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August 18, 2006 �A SENSE OF PLACE� Part I I can�t remember a time in my life when I did not envy people who were born, grew up, and had their roots in a small town or community. I was destined to be a �big city gal�. Wishing I could live in a close-knit small community with history, I find myself living on the outskirts of Los Angeles (only the largest geographical city in the U.S.) In fact, my ultimate dream has always been to live in a mountain community, surrounded by forest, seasons, and (elegant) log cabins. My community barely escapes the great Mohave Desert, and prefers earthen tones on its stucco homes to log cabins. But in spite of all this, I have been transplanted here long enough to develop a �sense of place�. This is something to treasure and preserve. I recently ran across this excerpt from an essay, which I have been saving to share with you. It is rich with truth. As you read, I think it will stir a familiar hunger in your heart�hopefully one that is satisfied.
The little house I live in has become �a place." I awoke one morning; lying on my back I slowly looked around the room. I thought, �This is not a house. It is a Time Capsule.� It was once framed as a house, but now it frames a family�s history. I wondered if the architect who designed it�along with many others� realized what he truly was designing. A hospice for the moments, days, and years of human life which would be lived out within its walls. When you have lived in a home for almost thirty years, it has more than a �sense� of place. It IS a place. A place where life has started �births. And life has ended�death. A place where kids have spent hot summers splashing in a pool. And that same pool was the later backdrop for a wedding reception for one of those kids. A place where there has been a succession of dogs, cats, and other varmints. It has sheltered many lives for short or extended periods of time. Jobs have been won, and jobs have been lost. Financial crises have occurred and then blessings abounded. It is truly a shelter where the better or worse, in sickness or in health�has been lived out. Memories� of graduations - high school, college, special academies; grown children moving in then moving out again; dinners, holidays, birthdays, �joys and tears; surrounding brush fires driven by hurricane force wind; catastrophic earthquakes; dark times and bright times; loneliness and a full house. Yes, if these walls could talk. But that is the good thing about a �family time-capsule�. It knows when to keep silent. And it protects personal history. But the sad thing is that, because this is true, that history can eventually be lost and forgotten. Maybe someday technology will be advanced to the point that these history containers can be read like a book. And maybe that would not be a very good idea. Because our personal lives are just that. Personal. My empty house has become full again. That�s the way I like it. Daughter and family have largely moved in before taking a break to vacation in Estes Park, CO. They are returning tonight. It will be a while before all is sorted and settled, but in the meantime, another phase of family history has begun. Yes, I think this �place� meets the criteria. �So I must believe that, at least to human perception, a place is not a place until people have been born in it, have grown up in it, lived in it, known it, died in it�have both experienced and shaped it�� �Happiness is our psychological report card.� Email me to leave me comments
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