I'm just setting out on this Journey in Place. but I feel like I have been watching for the gateway since I started on substack in March. I may or may not catch up in real time, but wish each of you safe travels.
I have lived in the same house for 45 years in Pasadena, California and grew up within 15 miles of here. I have explored a lot of California and the west, mostly with family, sometimes alone. For this journey I am focused on home and the surrounding foothills and valley. Although much is developed, there is still an enormous National Forest across the San Gabriel Mountains. Pasadena has beautiful trees, especially those protected in the LA County Arboretum and Huntington Botanical Gardens. I also have several other places in the West where I still visit to marvel and hold dear--Owen's Valley and Eastern Sierra, Zion Canyon-ZNP, Grand Canyon NP, Central Coast of California, Anza/Borrego Springs, Tuoloumne Meadows-and back country-YNP
Ah, I signed up before Trackless Wild launched this year and today was my first day I could begin. I'm working on my inside voice not chastising myself for being late, etc.
I live in the mid-Hudson Valley of New York (closer to Albany, the state capital). Moved to a fairly rural area 24 years ago after having lived in NYC for 2 years and wanting to fulfill a dream for my husband. He grew up in NYC and wanted to see the stars at night. So, without any jobs and when you could purchase a home on your credit score, we purchased a small house.
At that time, my dreams was to learn about the 17 wooded acres we take care of. (Most people would say we own them. I choose to say we tend to them.) It was always my plan to learn about the woods and Hudson River (which I can walk to). Well, it didn't happen and I'm still struggling to do so decades later.
Baby Girl, a pandemic adopted dog, brought me outside in March 2020. She needed (and still does) a lot of walking. It turns out so do I. I deeply cherish my 4 times daily walks with her. It's because of her I better know the seasons, the plants, the animals and, of course, a few neighbors.
My Power Spot is now a stone in the yard which offers me a view into the woods. It's a 180 degree view of trees, a hill, and a handful of plants. I choice it because it chose me about 24 years ago. Well, the original spot and this current Power Spot are physically close enough ;).
My plan is to be on track with you all by the end of the month.
I'm just getting started on this journey, but I wanted to put this here so I can walk with all of you when I catch up.
I've carried this unsettledness all of my life--hoping, planning, expecting to call a more natural, rural place home-- and instead bouncing around the city (Atlanta, GA) and rarely grounding because I didn't want to be there. However, it's important and possible to feel like a part of your place even if it's temporary. For a few years, I grew to love my urban neighborhood when I took long runs from my front door and around the park and explored a 2-mile radius block by block. I learned which front yards sprang flowers in the spring and summer months, which lanes glowed loudest with fall foliage, and which hills allowed the best views of sunrises and sunsets. I became enamored with the zoo sounds down the street-- the lion's haunting roar, the lemurs' ruckus. We were transplants, all of us, so it was pointless to resist feeling home.
But I had to move again to new neighborhoods, rediscover the trees and creeks and yards of new places. I learned how the sunlight fell in my yard, reclaimed landscapes and planted natives, only to uproot myself again and again. I began driving to the NC mountains almost every weekend, hiking and camping and boating, and then feeling my heart sink as I drove back into the haze of the city for work.
Last May, I took a leap and moved to the foothills of the N. GA mountains. The landscapes here are breathtaking. I'm in love with the evening mist that rises over the creeks and farms, and with the slanty morning light in the gnarled bare tree branches this winter. The rush of the wide creek on the back of my property, the darkness finally deep enough to show the stars. I'm closer, still not where I want to be--but I need to feel and understand this place, and even if it's temporary, for my heart to feel at home.
I’m posting this late, because I have too many irons in the fire, as always, and because I think for a long time before I put words down. I posted this today on my new (sort of) blog:
The Four Acre Wood is the land I live on in the middle of a subdivision, a bit north and west of Atlanta, Georgia. When this development was established, around forty years ago, some of the early residents bought up several lots at a time, meaning that many houses sit on three or four or five acres instead of the postage stamp lots so horribly common in newer construction. It’s one of the best things about the neighborhood: there is still space, and, in that space, things can live and grow.
My daily life unfolds on close to five acres. A section of that is cleared for the necessary things, like the house itself, and the driveway, and a pen for the dogs to run in. But, beyond that, about four acres remain wooded, not with old growth, by any means, but with a respectable mix of pines and hardwoods.
I wander my wood with a mixture of feelings. I feel grateful for its existence and its proximity. I feel saddened that it has been whittled down to a fragment of wildness, and, at the same time, I feel awe that wildness manages to persist despite this fragmentation.
I feel responsible for allowing its continued existence.
The name of this place is a nod to A.A. Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood. The Hundred Acre Wood is, of course, the eternal playground of Christopher Robin and his animal friends in the Winnie the Pooh stories. It is a sort of sanctuary of childhood, innocence, and connection with the natural world. Despite the fact that it is a large wood, perhaps even really a forest, it is never frightening the way forests can be in so many children’s tales. It is benign and welcoming even in its infinitude. Or, perhaps, because of it.
My wood is not infinite. Subdivisions, by their very nature, by their very name, exist to divide. They succeed breathtakingly in this task, splitting the land, fragmenting the habitats of plants and animals, and cutting their residents off from each other and the natural order of things. My wood, existing where it does, is a marvel, but it is also a sad echo of what used to be. It is a sanctuary for wildness, not least my own, but it is also a reminder of the loss inherent in becoming small.
I am trying to be the voice of my wood. I am trying to champion the life that persists even in this dissected landscape we humans have created. I am trying to tell the story of this place I live in, so that all its tragic beauty will not exist in vain. We will only save what we love. We will only learn to love what we first learn to see.
This small farm on the southeast edge of Hart County in the northeast corner of Georgia, took ownership of me in October, 2014. Whether synchronistic or serendipitous I can't be sure, but after a year of driving hundreds of miles and rejecting property after property, I heard an audible click, click, click as the pieces fell into place to land my husband and I here. A substitute realtor with a wealth of local knowledge, an unexpected job assignment for Joe and a contract on a house we had been trying to sell made for an easy decision. Six weeks later we moved in. There are enough acres here to include dense wild woods on three sides and sufficient pastureland for a small herd of cows. The house sits on the highest point of the property and functions like a sundial. The first hint of dawn peeks in our bedroom window. The growing sunlight warms our front porch for the rest of the morning. By afternoon, beams of light making the dust shine like glitter stream into a south facing bedroom. At days end, the sun drops out of sight and leaves a sprawling pink glow over our back porch and kitchen. Some days this house is my power spot.
This is the first place that either my husband or I have lived without connection to family or friends or history of any kind. I feel more alone here than ever before in my life, but something about the physical place holds me. It's the house or the land or the wildlife or the cows. It's the now predictable and familiar movement of approaching weather and stars in the sky. I like living face to face with the forces of nature.There are days when it's overwhelming, but most days it's comforting and reassuring. I walk out my back door, slip through a small green gate and head west down a hill that is divided into two small pastures. A black cow who has lived her whole life on this farm looks up from her meditative cud chewing to take note of my passing. The landscape is marked by terraces created by some other farmer long before us. Dark gray lichen and moss covered rocks of every size and shape are part of the terrain. There are naturally occurring rock clusters, but there are also rows and stacks of rocks that had to have been hand carried by humans and drug by strong animals. I'm fully aware that this smooth grassy pasture I stroll through is a result of collective generations of hard work.
