A Sense of Place

"Place isn't a setting. Place is an elder in the family. We are not describing landscapes; we are writing biographies." Luis Alberto Urrea

I've been thinking about place a lot lately. I'm getting a degree in emergency management and community resilience, which means I know a lot more about climate change threats (wildfires, toxic smoke, floods, weather weirding) and the Big One than I want to know. There was a time in 2020 when it was dangerous to breathe in the house (COVID) and outside of the house (smoke), I was putting together supplies to prepare for the Cascadia Subduction Zone event, and I could hear explosions from the riots in downtown Portland from my house, four miles away.

I wrote in this space a few years ago about how sometimes I just want to unfurl my magical wings and fly away. I want a different planet.

And because I want a different planet, and I can't have one, I attended a Climate Aware Grief workshop last weekend, hoping for some support and insight. One of the panelists told us to close our eyes and envision a "beloved place of ease." If we could be anywhere, anywhere at all, where would we want to be? And then to open our eyes and take a few minutes to write about it.

This is what I wrote.

"To my surprise, I am sitting in my beloved place of ease. It isn't the beach or Southern Oregon or Italy. It's this office nook, in this kitchen. About this place, I have no complicated feelings of loss or regret or apprehension. 

I lean my elbows on the big butcher block desk. I see my files and books and laptop and tools and ways to communicate, connect, and meditate. The pear tree and my son Robin's little house and garden are visible through the window. To my right are the stairs that lead to reading, rest, sleep, and a view of the western horizon (stars, moon, and sunset).

I smell coffee. I see the Deruta cookie jar and a pile of clementines. I hear my housemate John bumping around downstairs, under my feet. I hear the cat munching his breakfast. I smell incense and see my favorite piece of art in the house, a silkscreen of a silhouetted waterway at dusk, above my desk.

I feel grounded in my entire life here - family, spiritual practice, nature, love, cooking, service and action, creative expression.

This is my beloved place. I don't need to go to a remembered past or envision a future, or go anywhere. I am here now."

So maybe I don't need to fly away. Maybe I don't need a different planet. I can lean into what I have here, now, and continue my work to reduce harm while I'm here. And be grateful.