Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Sense of place
Sense of place
It seems that there are as many definitions for sense of place as there are places. In the absence of a satisfying definition, I’ll struggle to create my own. It
could include the way spring smells just before the ground thaws in Wisconsin. The way a hawk circles high above rabbit tracks that mysteriously disappear in the
snow. An individual’s ability to find their way from the house to the barn on a moonless night without benefit of a flashlight. The feeling of an owl flying over your
left shoulder, in the dead of night, and knowing that it was an owl even though you could not see or hear it. Place seems to be tied to a certain familiarity. And
this intimate knowing is not necessarily limited to one person’s perceptions. It can be larger than that. It can be as if the land is a character in a play with its own
personality and tendencies. Maybe artist communities form in particular places because these places attract artists the way magnets pull in iron shavings.
I am convinced that if a person had all their five senses shut off — with blindfolds, ear plugs, nose plugs and other sensory-deprivation devices — they would
be able to tell if they were in a prison or a place of worship. I am similarly convinced that a person would know if the apparently pleasant pastoral scene they
stood in the middle of was the site of a horrible plane crash that claimed many lives or an acre of land where young lovers had met for one-half century. Places
just feel differently. There’s no other way to say it. Some bring comfort. Others cause distress.
In my unsophisticated observation of how sense of place is most often used, it seems to lean towards rural experiences and connections that assorted people
have with the land. It also seems to me that if land is stripped of human beings there would be no written or oral (in a language that would be understandable to
humans) record of anything that pertains to that particular place. It would be like the Zen koan that asks what is the sound of one hand clapping? It could also be
illustrated by the question: if a tree falls in the middle of a forest and no one is there to hear it, will it make a sound?
It could be that, if improperly understood, sense of place could represent yet another form of division. Separating the owl from the earth from the human
from the worm from the spider from the way the moon lights up the sky on some nights and hides on others from the common knowledge that it’s a bad idea to
stare at the sun. Some believe that good fences make good neighbors. As is the case with most things, there is some validity to this way of thinking. I am not at a
place where I can be, or desire to be, completely open to my neighbors all the time. One of many ironies is that air is oblivious to fences and occupants of both
sides of a fence need to breathe air in order to live. It’s a matter of how we define neighborhoods. By a certain number of blocks clumped together? By a zip
code? A city? A state? A region? A color? An accent? And while we’re figuring out the largeness or smallness of our respective neighborhoods, we all continue
to breathe air. And our bodies, like the planet we share, are composed mostly of water.
Place is also connected to belonging. I often — probably too often — think about the feelings behind the word “project.” Yes. I’m talking primarily about the
housing projects I grew up in. There was a certain temporariness attached to the word. It was as if I was being told that it wouldn’t make much sense to get
attached to the place I lived because they were projects and projects were not intended to last. To my way of thinking, projects of any kind are created to serve a
specific purpose and then they are taken down. And to stretch this line of thinking a little more, something very dangerous happens when temporary becomes
permanent. When temporary housing becomes permanent. When the temporary job becomes permanent. When the temporary living arrangement you have with
a visiting relative becomes permanent. When the temporary inventiveness you employ to get by during a rough time becomes a daily battle for survival. When
the energy that is supposed to be used for propelling you forward is needed every day to keep your head above water. And sense of place can be thought of as
the flow of life that is attached to a particular place. The demands that are made on the people who remain there and the ways that the land or environment
accepts the offerings and gives back sustenance, nourishment and promise.
I’ve tried to cultivate a sense of place in rural places. I’ve been fortunate enough to experience cows’ breath blend with cold, morning, winter air; to feel an
owl pass over my left shoulder as it flew in the direction of another owl’s call far on the other side of a corn field; to feel the flow of my blood quicken as I
witnessed temporary streams, caused by melting snow, rush down ravines that seemed to enjoy being streams for a short time; marveled at the greenness of the
watercress that lived in the tiny stream that never froze even in the middle of a Wisconsin winter; or the color of a visiting oriole that resembled the color of the
richest and brightest orange imaginable. These wonderful and mysterious images were bound together by the stories and memories of the people who knew the
land. And not just them, but their parents and even the parents of their parents. I have arrived at the conclusion that I borrowed their sense of place and
reciprocated by sharing my stories of growing up in New York City. All that was necessary to complete their borrowed sense of place was to live in, breathe in and
open themselves to New York for a time in a manner similar to my attempts to live in, breathe in and open myself to their places for a time.
