Sense of Place

Some thoughts from hiking Trail 2 at Cumberland Falls

Laura

Feb 04, 2024

The prompt

In Exploration 5 of our year-long Journey in Place over on Trackless Wild,

Janisse Ray

asked us to stop reading after the first paragraph and take some time to define sense of place:

I’m not especially known for my compliance, but if someone gives me reason to trust them, there’s actually a decent chance I’ll at least try. I’ve never met Janisse in person, but by the things she writes, I know implicitly that I can trust her.

Thus the topic of my monthly solo essay was born.

So, what do I mean when I say of “sense of place”? I often include it in my bios and descriptions of myself as a writer. I do this because every cell in my body tells me it matters, that it may even be the most important thing.

Part of me wants to say I know it when I see it and let the matter go. I mean, I know Janisse has it. I know Kendra Atleework has it thanks to her memoir I mentioned about a month ago. And from everything I’ve read in her columns, my Grandma Ruth most definitely had it as well.

This, however, does not answer Janisse’s question. And the more I thought about it, the less sure I felt of what my answer would be. However, as I have probably mentioned before, I sometimes overthink things just a tad. The answer isn’t (only) in my head, it’s in all of me and also it’s out in the world.

With that in mind, I decided to try answer with a sort of two-part collage essay inspired by my hike today.

“For me, a ‘sense of place’ means…”

(text version)

…waking up from a restless night with my favorite trail calling my name.

…sitting on a rock, staring at an enormous tree, wondering if Suzanne Simard might see in it a mother tree.

…staying on said rock long enough that a hawk flies so low I can see its markings.

…wishing I had gotten a picture of the hawk.

…realizing that the experience is in no way diminished, is perhaps even enhanced because I did not.

…grasping that humans are only one infinitesimal part of any given place, despite their outsized acts of destruction.

…knowing that tree, this rock will be here long after I, after all of us are gone.

…accepting, however late in life, that these hikes are considerably easier in proper hiking boots than in running shoes.

…preparing a small pack with snacks, extra jacket, first aid kit, Swiss Army knife, and plenty of water.

…filing a “flight plan,” an idea I got from Atleework, especially on a solo hike.

…understanding those last the three things show respect for this place, what it might expect, even demand of me as its guest.

When I first started thinking about this question, I thought maybe we only feel sense of place in places we know, the ones closest to our hearts. For me, these are the Finger Lakes, the south of France (and also Bretagne), this trail, these mountains, the rush of the river running high as it flows by.

I don’t know though. I have felt this same centeredness in other places, places I’ve passed through only briefly—the porch of a retreat center in southern Indiana, the terrace of the café at Paris’s Institut du Monde Arabe. It’s a sense of calm contentment so profound I find it hard to leave, a sense of oneness, a sense, for however long it lasts, of being whole.

I don’t know if or how much these places need me. I just know that I would be less, no make that lost, without them.

Could that be “sense of place”?

After you peruse the photo version, please share your thoughts in the comments below.