A sense of place

Tucked in a corner of a shallow closet for two years now is a metal file box. I’ve always known it to be there, despite it being hidden by a stuffed bag of unwanted items for the Goodwill. Opening the closet door was like cuing a flashback when several rosaries, a wooden cross, a small statue of the Virgin Mary, and a burgundy wallet were put into the box upon my mother’s death, keeping them held tight like a tomb.

I thought of the box, its contents, and how they came to be in that particular place . . . and in my closet. It appeared, at the time, to be a matter of convenience; I had no other container available. I think about it now, how metaphorical the place is, in a metal file folder box, secure, seemingly to last forever; the items in it had their place.

Our sense of place is not limited to just a location.

A sense of place is about relationship, belonging, and identity.

A sense of place is loaded with emotional bonds. A pendant threaded through a chain that settles in the hollow of a neck, a ring fitting snuggly on a finger, have their physical places within our touch, and their emotive places in our hearts.

Upon a pulling open of the file box’s lid, I awakened a belonging as family, an identity as my mother’s caretaker, and a relationship as her daughter.  

During our awake hours, we shift our thoughts and our actions from one place to another, returning to an earlier self when perhaps picking up a framed family photo, or visiting the site of where it was taken, and during asleep hours when dreams are made. The places we visit are like secrets, as the visitor is the only one who knows where we have gone. But we always return to our present place of home, vocation, community.

A sense of place is where we belong.

Years ago, my husband and I visited Ireland. During a drive on a day of bright sunshine to the Dingle Peninsula, we came across a modest white, single-story building with a black roof. When seeing a nearby roadside sign, we turned off to stop at Mulcahy Pottery. The owner-craftsman, a beefy man with full pink cheeks and a warm voice, welcomed us upon a chime’s jingle when we opened the door. A stroll through his studio, lit by small, hanging halogen lights, brought the heart and soul of Ireland to shine in his work. We left his studio with smiles and yearning for more, and a large box of plates and mugs and candle holders to be shipped home. Quickly, the box had arrived. Color, landscape, and a craftsman was my sense of place in that instant when I peeled open the flaps and unpacked each item. Today, those plates, glazed in greens and blues, remind me of Dingle and once upon a time, far away from home when my younger self wanted to be nowhere else.

And a sense of place identifies us.

My daily walks in the natural world are where I find place. It’s where and how I identify myself as a writer of the simple among the connections of flora and fauna. I return to the naked woods as often as winter weather will allow, to walk under a sky thick like white ash and to connect with a muted landscape in shades of brown and gray like the wood of an ash tree. The walk forces an elusive “remember when,” a summer day dressed in friendship and belonging shining in summer color, of the sun showing herself in the early morning with a backing of blue.

A sense of place is part of our history.

Our footing when traveled to places and when meeting new people is like planting seeds. It’s leaving bits of ourselves, and it’s taking smidgeons of it with us. Seeds of places grow into connections with our past and opens doors for us now. I don’t know if we can ever really say goodbye to any place, as it is always with us.

My mother’s personal items are at their resting place, for now. I will continue to think of them as belonging, the bonds I have formed with them, an identity I have claimed, and where I will go for my sense of place.

THE WISDOM OF THE WILLOW was born from a sense of place. It is my debut novel about four sisters who navigate life changes in finding their places using the wisdom taught to them by their mother under a willow tree. Their footing is questioned when a secret is revealed about their mother, but in the end, they maintain their belonging, identity, relationships, and a sense of place.

This metaphorically rich and reflective tale of the Dowling family is available now for PREORDER.