My outdoor "power spot" is on this slope. A beech tree grows on the pasture side of the fence. I call her Queen Beech. She is probably thirty feet tall, and she leans hard to the northwest in an effort to find sun, but also because there is a rock.The part of the rock that I can see above the ground is about five feet square, and I'm sure there is more. Queen's roots grow over, under and all around the rock. I suspect that this rock is why a young beech seedling was never mowed down or plowed over. The rock may have protected her initially, but it presents a real challenge as she grows. Something of that dynamic resonates with me. I sit on the rock and lean against Queen's smooth, mottled gray trunk. There are days when we sit in silence, but some days we talk.The woods close in at this low end of the pasture. Through the fence and down one more slope is the creek that marks the western edge of the property. I can't see it and I'm not sure that it has a name, but today I hear it's babbling flow. I also hear the squawks and caws and whistling of birds, the chatter and rattle of squirrels, the warning blow of a deer and the wind blowing through dry brown leaves. I don't hear any sounds of human activity. On days when I do they are buffered and comfortably distant. In this spot I do not feel alone.
As I considered my power place, the place I would turn my attention to for this course, I kept coming back to the walking path I follow most days, particularly the stretch that passes the empty field and winds back into what’s left of a little patch of woods that backs up to a subdivision — or rather, that the houses in the subdivision back up to. The field and the trees were here first. Yet, in recent months, backhoes and bulldozers have come in, ripping out wide swaths of these beloved trees, shredding bushes, grasses, wildflowers, leaving mulch, broken branches, and trash in their wake. I think of the gleaming spider’s web I saw reflecting in the early morning sun like a silver mirror, gone the next day, along with the stand of trees from which it hung over the trickling creek. I remember the doe I came upon as I rounded the bend in the path last spring, startling both of us as we stood there looking into each other’s eyes, a moment that lasted seconds but dipped into another timeline where we were frozen — I felt so connected it was as if I could feel her heartbeat. Then the spell was broken and she darted into a thicket of trees, full of spring leaves. Where has the doe and her family gone? The groundhog who lived in the great mound of earth, reclaimed by mother earth, sprouting with (now dead) grasses and sprigs of saplings? The baby rabbits I saw along the edges on summer mornings? Maybe they are hibernating, burrowed deep below the tall brittle grasses sticking out of the thick Tennessee snow, rustling in the winter breeze.
The development has been at a standstill for a while, plots readied for new homes in the clearing. The red bench I sat on many a morning before the devastation began remains. Yellow straw blankets the torn earth, a meager gesture toward healing this traumatized place, the ruins. That bench was the hub, the pew among my wild church, where I sat many a morning, in communion with the trees, the birds, the chattering squirrels. I long to go back.
Current Place: It is a long-time highly disturbed longleaf forest in the Sandhills of North Carolina. Once called Vineland, Southern Pines 535 ft. above sea level) has a rich history of wealthy northeasterners coming here to vacation in once-remembered resorts, as well as take respite from the industrial smog of the north. In 1884 John T. Patrick bought 675 acres here for $1,265 and started the town. The U.S. dollar has lost 97% of its value since 1884. In today’s prices a $1.00 in 1884 is worth $31.03. Therefore, Mr. Patrick would have bought 675 acres today for $39,594.50. What a steal!
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I am walking distance to Weymouth Woods Sandhills Nature Preserve established in 1963 as a gift from Katherine Boyd, to whom my landlord’s mom was friends with and with whom Mrs. Prince sang in the choir.
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My apartment was once a master bedroom suite added on in 1972 to a house that was built in the 1940’s. A kitchen was added. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived on my own. My bedroom has two adjacent dark wood framed windows that have southern exposure. I rescued a snake plant recently and it is happy to have the light. The sun at three o’clock this time of year soothes me and I make an effort every afternoon to lounge in its filtered light as it radiates on the all cotton faux quilted blanket on my bed.
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I listen for a Carolina Wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus) every morning, like Cinderella's queue to get out of bed and time to start another day. My place is here in the Sandhills of Moore County, North Carolina, where prescribed fire is regular and part of my work. My watershed flows into the Great Pee Dee River basin and joins the ocean at Winyah Bay around Georgetown, South Carolina.
Childhood Place Lived up to age 14: Manchester, New Hampshire (200 ft above sea level)
Favorite Lived Place: Woodland Park, Colorado (9,500 ft above sea level)
As soon as I started contemplating the place I belong to, I was deluged with memories of places special to me over the years. Of course, this spot we now inhabit is current and treasured. We moved here from the city and bought the property without seeing the inside of the house because we fell in love with it as soon as we set eyes on it. The structures were insignificant but the land most definitely was not. When a deer strolled through as we sat here gazing, we considered it an invitation and we accepted. A small cabin sat facing East toward Black mountain in a beautiful valley overlooked by Albert's Mountain, along the Appalachian Trail to the South along with a sight line to Pickens Nose. Jones Creek once referred to as James Creek runs through the valley. We sit between Jones Creek and Timber Ridge Road. In the old days, Timber Ridge was called Lee Creek because it converges with Jones (or James) Creek nearby. We've enjoyed picnics and camping trips at this convergence. As a novice, I started out with the idea of clearing the land but thankfully learned quickly. I spent the first few summers gathering large rocks and building what I called a Circle Garden where I intended to mimic a medicine wheel. One of the most memorable encounters I had was with what I believe is a red shouldered (or red tailed) hawk who had a nest high in a poplar tree overlooking where I was clearing the land and marking the circle. I am convinced that hawk and her offspring know me in their own particular way. Hearing the hawk's cry as well as the Barred Owl who I've had three up close encounters with over the years give me a sense of connection difficult to verbalize. After many attempts to tame that area, I have learned to watch and learn what seems to want to grow there and appeals to me and nurture those plants in whatever way they want to grow.
When I first moved here, I decided I wanted to grow At Risk medicinal plants like golden seal, ginseng, and others on the Native Plant Saver's list. At first I didn't think I'd had any luck and abandoned the project but recently discovered golden seal growing and multiplying!
Our property is a misshapen triangle with the point where Timber Ridge road branches off of Jones Creek Road and the large angle along what our neighbor referred to as a branch that runs down from the forest above us. Our devotion to this land has kept us here for 25 years. I planted a white oak on my 50th birthday and can scarcely believe its nearly 20 years old. I have to shake myself when I think of it. I feel as though I've been having a conversation with it without noticing that I was doing so. As my days grow shorter, it becomes more dear. I hike one of the three main trails accessible from our back door almost every day. Each one has its own personality and presence. After reading Sharon Blackie's book and another called Rooted by Lynda Lynn Haupt, where they recommend finding one special spot where you can sit and simply observe...I've decided our back porch is that spot for me.
