Thursday, June 22, 2006 at 1:01am
A sense of place
Column: Our Place in the Universe
I was able to go upstate New York for a few days this past week. My mom is staying there alone now and I wanted to spend some time with her. I also wanted to make a reconnection to the home that I spent every summer in since I was eight years old.
Growing up in the city in New York had prompted my dad to buy an old abandoned apple farm in the Catskill Mountains. We would trek up there as soon as school was out and not come back until Labor Day weekend. I remember the first time we arrived. The grass was up to our shoulders, growing all the way to the stone steps of the house. What a wonderful yard to play hide-and-seek in!
And the apple trees, one on the front lawn, held the juiciest Macintosh I have ever tasted. One of my fondest memories is being able to climb that tree and sit there while munching its fruit. One morning we found a porcupine doing the same thing! Besides apples, there were blackberries and huckleberries, pears and plums.
Oh, this place holds so many memories both outside, on the 25 acres of forest and pastureland, and inside in the 100-plus-year-old farmhouse. The railing to the upstairs holds memories enough for the whole house, being one solid piece of oak, smooth and shiny. It ended in a swirl, which made it possible to slide down and end up airborne amid shrieks and yells of fear and delight.
In my lecture presentation about "Sense of Place" I arrange 10 pictures around the room, all of a different habitat or biome. I ask people to choose the picture that resonates the most with them. Then they share their stories. People from the east coast will connect with people from the west, both loving the beach. People from Montana will relate with people from New York when they both choose the mountain lake.
There is something universal about our connections as a species, and our stories, but is there a center? Our stories make us unique. At the same time they give us a common base to communicate with one another. However, we often see our stories as the end, the absolute truth. When we do this we are forsaking the moment, and the journey, for the perceived ending. Like the Universe itself, our stories must be constantly expanding, and at the same time, pulling us back together into unity and harmony with those around us, and with Creation.
My mom told me lots of stories this past week. My favorite came as we were scrambling around in the forest trying to follow the stonewall that borders our property. In these woods are the most amazing rock formations, not overlarge, but still quite substantial. Great boulders of layered limestone sprinkled over the hillside present a formidable barrier when one is trying to keep on course.
My mom told me that she and my dad used to walk these woods. She said that she had told him that these rocks were a far better gift than any diamond he could have given her; she loved them so. Ahh, now I understood where my own love of rocks comes from. My daughter inherited this love too, coming home from school when she was small with her pockets filled with stones. Every day they would be emptied into a large basket by the door to be discreetly added to the pile outside when the basket was full.
When we receive the land we become part of it and are shaped by its story, the past as well as the future. Control (power, force) doesn't conquer the land, but the freedom to act responsibly does. This is what allows us to live in the moment and in oneness. Scott Russell Sanders says that sacred places and stories "put us back in touch with what is original, in ourselves and in creation." They ground us in the land and thus connect us to the flow of creation and the power that creates and preserves it.
Through our stories we claim or choose our roots, our heritage, our inheritance. When we take responsibility to share our stories with family and others, they become a gift that imagines the common to become sacred. These stories connect us again to the essence of creation and the energy and principles that are forever expanding.
Now, three generations have claimed ownership of this rocky hillside through love. Both Mom and I wondered what would happen to the land if she ever needed to sell it. Already I see that this land has birthed three strong women. We will carry these seeds in our hearts forever, expanding the story and the land to include whatever place we will call home.
— — —
Anne E. Ulvestad is a freelance writer residing in Maryland. She has her masters in earth literacy, and is available for public lectures and group presentations on Spirituality and the Environment. Anne can be reached at {email anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com}anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com{/email}. © 2006 by Anne E. Ulvestad
— — —
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any. All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.
Growing up in the city in New York had prompted my dad to buy an old abandoned apple farm in the Catskill Mountains. We would trek up there as soon as school was out and not come back until Labor Day weekend. I remember the first time we arrived. The grass was up to our shoulders, growing all the way to the stone steps of the house. What a wonderful yard to play hide-and-seek in!
And the apple trees, one on the front lawn, held the juiciest Macintosh I have ever tasted. One of my fondest memories is being able to climb that tree and sit there while munching its fruit. One morning we found a porcupine doing the same thing! Besides apples, there were blackberries and huckleberries, pears and plums.
Oh, this place holds so many memories both outside, on the 25 acres of forest and pastureland, and inside in the 100-plus-year-old farmhouse. The railing to the upstairs holds memories enough for the whole house, being one solid piece of oak, smooth and shiny. It ended in a swirl, which made it possible to slide down and end up airborne amid shrieks and yells of fear and delight.
In my lecture presentation about "Sense of Place" I arrange 10 pictures around the room, all of a different habitat or biome. I ask people to choose the picture that resonates the most with them. Then they share their stories. People from the east coast will connect with people from the west, both loving the beach. People from Montana will relate with people from New York when they both choose the mountain lake.
There is something universal about our connections as a species, and our stories, but is there a center? Our stories make us unique. At the same time they give us a common base to communicate with one another. However, we often see our stories as the end, the absolute truth. When we do this we are forsaking the moment, and the journey, for the perceived ending. Like the Universe itself, our stories must be constantly expanding, and at the same time, pulling us back together into unity and harmony with those around us, and with Creation.
My mom told me lots of stories this past week. My favorite came as we were scrambling around in the forest trying to follow the stonewall that borders our property. In these woods are the most amazing rock formations, not overlarge, but still quite substantial. Great boulders of layered limestone sprinkled over the hillside present a formidable barrier when one is trying to keep on course.
My mom told me that she and my dad used to walk these woods. She said that she had told him that these rocks were a far better gift than any diamond he could have given her; she loved them so. Ahh, now I understood where my own love of rocks comes from. My daughter inherited this love too, coming home from school when she was small with her pockets filled with stones. Every day they would be emptied into a large basket by the door to be discreetly added to the pile outside when the basket was full.
When we receive the land we become part of it and are shaped by its story, the past as well as the future. Control (power, force) doesn't conquer the land, but the freedom to act responsibly does. This is what allows us to live in the moment and in oneness. Scott Russell Sanders says that sacred places and stories "put us back in touch with what is original, in ourselves and in creation." They ground us in the land and thus connect us to the flow of creation and the power that creates and preserves it.
Through our stories we claim or choose our roots, our heritage, our inheritance. When we take responsibility to share our stories with family and others, they become a gift that imagines the common to become sacred. These stories connect us again to the essence of creation and the energy and principles that are forever expanding.
Now, three generations have claimed ownership of this rocky hillside through love. Both Mom and I wondered what would happen to the land if she ever needed to sell it. Already I see that this land has birthed three strong women. We will carry these seeds in our hearts forever, expanding the story and the land to include whatever place we will call home.
— — —
Anne E. Ulvestad is a freelance writer residing in Maryland. She has her masters in earth literacy, and is available for public lectures and group presentations on Spirituality and the Environment. Anne can be reached at {email anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com}anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com{/email}. © 2006 by Anne E. Ulvestad
UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum is a big tent for all expressions of faith and spirituality, neither excluding nor favoring any. All opinions expressed belong to the writer alone, and are not necessarily shared by UPI Religion & Spirituality Forum.