There is ‘a knowing’ from deep within me that affirms my desire to write this story. It’s a gut feeling which prompts me to keep writing, even when it’s hard, especially following the Global Pandemic and its subsequent toll on people’s well-being. My Writing Coach, Megan Macedo, encourages me to keep writing. She doesn’t care if it’s raw and ragged, “I know from past experience that sometimes the best time to write is when it feels like the well is dry. That’s often when you finally can draw the truth.” 

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the significance of place in our lives. Megan, who grew up in N. Ireland during “The Troubles” often talks about “how we are shaped by the immense forces of family and culture. Place is another kind of parent. The places we exist within hold us. They contain us and constrain us. We are in relationship with them whether we think about it or not, and so our work and ideas are in some way born out of these places.” 

As a 50+ year military wife who grew up in one place, with deep roots & close family ties, I’ve invested significant time and energy examining my own feelings of loss of place and the people who indelibly imprinted my DNA. At the end of the day (or decades in my case) I’d lost my innate sense of identity. I’ve asked myself such questions as:

• Who are we when we are removed from the places that formed us?
• How does our experience of ourselves vary across different places?
• How much impact on our work and process is shaped by the place in which it is rooted?

My goal is to make sense of these questions for myself, and by sharing my stories, hopefully shed some light on the role place has played in your own story. One such place for me was the early impact of carefree days shared with my cousins on Grandpa Guy’s farm in East Texas.