A Sense of Place

Wherever we may roam, from the familiar surroundings of home to the alluring paths of foreign shores, a sense of place always accompanies us. Whether it's a place we occupy at any given moment, or one we long ago left behind, we're mindful of our surroundings and their impact on us. When we find ourselves in an agreeable place, we often exalt in the here and now, enjoying the visual and other sensory impressions. If a locale imperils us, though, we may shudder at its sights and sounds and smells. Sometimes we may experience both at once. 

        In a city, for instance, we often relish the exhilarating sights—the bold buildings and dynamic scale of the place, the ambition, the vitality, the style. The sheer sense of being in a place that pulses with the rhythm of possibility excites us. And yet, a city can also besiege us with its dangers, heightening our survival instincts.

        One October some years ago when my brother Chris was still living in the Bronx, he joined my wife and me, along with our two young sons, on a haunted hayride near our home in the suburbs north of New York City. Masked figures jumped screaming from behind trees, some wielding "bloodied" knives in menacing poses, as our hay wagon passed. "Gee, this is great," Chris said rather wryly, "we don't have anything like this in the Bronx." His irony reminded me that, as a native of the Bronx who had been away from the City for far longer than I had ever lived there, my innate "street smarts" kick in whenever I return. Many others though, are quite at ease in the City, at home in their most familiar place. Whether sitting on the stoop enjoying the vibe of the neighborhood, going about their daily lives, or lazing in a park nearby, the din of the nearby traffic is the soundtrack of the place. For them, autumn in New York with its fall foliage, food carts, ice rinks, street fairs, and festive anticipation of the coming holidays is the place to be. 

        

        My awareness of my surroundings when I'm at home in the suburbs is different, of course, from when I'm in the city. At home, I know no greater serenity than sitting on the grampa bench in our flower garden amid abundant blooms and chittering birds, a new growth woods at my back. By mid-autumn, the  astilbe and coneflowers, the yarrow and salvia, coral bells and bee balm and phlox have all gone dormant, while a host of hardy zinnias, dahlias, and marigolds wave their colors defiantly in the air. Soon what leaves are left will be blazing, a palette of reds and orange and yellow. It's a place where my soul is at peace, even if all is not right with the world beyond.

              Wondrously, even on this late October afternoon the temperature climbs near 80° and a balmy breeze drifts by. I sit and watch tired leaves tumble to the ground while the birds who will winter over fatten on the seed and suet on offer at the feeders. As I walk back to the house, the leaves crunch and swoosh underfoot. It's autumn here, in this place, after all.