Another gift from this land was the spring in 2004 when a female Monarch butterfly landed on some milkweed that had barely broken dormancy. From that experience, I've planted plenty of milkweed. Seeing the monarchs visit is always a thrill. I could go on and on but I'm going to stop here. I appreciate this exercise as its activated things I've not thought about for awhile.
I'm quite late to the party (and believe me, I never thought that was fashionable) but what a rich feast of people's and the places of their hearts. Thank you for all who are here loving their place. I am happy to be in your midst.
My place growing up, and I reckon now, since I’m moving back home, is Southside Virginia, more specifically Blackstone, Virginia and more specifically still, the woods and the farms around the house that Daddy built for us. I grew up there building forts, fishing, riding horses (some of which were mine, others I “borrowed” from folks who didn’t seem to be riding them much), climbing trees, playing hide and go seek in the barn, going exploring, having adventures, sledding, every sort of thing that a child could do outside. I did not hunt although Daddy made sure we knew how to fire a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. He hunted birds, as they were called, quail. In the fall, he and his best buddy Marshall would go up to the mountains and go grouse hunting. Quail were so plentiful then, he or Granddaddy could step out into the old cornfield behind the house on the old Matson property and come back in half an hour with enough birds for dinner. Sometimes we had them for breakfast with grits and some kind of gravy Mama made from the birds.
We had four distinct seasons, although even then Daddy told me how much warmer the winters were compared to when he was growing up. He grew up one county to the west of us, and back then every winter the pond froze over enough to cut big chunks of ice to put in the icehouse which kept the food chilled all summer long. Even in the 60s, that degree and consistency of cold had gone.
Blackstone was right on what’s called the fall line where the piedmont drops down to the Tidewater region of Virginia. So just west of us were hills and east the land got flat and that’s where you can find peanuts and plantations. What was important to us kids about the fall line, at least once we got our driver’s license, was Nottoway Falls, where you could slide down a slick section of the river, over the waterfall, and into a pool that, of course, the legend was, no one had ever since the bottom.
Southside Virginia had for time out of mind been tobacco country. Life revolved around the cycles of tobacco. In many towns when the tobacco market opened, there was a parade, a tobacco queen, and a good crop enabled farmers could pay off their debts. Both my parents grew up on tobacco farms and my father was a tobacco grader. Growing tobacco was both hard work, very labor intensive, and an art form. Farmers took pride in it.
But when Earl Butz, the Secretary of Agriculture under Nixon, decided that American farmers were going to have to start competing with farmers around the world—he told them they had to “get big or get out”—and price supports went away, so did the small farmer. And the world that tobacco had created went away. The main streets withered and the small farms folded. Even the farms that tried to get big still had to get out.
So fields and pastures reverted to woods. Timber replaced tobacco. And those woods started filling up with an animal that had not been seen in Southside Virginia for years, the bear. Now they’re everywhere—in the trash, crashing through store windows on Main Street. The quail has gone away too. They liked the mix of woods, pastures, and fields of corn and wheat.
I think twice about venturing out in the woods now. I’m not a fan of what globalism did to small farms and towns, and I am even less fond of bears.
My place growing up, and I reckon now, since I’m moving back home, is Southside Virginia, more specifically Blackstone, Virginia and more specifically still, the woods and the farms around the house that Daddy built for us. I grew up there building forts, fishing, riding horses (some of which were mine, others I “borrowed” from folks who didn’t seem to be riding them much), climbing trees, playing hide and go seek in the barn, going exploring, having adventures, sledding, every sort of thing that a child could do outside. I did not hunt although Daddy made sure we knew how to fire a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. He hunted birds, as they were called, quail. In the fall, he and his best buddy Marshall would go up to the mountains and go grouse hunting. Quail were so plentiful then, he or Granddaddy could step out into the old cornfield behind the house on the old Matson property and come back in half an hour with enough birds for dinner. Sometimes we had them for breakfast with grits and some kind of gravy Mama made from the birds.
We had four distinct seasons, although even then Daddy told me how much warmer the winters were compared to when he was growing up. He grew up one county to the west of us, and back then every winter the pond froze over enough to cut big chunks of ice to put in the icehouse which kept the food chilled all summer long. Even in the 60s, that degree and consistency of cold had gone.
Blackstone was right on what’s called the fall line where the piedmont drops down to the Tidewater region of Virginia. So just west of us were hills and east the land got flat and that’s where you can find peanuts and plantations. What was important to us kids about the fall line, at least once we got our driver’s license, was Nottoway Falls, where you could slide down a slick section of the river, over the waterfall, and into a pool that, of course, the legend was, no one had ever since the bottom.
Southside Virginia had for time out of mind been tobacco country. Life revolved around the cycles of tobacco. In many towns when the tobacco market opened, there was a parade, a tobacco queen, and a good crop enabled farmers could pay off their debts. Both my parents grew up on tobacco farms and my father was a tobacco grader. Growing tobacco was both hard work, very labor intensive, and an art form. Farmers took pride in it.
But when Earl Butz, the Secretary of Agriculture under Nixon, decided that American farmers were going to have to start competing with farmers around the world—he told them they had to “get big or get out”—and price supports went away, so did the small farmer. And the world that tobacco had created went away. The main streets withered and the small farms folded. Even the farms that tried to get big still had to get out.
So fields and pastures reverted to woods. Timber replaced tobacco. And those woods started filling up with an animal that had not been seen in Southside Virginia for years, the bear. Now they’re everywhere—in the trash, crashing through store windows on Main Street. The quail has gone away too. They liked the mix of woods, pastures, and fields of corn and wheat.
I think twice about venturing out in the woods now. I’m not a fan of what globalism did to small farms and towns, and I am even less fond of bears.
The place that cradles me is north central Florida. I'm straddled by Paynes Prairie Preserve to the east and San Felasco Hammock to the west. A short stretch beyond that lies the highest concentration of freshwater springs on the planet. The springs are sapphire gems that spew out millions of gallons of water daily from the Floridan aquifer, gracing the nearby rivers and humans with hydration.
My body is shaped by the land on which I reside. I have tasted the clear water from a cypress dome. My eye is trained to scan for gators disguised as logs. Gliding my feet through flatwoods flooded by a nearby blackwater stream, my frayed nerves cool down. I look to the blooming blazing star, goldenrod, and the returning sandhill cranes as indicators of a seasonal shift that promises cooler temperatures.
Still, there are busy roads, rampant development, and swaths of newcomers to the area.
I’ve traversed the entire state on foot via the Florida Trail and I observed how the natural flow of water across the landscape has been disrupted. I grew up in Jupiter in Palm Beach county, east of Lake Okeechobee, which is supposed to be the northern Everglades. The channelization of the Kissimmee river and the built levees encircling the massive Lake O have halted the historic flow of water to the Everglades in favor of sugar cane crops, cattle, and human habitation. When I was a child I learned that there were about 35 Florida panthers in the wild. I watched sea turtles lay eggs on the beach under a full moon while bioluminescent sand glowed on the shore. I ate fresh stone crab claws from the intracoastal and yellowtail snapper that my family caught. I saw dunes flattened by high rises and pinelands bulldozed.
