Ecotone: Writing About Place: ComingAndGoing

Some people might want to add any photos connected to this topic to the photographing place page for Journeys at PhotographingPlace/Journeys

[London and the North] Running out of words here... avi's one and two or b/w static old stones]

[TheCassandraPages] Water. Below me, the world has become nothing but water, clear blue stretching to the horizon, where it is met by sky...

[Bowen Island Journal (yes I'm back!)] Coming and going gets more challenging this week, but also demands that we become more mindful of the act of getting to and from the continent and that's never a bad thing.

Think of the Bowen Queen as our annual dharma teacher.

[1]Switched At Birth (Beth W.)For the past seven years, I have been coming and going between the pine woods of Florida and the mountains of western North Carolina, roughly six months in one and six in the other...

If what makes a place worth writing about is our relationship to it, then entering and leaving ought to have a special place in our thoughts. Here are a couple of anecdotes that might be more about the relationship than the place. [Of Going and Coming]-- P.

[Feathers of Hope (Pica)] There is a Hebrew blessing for everything, just about, and there is certainly one for entering and leaving your house...

[Feathers of Hope (Numenius)] Calling tree frogs are ensconsed in cycles.

[Laughing~Knees] Downy feathers of snowflakes are falling like lost children from the sky this evening. It is the first snowfall this year. More than likely it is but a whim and the morning will find the earth as bare and dry as weeks gone by...

[bird on the moon] One of the blessings of my childhood was my mother's trust that I could somehow safely manage to come and go as I please. I did that in great measure...

[Hoarded Ordinaries] I've had the words of Walt Whitman ringing in my head ever since we went to Manhattan this weekend. There's a bus that connects Keene and New York, so we spent a good portion of the weekend wending our way through snow-blanched fields and anonymous brick facades. And although we were on a bus, not a boat, the lines of Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" kept echoing in my mind...

[alembic] Growing up under communist rule, with our every move controlled and documented in booklets filled with the quilt of hieroglyphic stamps, we dreamt of travel the way Odysseus dreamt of going home. Though our borders were closed and we were shipwrecked, the world was still wide open to us in words.