Every place I’ve lived has a feel. A sense of place, a personality that one instinctually knows, standing outside under its sky, toes in its dirt.
The high plains feel like iron and sepia dreams. Hard flatness, where human life isn’t meant to flourish, but does out of sheer tenacity. A sense of subtle change under a sun-baked, wind-polished veneer of sameness- the marks of ancient movement and long-past riotous joy etched into it. Small reprieves, glimpses of spontaneous life, bluffs plunging into ancient dry river beds. Cottonwoods older than any humans currently alive, spreading pleading, shaking arms toward buried water, begging, hoping, receiving all the land has to give; just enough to sustain life, but no more. The land feels asleep, encased in hard dust, dreaming of being more than it is even as it forgets what it was. Humans have hurt her, asking more of her than she had to share, and left her naked, but she still hopes, as she waits, that the descendants of those who hurt her will return to heal her.
In the high Rockies, the land feels as majestic as it is indifferent. She tolerates humans, not begrudging them water and shelter, but doesn’t care if they stay or leave, come or go. She flinches slightly at the mining wounds humans leave, but they are merely scratches. She is wild, inconsistent; rough and tender, avalanches and sage meadows, wildfires and shady ferns, answering to no one but herself. A big, strong beauty with blowing, tangled hair, who harbors not an ounce of self-doubt. In the high, desolate mountains, one can be completely, utterly alone, and surviving being so alone and so desolate is not promised. The land does not even notice one more or one less. It is possible to be completely absorbed in her and not even have her notice you.
And now, this Pacific island. It has only been a month, but it has been a month of getting to know her as authentically as I have been able. For the first time, I am meeting a place that breathes and oozes life, and wants me to worship her. Life springs from her, tangles over her, reaches from her to snake around me and pull me down against her as she digs at my skin, sharp rocks gouging, rough vines tearing, asking a sacrifice from me in return for the experience of knowing her, asking hopefully if I will know her as she is, not as I hope her to be. She is a womb, but she isn’t the indulgent kind of mother. She isn’t happy with allowing one to live close to her without truly knowing her. She wants her children to become part of her. She is afraid of being hurt by those to whom she gives everything. She wants me to change for her, and manipulates me by exploiting my doubts and ignorance. I feel myself changing, disappearing into her, and it feels inevitable. I don’t want to fight it.
Some say our perception of a place serves as a mirror of ourselves. I’m pretty sure if we let ourselves, if we stay long enough, we become the place. On a literal level, eating local food, breathing local air, drinking local water makes us an extension of the place we live. We become our surroundings. On a bodily level, the level of the carbon in our bodies, a place becomes our mother, and then we become our mother.