North central Florida delights me with a vastly different landscape imperiled by the same threats. I feel called to remain rooted here. My place depends on me knowing it more intimately so that I may share that love with others, and so that we all may protect it together.
I felt a bit lost honestly as I ventured out on foot to sit in my “power spot”. There is an old apple tree that stands out back on the eastern hill that overlooks the many barns and old farmhouse. There, sitting perfectly underneath the sprawled out branches is a giant boulder enticing one to sit and meditate. It is from this carved out viewing spot I would stare at the wildflower fields, rolling hills, and to the south, the beautiful white mountains of northern New Hampshire. On a summer's day you can hear the crickets, bees, grasshoppers, and butterflies as they joyfully pollinated and participated in the union of life. A rock toss down to the north is a small frog and snake pond. I had a profound chat with a snake one afternoon as s/he took a soothing and cooling swim. It’s a marvelous “sit spot”, however, now the trees have been milled and the wildflowers mowed and it doesn’t have the secluded and secret mystery it once did that enticed me. I love hidden nooks and throughout my life have often gravitated towards them. To step back from the moving world and witness from a distance the miraculous beauty delights my awareness.
Across the street and bridge along the Gale river is what I call, The River Trail. I’ve been drawn to it since my first hike there in 2019. The year my family moved to New England from Michigan. No one would know the magic it holds by driving or walking by. One must enter in order to be surprised, as within its embrace are enchantments far exceeding the limitations of our human mind. This trail weaves with the river and is enclosed by the Forest. The path is a simple and humble footpath, not wide or manicured by man’s hands or machinery. I like that very much. It’s wild and raw. Each day there is a natural surprise that wasn’t there the day before. I’ve nearly walked this path daily for 4 ½ years. It was within the River Trail’s otherworldly portal I birthed Mushroom Medicine Oracle deck set, a seven year conception. On this path I am greeted by the friendly Birch Hare, the whirling Goddess, an old and wise Wizard, and an Ancient Tortoise who oversees everything. There are several wooden bridges that allow you to easily cross the flowing streams coming down the west hill. It was in one of these frozen streams I met my first Ice Sprite! I often sit beside these cascading cold mountain brooks feeling completely held by the Forest while the river down below carries all my mental projections away leaving me in pure and serene presence.
Newly orphaned (not to panic, I am 52!) this prompt made me realize there isn't a place, but many past places and places yet to come. I grew up just south of Santa Barbara, CA on an acre with neighborhood creeks to explore, mountain trails to hike and the beach every day in the summer. Shifted to north of Santa Barbara for boarding school in high school where there were acres and acres of open land with beautiful oak trees. Horseback riding in this area is a treasured memory. Moving further north to the central coast of California for college and eventually SF Bay Area for 14 years, I feel lucky to have lived in most of the state. We have spent time in the Sierras, the Central Valley, the Redwood Forest, and the most beautiful wine country. All of these places were home to me and my place.
Now we live in the Atlanta metro area. We were drawn here by relatives and cheaper housing. We've been here for 15 years. The kids are almost through their schooling and we are planning retirement in the next 5-10 years. When we think about where to live next, if we were to move, there are so many places that are possibilities. However, the last 15 years, while an adjustment, this place feels like home.
This place, a suburban one acre lot, with a large track of unbuildable land to the north where our backyard faces. I hear barred owls almost every night. We have a pack of coyotes, a heron, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, weasel, opossum, rat snakes, king snakes, and so many blue birds that I can see just from my back deck. My back deck is my power spot. It's where I go to sit in the sun, sit in the shade, view the goings on in the woods and creek behind me. It is also where two great beech trees are, as well as a bunch of other hardwoods (need to learn their names). I love this place.
The future place is unknown, but several areas come to mind. The mountains of North Carolina, Maine, Arizona (in the winter), Wyoming near the Tetons, Vancouver Island, Washington, and places not yet explored. For now, it'll be here, where I am now.
My place is a family home in the NC Coastal Plains that my grandparents built in 1959. The Bluffs was platted out in the 1920’s and I’ve heard it was once a plantation.
Three blocks south is Bogue Sound and across the sound is a narrow developed beach island fifteen miles long. The Atlantic Ocean is beyond. We are at the southern tip of the Outer Banks and our beach runs east/west instead of north/south like others I’ve known. It allows us to watch both the sun rise and set over the ocean. We are on the direct path of the Atlantic Flyway for bird migration, which is one of the things I love most about our place.
Keystone native trees: Sweetgum, Red Maple, Pignut Hickory, Loblolly Pines and a variety of Oaks, provide shelter and food for a variety of songbirds. Ornamental camellias bloom in red, pink and white in the winter, dozens of old azaleas add color in the spring, mophead hydrangeas in early summer. I call them legacy plants because my grandparents loved them so. In the past two years I’ve been studying the land, reducing lawn, planting native perrenials, adding more trees and allowing some areas to rewild naturally with Eastern Red Cedars, Little Bluestem grasses and more. It is the most enjoyable experience to walk around listening to birds while looking at what is popping up on its own and to watch dozens of pollinator species buzzing about in spring, summer and fall.
Beyond the immediate yard facing east, we have a field we keep closely cropped. When I was young it was thick with pines and hardwoods that storms and pine beetles took out over the years. We had fireflies. Today, because a deep water creek ends at our property and our storm drain ditch empties in to it, we enjoy sweeping views of water and wading birds feeding and interacting where our land is low and along the waters edge. Baccharis, Myrtles, dewberry, goldenrod, asters, reeds, rushes and sedges grow. Today we watched flocks of Canada geese and Ibis feeding in the field, Great Blue Herons and Egrets stalking along the ditch.
Even though I was born here and visited my entire life, settling and growing old here was never on my radar. Only when mom passed away in 2020 and left it to me and my sister did I realize, if we let it go we’d be saying goodbye forever, not only to the only home growing up that had been as constant in our lives as the North Star, but to the county my mother’s family lived in since the 1700’s. Neither of us were ready for that.
It’s not perfect, it’s not a dream home. There’s imminent threat of more habitat loss by developers that will likely be a blow to my birds because they fly over, in and out of there all the time. I hope, pray and yearn constantly for divine intervention. Then there’s the night light pollution from our newest neighbor’s house spotlights and dock party lights. I’m so thankful I now know better, but if only they knew better, well that would be a beautiful thing indeed!
Until then, I will focus on and dearly love all of nature’s gifts that bring me joy here day and night. There is plenty of it.
Thank you for sharing this post again. I appreciated our Journey in Place time last year. Revealing and grounding in so many ways.
So glad, Lisa. I am revisiting it daily now that I'm working on the book. Such amazing material came out of that course. xo
I'm just setting out on this Journey in Place. but I feel like I have been watching for the gateway since I started on substack in March. I may or may not catch up in real time, but wish each of you safe travels.
