and Jerry Brown was the governor. I can’t tell you what a wonderful thing it was to climb on a motorcycle in Marysville and go out 20 to Grass Valley and cut up to 49 and run along to Downieville and then up along the river on a hot day stopping to jump in the pools of cold water then back with my buddies on our bikes and on through the Sierra’s. Sometimes I miss it with an ache that I can barely stand.
St. Emilion in Southern France near Bourdeaux, an old walled city that seemed like home the minute I parked in the parking lot of the Hotel Cardinal. The place is wonderful and I will be back there the first chance I get.
I’m fond of Jackson Hole, and the red rock country in the southwest, but the above three places seemed to scratch an itch.
but for a special place, there are few things as good, and as increasingly rare, as a river in the desert.
http://www.terrain.org/essays/…
I didn’t realize how specific my place is. It is here.
It has a noise, a scent, a taste and even a humidity. I can completely go there in my head when I want to.
There is a sound at high tide. The waves crash on the small stones, and when the water recedes the sound of the water draining through these stones is the most amazing white-noise-soul-soothing-blanket….man….Of course, it smells like the sea, and is cool and salty.
Wow. Must remember to buy a house there before the global warming kicks in full-steam.