Once someone asked me about myself, and I said cheerfully, “Oh, I live in the middle of nowhere.” They laughed; I laughed. But I didn’t really mean it.
Everywhere is somewhere. And sometimes we say the things we expect other people to think, because it’s easier than sharing our hearts.
Sometimes we think our somewhere should be more glamorous. If we live in a city, it’s the picturesque country town. If we live in the country, it’s the bustling (and often more progressive and cultured) city.
But every place has beauty, dignity and worthiness. Every place can touch the hearts of its people.
Too, every place is a compromise. I keep reading these novels about city people who end up in quaint rural towns, fall in love with a local, go to weekend farmer’s markets, start cafes or bookstores or something, etc etc.
Sometimes I think these books overly romanticize living, well, “in the middle of nowhere.” They ignore how clannish and conservative small towns can be, how lacking in diversity and inclusivity, how isolating and limiting in things like health care or, say, Target.
But these stories have a much more resonant touchstone—taking an isolated, unhappy, twisted-up narrator and bringing them into community. Community with a new home, with nature, with a town, with another person.
I think these books represent what most of us basically want: to be loved, to have a network of support, to do something meaningful and heartfelt with our lives, to go outside and breathe fresh air.
Too, these stories bring us back into a relationship with the land in a way that’s often lacking in modern life. These stories don’t use this word, but they remind us that every place is sacred—every patch of ground under our feet can be consecrated.
Lately I have felt like time is unraveling faster than I can keep up (don't we all feel that way in the summer?!), and I am trying to figure out what to commit to my memory. What will be particular about this time, what will evoke my place to me?
the sunflowers legging up, yellow-faced, seeded by birds the mountain ash berries drawing the branches low, red and thick as fists the roses opening, unfurling, dropping, their scent perfuming the air the dyer’s garden, cosmos and bachelor buttons and marigolds the showy splendor of the purple clematis the bees humming and humming, honey bees and native bees, all making, all moving the seedpod of a jewelweed popping at the lightest touch of my fingers the kingbirds and cedar waxwings jostling in the dogwood, the crab apple morning fog soaking the white pines across the river the green, green lushness of this place, the towering trees breathing endlessly into the sky the peace of being in it all
That’s what I will hold with me about my place, here at the end of August. What about you?