I have lived in the same house for 45 years in Pasadena, California and grew up within 15 miles of here. I have explored a lot of California and the west, mostly with family, sometimes alone. For this journey I am focused on home and the surrounding foothills and valley. Although much is developed, there is still an enormous National Forest across the San Gabriel Mountains. Pasadena has beautiful trees, especially those protected in the LA County Arboretum and Huntington Botanical Gardens. I also have several other places in the West where I still visit to marvel and hold dear--Owen's Valley and Eastern Sierra, Zion Canyon-ZNP, Grand Canyon NP, Central Coast of California, Anza/Borrego Springs, Tuoloumne Meadows-and back country-YNP
Ah, I signed up before Trackless Wild launched this year and today was my first day I could begin. I'm working on my inside voice not chastising myself for being late, etc.
I live in the mid-Hudson Valley of New York (closer to Albany, the state capital). Moved to a fairly rural area 24 years ago after having lived in NYC for 2 years and wanting to fulfill a dream for my husband. He grew up in NYC and wanted to see the stars at night. So, without any jobs and when you could purchase a home on your credit score, we purchased a small house.
At that time, my dreams was to learn about the 17 wooded acres we take care of. (Most people would say we own them. I choose to say we tend to them.) It was always my plan to learn about the woods and Hudson River (which I can walk to). Well, it didn't happen and I'm still struggling to do so decades later.
Baby Girl, a pandemic adopted dog, brought me outside in March 2020. She needed (and still does) a lot of walking. It turns out so do I. I deeply cherish my 4 times daily walks with her. It's because of her I better know the seasons, the plants, the animals and, of course, a few neighbors.
My Power Spot is now a stone in the yard which offers me a view into the woods. It's a 180 degree view of trees, a hill, and a handful of plants. I choice it because it chose me about 24 years ago. Well, the original spot and this current Power Spot are physically close enough ;).
My plan is to be on track with you all by the end of the month.
I'm just getting started on this journey, but I wanted to put this here so I can walk with all of you when I catch up.
I've carried this unsettledness all of my life--hoping, planning, expecting to call a more natural, rural place home-- and instead bouncing around the city (Atlanta, GA) and rarely grounding because I didn't want to be there. However, it's important and possible to feel like a part of your place even if it's temporary. For a few years, I grew to love my urban neighborhood when I took long runs from my front door and around the park and explored a 2-mile radius block by block. I learned which front yards sprang flowers in the spring and summer months, which lanes glowed loudest with fall foliage, and which hills allowed the best views of sunrises and sunsets. I became enamored with the zoo sounds down the street-- the lion's haunting roar, the lemurs' ruckus. We were transplants, all of us, so it was pointless to resist feeling home.
But I had to move again to new neighborhoods, rediscover the trees and creeks and yards of new places. I learned how the sunlight fell in my yard, reclaimed landscapes and planted natives, only to uproot myself again and again. I began driving to the NC mountains almost every weekend, hiking and camping and boating, and then feeling my heart sink as I drove back into the haze of the city for work.
Last May, I took a leap and moved to the foothills of the N. GA mountains. The landscapes here are breathtaking. I'm in love with the evening mist that rises over the creeks and farms, and with the slanty morning light in the gnarled bare tree branches this winter. The rush of the wide creek on the back of my property, the darkness finally deep enough to show the stars. I'm closer, still not where I want to be--but I need to feel and understand this place, and even if it's temporary, for my heart to feel at home.
I appreciated your sharing these words and can so identify. I am glad you are now closer to your dream and proud of you for honoring your soul need.
I’m posting this late, because I have too many irons in the fire, as always, and because I think for a long time before I put words down. I posted this today on my new (sort of) blog:
The Four Acre Wood is the land I live on in the middle of a subdivision, a bit north and west of Atlanta, Georgia. When this development was established, around forty years ago, some of the early residents bought up several lots at a time, meaning that many houses sit on three or four or five acres instead of the postage stamp lots so horribly common in newer construction. It’s one of the best things about the neighborhood: there is still space, and, in that space, things can live and grow.
My daily life unfolds on close to five acres. A section of that is cleared for the necessary things, like the house itself, and the driveway, and a pen for the dogs to run in. But, beyond that, about four acres remain wooded, not with old growth, by any means, but with a respectable mix of pines and hardwoods.
I wander my wood with a mixture of feelings. I feel grateful for its existence and its proximity. I feel saddened that it has been whittled down to a fragment of wildness, and, at the same time, I feel awe that wildness manages to persist despite this fragmentation.
I feel responsible for allowing its continued existence.
The name of this place is a nod to A.A. Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood. The Hundred Acre Wood is, of course, the eternal playground of Christopher Robin and his animal friends in the Winnie the Pooh stories. It is a sort of sanctuary of childhood, innocence, and connection with the natural world. Despite the fact that it is a large wood, perhaps even really a forest, it is never frightening the way forests can be in so many children’s tales. It is benign and welcoming even in its infinitude. Or, perhaps, because of it.
My wood is not infinite. Subdivisions, by their very nature, by their very name, exist to divide. They succeed breathtakingly in this task, splitting the land, fragmenting the habitats of plants and animals, and cutting their residents off from each other and the natural order of things. My wood, existing where it does, is a marvel, but it is also a sad echo of what used to be. It is a sanctuary for wildness, not least my own, but it is also a reminder of the loss inherent in becoming small.
I am trying to be the voice of my wood. I am trying to champion the life that persists even in this dissected landscape we humans have created. I am trying to tell the story of this place I live in, so that all its tragic beauty will not exist in vain. We will only save what we love. We will only learn to love what we first learn to see.
Jody McCracken
Freedom Church Rd., Royston, GA
This small farm on the southeast edge of Hart County in the northeast corner of Georgia, took ownership of me in October, 2014. Whether synchronistic or serendipitous I can't be sure, but after a year of driving hundreds of miles and rejecting property after property, I heard an audible click, click, click as the pieces fell into place to land my husband and I here. A substitute realtor with a wealth of local knowledge, an unexpected job assignment for Joe and a contract on a house we had been trying to sell made for an easy decision. Six weeks later we moved in. There are enough acres here to include dense wild woods on three sides and sufficient pastureland for a small herd of cows. The house sits on the highest point of the property and functions like a sundial. The first hint of dawn peeks in our bedroom window. The growing sunlight warms our front porch for the rest of the morning. By afternoon, beams of light making the dust shine like glitter stream into a south facing bedroom. At days end, the sun drops out of sight and leaves a sprawling pink glow over our back porch and kitchen. Some days this house is my power spot.
This is the first place that either my husband or I have lived without connection to family or friends or history of any kind. I feel more alone here than ever before in my life, but something about the physical place holds me. It's the house or the land or the wildlife or the cows. It's the now predictable and familiar movement of approaching weather and stars in the sky. I like living face to face with the forces of nature.There are days when it's overwhelming, but most days it's comforting and reassuring. I walk out my back door, slip through a small green gate and head west down a hill that is divided into two small pastures. A black cow who has lived her whole life on this farm looks up from her meditative cud chewing to take note of my passing. The landscape is marked by terraces created by some other farmer long before us. Dark gray lichen and moss covered rocks of every size and shape are part of the terrain. There are naturally occurring rock clusters, but there are also rows and stacks of rocks that had to have been hand carried by humans and drug by strong animals. I'm fully aware that this smooth grassy pasture I stroll through is a result of collective generations of hard work.
