The place where the sky and water dance.
I find water fascinating especially when there are reflections from the sky on it. There is so much movement at an endless capacity that creates a dance between the two.
The place where pine trees know.
The air is thick with the scent of pine sap,
the sap sticks to the benches and then my legs.
Here is where I met the pines,
and where we learned to understand each other.
The morning air is filled with the sweet sound as it rises towards the pines.
Where a gentle breeze carries it higher than the branches.
And, though the songs may pass through their branches,
the pines know that the song is not for them.
This places has often been described as thin,
the pines know this to be true.
This is the place where I came to know the reality of thinness.
This place under the pines is the place where I found life.
The place where there was strange comfort.
A maiden experience in another country with new people evoked many different emotions. I expected to be confused and lonely most of the time, but walks on her farm with friends and family made me realize we are all very similar, and that there isn’t anything to be afraid of.
The place where I had no control.
A place can be a setting. More than just a particular location, but a moment in time or specific feeling. This place was a strange one. Losing a loved one, but one you didn’t have the time to fully connect with, is sad, confusing, and sometimes not completely understood until time passes by.
The place where stillness is absurd.
The Place Where…
This prompt invites a coming home to my memory
past and future
to the geography I have known and crave.
This memory is precious, it churns.
Recall of place, space, and moments in time
morph, twisting
in response to my
emotional seesaw
then and there
sentimental layers of knowing
then and there
sustained energetic connectivity
then and there
My mind swirls with, in, through places
the connections and memories they hold
…Stillness is absurd.
As a mover and maker, this invitation to move is not contained to one memory
not one place.
Place is within one’s own kinesphere when moving creatively.
Place is beyond one’s own kinesphere as enveloped and bolstered by environment.
Where am I when dancing in my kitchen?
Cramped quarters,
countertop collisions,
and cutting board queries.
Swirling ‘n spinning by the sink,
Twirling tea towels,
Lightly leaping about the linoleum.
Body and Breath bounce around broken cabinets.
(Yet!) I am elsewhere.
Reminiscing of fantastical forests of ferns or salty seaside sands.
Going through my grocery list.
Drawing forth the implacable déjà vu nausea of last night’s dream.
Place is shared time between a person and a space (physical or metaphysical).
Place is the stirring sensation that remains long after.
The Place Where Stillness is Absurd is everywhere, but begins in my body.
It is within the facility of the beholder, mover, breather,
being.
The place where I learned that family vacations make the most memorable bonding experiences.
Summer vacations
Memories stamped on my heart
Happiness anchors.
As a child, I spent three weeks of every summer at Scribner's Hangout. Of all my childhood memories, the memories of my time spent there with my family remain vivid and remind me of the importance of creating the same type of memories with my kids.
The place where the wind speaks the language of solitude.
This place by the creek is where I seek solitude. The gentle peace of running water seeps into my skin like sunlight, its whooshing noise lulling me into a state of contentment with the world.
The place where the sun reaches first.
The place where it rained.
The place where I honored growth.
The place where I forgot about other places.
The place where community matters.
The place where I was reminded of home.
The place where I learned to dance.
I have been visiting here for as long as I can remember. I have early memories of swimming at the farm, of learning how to ski, card games and stopping to get ice cream after hiking for the day. Now, my admiration is different but still rich. I've spent summer months biking, long hours swimming in its falls and many long conversations on hours of runs and walks in its landscape. The hill overlooks the mountain with a seemingly perfect barn with a silo in front of the view. The two together create a “perfect” landscape, one that has been photographed, painted and documented thousands of times. You can't see the barn or the mountain or the silo in my photograph.
When I decided to attend a university I focused on the program, on what I was to learn. My well- being is place based and I felt a strong calling to be back here.
The place where I used to skip rocks.
I remember skipping rocks at the creek, the heat of summer afternoons soaking into our shirts like liquid sunshine, sweat dripping down our backs in rivulets. I remember the hunt for the perfect rock, sorting through the soft jumble of polished limestone, seeking the smoothest, flattest rocks. We used to peruse the creek bed gathering those rocks as smooth and white as eggs shells then flinging them across the water in hopes they would skip and hop along the taught surface, leaving ever-expanding rings like ephemeral lily pads. Dad, ever the engineer, would always stand there and guide us through the exact hand position, the exact arm motion; you need to flick your wrist more and angle your elbow like this. We would have competitions- dad’s rock would inevitably skip 6, 7, 8 times, but my sisters and I’s rocks would almost always fall on the first or second skip, sinking like the minutes that flew by, getting carried away on the water’s current. At some point along the years we were slowly able to skip the rocks farther and farther, needing less and less guidance. And at some point along the way, the exact time I cannot pinpoint, we simply stopped skipping rocks on that creek bed, letting instead the placidity of adulthood carry us away. I wonder if now, if I have forgotten how to skip them.
The place where I felt entranced.
The place where I feel alive.
Its the middle of July and life is sweet here.
The place where the beets will grow.
The place where time stops.
This place is so far north that even in the middle of July, the mornings are 25 degrees. You have to wear wool socks until noon when the sun finally comes out.
There is no one around. The lakes are unnamed.
For twelve days straight, I saw only the people I had chosen to go on this trip with, no new faces, no house, no signs of human footprint.
We usually woke up early, around 6 in the morning. There was no sense in sleeping longer when life began to stir around you.
Breakfast was hot cocoa if we had some left and packets of oatmeal.
We feared opening our mouths for it would ruin the stillness and the silence around us.