My outdoor "power spot" is on this slope. A beech tree grows on the pasture side of the fence. I call her Queen Beech. She is probably thirty feet tall, and she leans hard to the northwest in an effort to find sun, but also because there is a rock.The part of the rock that I can see above the ground is about five feet square, and I'm sure there is more. Queen's roots grow over, under and all around the rock. I suspect that this rock is why a young beech seedling was never mowed down or plowed over. The rock may have protected her initially, but it presents a real challenge as she grows. Something of that dynamic resonates with me. I sit on the rock and lean against Queen's smooth, mottled gray trunk. There are days when we sit in silence, but some days we talk.The woods close in at this low end of the pasture. Through the fence and down one more slope is the creek that marks the western edge of the property. I can't see it and I'm not sure that it has a name, but today I hear it's babbling flow. I also hear the squawks and caws and whistling of birds, the chatter and rattle of squirrels, the warning blow of a deer and the wind blowing through dry brown leaves. I don't hear any sounds of human activity. On days when I do they are buffered and comfortably distant. In this spot I do not feel alone.
As I considered my power place, the place I would turn my attention to for this course, I kept coming back to the walking path I follow most days, particularly the stretch that passes the empty field and winds back into what’s left of a little patch of woods that backs up to a subdivision — or rather, that the houses in the subdivision back up to. The field and the trees were here first. Yet, in recent months, backhoes and bulldozers have come in, ripping out wide swaths of these beloved trees, shredding bushes, grasses, wildflowers, leaving mulch, broken branches, and trash in their wake. I think of the gleaming spider’s web I saw reflecting in the early morning sun like a silver mirror, gone the next day, along with the stand of trees from which it hung over the trickling creek. I remember the doe I came upon as I rounded the bend in the path last spring, startling both of us as we stood there looking into each other’s eyes, a moment that lasted seconds but dipped into another timeline where we were frozen — I felt so connected it was as if I could feel her heartbeat. Then the spell was broken and she darted into a thicket of trees, full of spring leaves. Where has the doe and her family gone? The groundhog who lived in the great mound of earth, reclaimed by mother earth, sprouting with (now dead) grasses and sprigs of saplings? The baby rabbits I saw along the edges on summer mornings? Maybe they are hibernating, burrowed deep below the tall brittle grasses sticking out of the thick Tennessee snow, rustling in the winter breeze.
The development has been at a standstill for a while, plots readied for new homes in the clearing. The red bench I sat on many a morning before the devastation began remains. Yellow straw blankets the torn earth, a meager gesture toward healing this traumatized place, the ruins. That bench was the hub, the pew among my wild church, where I sat many a morning, in communion with the trees, the birds, the chattering squirrels. I long to go back.
Current Place: It is a long-time highly disturbed longleaf forest in the Sandhills of North Carolina. Once called Vineland, Southern Pines 535 ft. above sea level) has a rich history of wealthy northeasterners coming here to vacation in once-remembered resorts, as well as take respite from the industrial smog of the north. In 1884 John T. Patrick bought 675 acres here for $1,265 and started the town. The U.S. dollar has lost 97% of its value since 1884. In today’s prices a $1.00 in 1884 is worth $31.03. Therefore, Mr. Patrick would have bought 675 acres today for $39,594.50. What a steal!
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I am walking distance to Weymouth Woods Sandhills Nature Preserve established in 1963 as a gift from Katherine Boyd, to whom my landlord’s mom was friends with and with whom Mrs. Prince sang in the choir.
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My apartment was once a master bedroom suite added on in 1972 to a house that was built in the 1940’s. A kitchen was added. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived on my own. My bedroom has two adjacent dark wood framed windows that have southern exposure. I rescued a snake plant recently and it is happy to have the light. The sun at three o’clock this time of year soothes me and I make an effort every afternoon to lounge in its filtered light as it radiates on the all cotton faux quilted blanket on my bed.
...
I listen for a Carolina Wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus) every morning, like Cinderella's queue to get out of bed and time to start another day. My place is here in the Sandhills of Moore County, North Carolina, where prescribed fire is regular and part of my work. My watershed flows into the Great Pee Dee River basin and joins the ocean at Winyah Bay around Georgetown, South Carolina.
Childhood Place Lived up to age 14: Manchester, New Hampshire (200 ft above sea level)
Favorite Lived Place: Woodland Park, Colorado (9,500 ft above sea level)
Lucky, lucky you. Lucky Sandhills to have you.
As soon as I started contemplating the place I belong to, I was deluged with memories of places special to me over the years. Of course, this spot we now inhabit is current and treasured. We moved here from the city and bought the property without seeing the inside of the house because we fell in love with it as soon as we set eyes on it. The structures were insignificant but the land most definitely was not. When a deer strolled through as we sat here gazing, we considered it an invitation and we accepted. A small cabin sat facing East toward Black mountain in a beautiful valley overlooked by Albert's Mountain, along the Appalachian Trail to the South along with a sight line to Pickens Nose. Jones Creek once referred to as James Creek runs through the valley. We sit between Jones Creek and Timber Ridge Road. In the old days, Timber Ridge was called Lee Creek because it converges with Jones (or James) Creek nearby. We've enjoyed picnics and camping trips at this convergence. As a novice, I started out with the idea of clearing the land but thankfully learned quickly. I spent the first few summers gathering large rocks and building what I called a Circle Garden where I intended to mimic a medicine wheel. One of the most memorable encounters I had was with what I believe is a red shouldered (or red tailed) hawk who had a nest high in a poplar tree overlooking where I was clearing the land and marking the circle. I am convinced that hawk and her offspring know me in their own particular way. Hearing the hawk's cry as well as the Barred Owl who I've had three up close encounters with over the years give me a sense of connection difficult to verbalize. After many attempts to tame that area, I have learned to watch and learn what seems to want to grow there and appeals to me and nurture those plants in whatever way they want to grow.
When I first moved here, I decided I wanted to grow At Risk medicinal plants like golden seal, ginseng, and others on the Native Plant Saver's list. At first I didn't think I'd had any luck and abandoned the project but recently discovered golden seal growing and multiplying!
Our property is a misshapen triangle with the point where Timber Ridge road branches off of Jones Creek Road and the large angle along what our neighbor referred to as a branch that runs down from the forest above us. Our devotion to this land has kept us here for 25 years. I planted a white oak on my 50th birthday and can scarcely believe its nearly 20 years old. I have to shake myself when I think of it. I feel as though I've been having a conversation with it without noticing that I was doing so. As my days grow shorter, it becomes more dear. I hike one of the three main trails accessible from our back door almost every day. Each one has its own personality and presence. After reading Sharon Blackie's book and another called Rooted by Lynda Lynn Haupt, where they recommend finding one special spot where you can sit and simply observe...I've decided our back porch is that spot for me.
Another gift from this land was the spring in 2004 when a female Monarch butterfly landed on some milkweed that had barely broken dormancy. From that experience, I've planted plenty of milkweed. Seeing the monarchs visit is always a thrill. I could go on and on but I'm going to stop here. I appreciate this exercise as its activated things I've not thought about for awhile.
"at risk" medicinal plants sings to my heart
This is beautiful, Kathy. I'm glad you found your place--and planted a white oak there!
I'm quite late to the party (and believe me, I never thought that was fashionable) but what a rich feast of people's and the places of their hearts. Thank you for all who are here loving their place. I am happy to be in your midst.
Or in our "mists" as the spray from our waterfalls of words fall into the comment boxes.
You are not late at all. The party is just getting going. Not even rocking yet! We're so glad you're here, Joy.
My place growing up, and I reckon now, since I’m moving back home, is Southside Virginia, more specifically Blackstone, Virginia and more specifically still, the woods and the farms around the house that Daddy built for us. I grew up there building forts, fishing, riding horses (some of which were mine, others I “borrowed” from folks who didn’t seem to be riding them much), climbing trees, playing hide and go seek in the barn, going exploring, having adventures, sledding, every sort of thing that a child could do outside. I did not hunt although Daddy made sure we knew how to fire a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. He hunted birds, as they were called, quail. In the fall, he and his best buddy Marshall would go up to the mountains and go grouse hunting. Quail were so plentiful then, he or Granddaddy could step out into the old cornfield behind the house on the old Matson property and come back in half an hour with enough birds for dinner. Sometimes we had them for breakfast with grits and some kind of gravy Mama made from the birds.
We had four distinct seasons, although even then Daddy told me how much warmer the winters were compared to when he was growing up. He grew up one county to the west of us, and back then every winter the pond froze over enough to cut big chunks of ice to put in the icehouse which kept the food chilled all summer long. Even in the 60s, that degree and consistency of cold had gone.
Blackstone was right on what’s called the fall line where the piedmont drops down to the Tidewater region of Virginia. So just west of us were hills and east the land got flat and that’s where you can find peanuts and plantations. What was important to us kids about the fall line, at least once we got our driver’s license, was Nottoway Falls, where you could slide down a slick section of the river, over the waterfall, and into a pool that, of course, the legend was, no one had ever since the bottom.
Southside Virginia had for time out of mind been tobacco country. Life revolved around the cycles of tobacco. In many towns when the tobacco market opened, there was a parade, a tobacco queen, and a good crop enabled farmers could pay off their debts. Both my parents grew up on tobacco farms and my father was a tobacco grader. Growing tobacco was both hard work, very labor intensive, and an art form. Farmers took pride in it.
But when Earl Butz, the Secretary of Agriculture under Nixon, decided that American farmers were going to have to start competing with farmers around the world—he told them they had to “get big or get out”—and price supports went away, so did the small farmer. And the world that tobacco had created went away. The main streets withered and the small farms folded. Even the farms that tried to get big still had to get out.
So fields and pastures reverted to woods. Timber replaced tobacco. And those woods started filling up with an animal that had not been seen in Southside Virginia for years, the bear. Now they’re everywhere—in the trash, crashing through store windows on Main Street. The quail has gone away too. They liked the mix of woods, pastures, and fields of corn and wheat.
I think twice about venturing out in the woods now. I’m not a fan of what globalism did to small farms and towns, and I am even less fond of bears.
My place growing up, and I reckon now, since I’m moving back home, is Southside Virginia, more specifically Blackstone, Virginia and more specifically still, the woods and the farms around the house that Daddy built for us. I grew up there building forts, fishing, riding horses (some of which were mine, others I “borrowed” from folks who didn’t seem to be riding them much), climbing trees, playing hide and go seek in the barn, going exploring, having adventures, sledding, every sort of thing that a child could do outside. I did not hunt although Daddy made sure we knew how to fire a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. He hunted birds, as they were called, quail. In the fall, he and his best buddy Marshall would go up to the mountains and go grouse hunting. Quail were so plentiful then, he or Granddaddy could step out into the old cornfield behind the house on the old Matson property and come back in half an hour with enough birds for dinner. Sometimes we had them for breakfast with grits and some kind of gravy Mama made from the birds.
We had four distinct seasons, although even then Daddy told me how much warmer the winters were compared to when he was growing up. He grew up one county to the west of us, and back then every winter the pond froze over enough to cut big chunks of ice to put in the icehouse which kept the food chilled all summer long. Even in the 60s, that degree and consistency of cold had gone.
Blackstone was right on what’s called the fall line where the piedmont drops down to the Tidewater region of Virginia. So just west of us were hills and east the land got flat and that’s where you can find peanuts and plantations. What was important to us kids about the fall line, at least once we got our driver’s license, was Nottoway Falls, where you could slide down a slick section of the river, over the waterfall, and into a pool that, of course, the legend was, no one had ever since the bottom.
Southside Virginia had for time out of mind been tobacco country. Life revolved around the cycles of tobacco. In many towns when the tobacco market opened, there was a parade, a tobacco queen, and a good crop enabled farmers could pay off their debts. Both my parents grew up on tobacco farms and my father was a tobacco grader. Growing tobacco was both hard work, very labor intensive, and an art form. Farmers took pride in it.
But when Earl Butz, the Secretary of Agriculture under Nixon, decided that American farmers were going to have to start competing with farmers around the world—he told them they had to “get big or get out”—and price supports went away, so did the small farmer. And the world that tobacco had created went away. The main streets withered and the small farms folded. Even the farms that tried to get big still had to get out.
So fields and pastures reverted to woods. Timber replaced tobacco. And those woods started filling up with an animal that had not been seen in Southside Virginia for years, the bear. Now they’re everywhere—in the trash, crashing through store windows on Main Street. The quail has gone away too. They liked the mix of woods, pastures, and fields of corn and wheat.
I think twice about venturing out in the woods now. I’m not a fan of what globalism did to small farms and towns, and I am even less fond of bears.
The place that cradles me is north central Florida. I'm straddled by Paynes Prairie Preserve to the east and San Felasco Hammock to the west. A short stretch beyond that lies the highest concentration of freshwater springs on the planet. The springs are sapphire gems that spew out millions of gallons of water daily from the Floridan aquifer, gracing the nearby rivers and humans with hydration.
My body is shaped by the land on which I reside. I have tasted the clear water from a cypress dome. My eye is trained to scan for gators disguised as logs. Gliding my feet through flatwoods flooded by a nearby blackwater stream, my frayed nerves cool down. I look to the blooming blazing star, goldenrod, and the returning sandhill cranes as indicators of a seasonal shift that promises cooler temperatures.
Still, there are busy roads, rampant development, and swaths of newcomers to the area.
I’ve traversed the entire state on foot via the Florida Trail and I observed how the natural flow of water across the landscape has been disrupted. I grew up in Jupiter in Palm Beach county, east of Lake Okeechobee, which is supposed to be the northern Everglades. The channelization of the Kissimmee river and the built levees encircling the massive Lake O have halted the historic flow of water to the Everglades in favor of sugar cane crops, cattle, and human habitation. When I was a child I learned that there were about 35 Florida panthers in the wild. I watched sea turtles lay eggs on the beach under a full moon while bioluminescent sand glowed on the shore. I ate fresh stone crab claws from the intracoastal and yellowtail snapper that my family caught. I saw dunes flattened by high rises and pinelands bulldozed.
North central Florida delights me with a vastly different landscape imperiled by the same threats. I feel called to remain rooted here. My place depends on me knowing it more intimately so that I may share that love with others, and so that we all may protect it together.
Florida was heaven. And what a great thing that you hiked the entire Florida Trail. Good on you.
I felt a bit lost honestly as I ventured out on foot to sit in my “power spot”. There is an old apple tree that stands out back on the eastern hill that overlooks the many barns and old farmhouse. There, sitting perfectly underneath the sprawled out branches is a giant boulder enticing one to sit and meditate. It is from this carved out viewing spot I would stare at the wildflower fields, rolling hills, and to the south, the beautiful white mountains of northern New Hampshire. On a summer's day you can hear the crickets, bees, grasshoppers, and butterflies as they joyfully pollinated and participated in the union of life. A rock toss down to the north is a small frog and snake pond. I had a profound chat with a snake one afternoon as s/he took a soothing and cooling swim. It’s a marvelous “sit spot”, however, now the trees have been milled and the wildflowers mowed and it doesn’t have the secluded and secret mystery it once did that enticed me. I love hidden nooks and throughout my life have often gravitated towards them. To step back from the moving world and witness from a distance the miraculous beauty delights my awareness.
Across the street and bridge along the Gale river is what I call, The River Trail. I’ve been drawn to it since my first hike there in 2019. The year my family moved to New England from Michigan. No one would know the magic it holds by driving or walking by. One must enter in order to be surprised, as within its embrace are enchantments far exceeding the limitations of our human mind. This trail weaves with the river and is enclosed by the Forest. The path is a simple and humble footpath, not wide or manicured by man’s hands or machinery. I like that very much. It’s wild and raw. Each day there is a natural surprise that wasn’t there the day before. I’ve nearly walked this path daily for 4 ½ years. It was within the River Trail’s otherworldly portal I birthed Mushroom Medicine Oracle deck set, a seven year conception. On this path I am greeted by the friendly Birch Hare, the whirling Goddess, an old and wise Wizard, and an Ancient Tortoise who oversees everything. There are several wooden bridges that allow you to easily cross the flowing streams coming down the west hill. It was in one of these frozen streams I met my first Ice Sprite! I often sit beside these cascading cold mountain brooks feeling completely held by the Forest while the river down below carries all my mental projections away leaving me in pure and serene presence.
The Place(s) that Own Me and My Power Spot
Newly orphaned (not to panic, I am 52!) this prompt made me realize there isn't a place, but many past places and places yet to come. I grew up just south of Santa Barbara, CA on an acre with neighborhood creeks to explore, mountain trails to hike and the beach every day in the summer. Shifted to north of Santa Barbara for boarding school in high school where there were acres and acres of open land with beautiful oak trees. Horseback riding in this area is a treasured memory. Moving further north to the central coast of California for college and eventually SF Bay Area for 14 years, I feel lucky to have lived in most of the state. We have spent time in the Sierras, the Central Valley, the Redwood Forest, and the most beautiful wine country. All of these places were home to me and my place.
Now we live in the Atlanta metro area. We were drawn here by relatives and cheaper housing. We've been here for 15 years. The kids are almost through their schooling and we are planning retirement in the next 5-10 years. When we think about where to live next, if we were to move, there are so many places that are possibilities. However, the last 15 years, while an adjustment, this place feels like home.
This place, a suburban one acre lot, with a large track of unbuildable land to the north where our backyard faces. I hear barred owls almost every night. We have a pack of coyotes, a heron, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, weasel, opossum, rat snakes, king snakes, and so many blue birds that I can see just from my back deck. My back deck is my power spot. It's where I go to sit in the sun, sit in the shade, view the goings on in the woods and creek behind me. It is also where two great beech trees are, as well as a bunch of other hardwoods (need to learn their names). I love this place.
The future place is unknown, but several areas come to mind. The mountains of North Carolina, Maine, Arizona (in the winter), Wyoming near the Tetons, Vancouver Island, Washington, and places not yet explored. For now, it'll be here, where I am now.
I went from the Bay area to Santa Barbara and now Portland, OR so our paths have overlapped some. You never know where that path will take you!
Funny! Small world. :) Portland is also a place I could live. We loved the Willamette Valley area when we visited once.
"Feels like home." That is so good. Yay.
My place is a family home in the NC Coastal Plains that my grandparents built in 1959. The Bluffs was platted out in the 1920’s and I’ve heard it was once a plantation.
Three blocks south is Bogue Sound and across the sound is a narrow developed beach island fifteen miles long. The Atlantic Ocean is beyond. We are at the southern tip of the Outer Banks and our beach runs east/west instead of north/south like others I’ve known. It allows us to watch both the sun rise and set over the ocean. We are on the direct path of the Atlantic Flyway for bird migration, which is one of the things I love most about our place.
Keystone native trees: Sweetgum, Red Maple, Pignut Hickory, Loblolly Pines and a variety of Oaks, provide shelter and food for a variety of songbirds. Ornamental camellias bloom in red, pink and white in the winter, dozens of old azaleas add color in the spring, mophead hydrangeas in early summer. I call them legacy plants because my grandparents loved them so. In the past two years I’ve been studying the land, reducing lawn, planting native perrenials, adding more trees and allowing some areas to rewild naturally with Eastern Red Cedars, Little Bluestem grasses and more. It is the most enjoyable experience to walk around listening to birds while looking at what is popping up on its own and to watch dozens of pollinator species buzzing about in spring, summer and fall.
Beyond the immediate yard facing east, we have a field we keep closely cropped. When I was young it was thick with pines and hardwoods that storms and pine beetles took out over the years. We had fireflies. Today, because a deep water creek ends at our property and our storm drain ditch empties in to it, we enjoy sweeping views of water and wading birds feeding and interacting where our land is low and along the waters edge. Baccharis, Myrtles, dewberry, goldenrod, asters, reeds, rushes and sedges grow. Today we watched flocks of Canada geese and Ibis feeding in the field, Great Blue Herons and Egrets stalking along the ditch.
Even though I was born here and visited my entire life, settling and growing old here was never on my radar. Only when mom passed away in 2020 and left it to me and my sister did I realize, if we let it go we’d be saying goodbye forever, not only to the only home growing up that had been as constant in our lives as the North Star, but to the county my mother’s family lived in since the 1700’s. Neither of us were ready for that.
It’s not perfect, it’s not a dream home. There’s imminent threat of more habitat loss by developers that will likely be a blow to my birds because they fly over, in and out of there all the time. I hope, pray and yearn constantly for divine intervention. Then there’s the night light pollution from our newest neighbor’s house spotlights and dock party lights. I’m so thankful I now know better, but if only they knew better, well that would be a beautiful thing indeed!
Until then, I will focus on and dearly love all of nature’s gifts that bring me joy here day and night. There is plenty of it.
Yes to divine intervention.