One universal truth is that the places we have not been are usually quite different than we imagine. No? For those who have not lived in New York City, what
images come to mind when that city is mentioned? I won’t be presumptuous and say what I think those images might be, but I’ll tell you a few of the New York
City pictures I store in my mind that help form my sense of place: earthworms that washed up on the concrete paths after a heavy rain; the whiteness of seagulls
as they swooped in and out of the black shadows under the Williamsburg Bridge; the cooing of millions of gray pigeons; the way the bright blue feathers of a Blue
jay stood out against the grayness of winter and fingers of thousands of leafless trees; the way the East River seemed to flow in different directions on different
days. These might not be the usual sounds, sights and smells associated with New York but they are the prevalent sights, sounds and smells that help to form my
sense of place.
‘Round Midnight is one of my favorite movies. It’s about jazz, jazz musicians, New York City, Paris, relationships and many other ingredients that make up
the stew of life. It can be said that the film is about trying to cultivate a sense of place. It’s been said over and over that Europe savors jazz and even deifies jazz
artists that the United States barely pays any attention to. But my favorite line in one of my favorite movies is uttered by the dying friend of Dale Turner — the
fictitious musician played by the late, great tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon. Dale Turner is talking with his bedridden friend in a dingy, depressing New York
hotel room with ancient, peeling wallpaper and annoying fluorescent lights blinking on and off outside the window. He announces to his friend that he is leaving
New York to go to Paris. His friend is unimpressed and says, “You know what you’re going to find in Paris when you get off the plane, don’t you?” After a long
silence with no answer forthcoming, the friend answers his own question by saying “you.”
Maybe sense of place is ultimately connected to what we carry inside ourselves and the willingness to share experiences — as thoroughly as possible —
until we come to the collective realization that the place we all share is called earth. That my pain does not feel that different from your pain. That my joy is
remarkably attached to yours, and that all the distinctions and divisions we support and perpetuate are as solid as the breath we see on a cold Wisconsin winter
night.
could include the way spring smells just before the ground thaws in Wisconsin. The way a hawk circles high above rabbit tracks that mysteriously disappear in the
snow. An individual’s ability to find their way from the house to the barn on a moonless night without benefit of a flashlight. The feeling of an owl flying over your
left shoulder, in the dead of night, and knowing that it was an owl even though you could not see or hear it. Place seems to be tied to a certain familiarity. And
this intimate knowing is not necessarily limited to one person’s perceptions. It can be larger than that. It can be as if the land is a character in a play with its own
personality and tendencies. Maybe artist communities form in particular places because these places attract artists the way magnets pull in iron shavings.
I am convinced that if a person had all their five senses shut off — with blindfolds, ear plugs, nose plugs and other sensory-deprivation devices — they would
be able to tell if they were in a prison or a place of worship. I am similarly convinced that a person would know if the apparently pleasant pastoral scene they
stood in the middle of was the site of a horrible plane crash that claimed many lives or an acre of land where young lovers had met for one-half century. Places
just feel differently. There’s no other way to say it. Some bring comfort. Others cause distress.
In my unsophisticated observation of how sense of place is most often used, it seems to lean towards rural experiences and connections that assorted people
have with the land. It also seems to me that if land is stripped of human beings there would be no written or oral (in a language that would be understandable to
humans) record of anything that pertains to that particular place. It would be like the Zen koan that asks what is the sound of one hand clapping? It could also be
illustrated by the question: if a tree falls in the middle of a forest and no one is there to hear it, will it make a sound?
It could be that, if improperly understood, sense of place could represent yet another form of division. Separating the owl from the earth from the human
from the worm from the spider from the way the moon lights up the sky on some nights and hides on others from the common knowledge that it’s a bad idea to
stare at the sun. Some believe that good fences make good neighbors. As is the case with most things, there is some validity to this way of thinking. I am not at a
place where I can be, or desire to be, completely open to my neighbors all the time. One of many ironies is that air is oblivious to fences and occupants of both
sides of a fence need to breathe air in order to live. It’s a matter of how we define neighborhoods. By a certain number of blocks clumped together? By a zip
code? A city? A state? A region? A color? An accent? And while we’re figuring out the largeness or smallness of our respective neighborhoods, we all continue
to breathe air. And our bodies, like the planet we share, are composed mostly of water.
Place is also connected to belonging. I often — probably too often — think about the feelings behind the word “project.” Yes. I’m talking primarily about the
housing projects I grew up in. There was a certain temporariness attached to the word. It was as if I was being told that it wouldn’t make much sense to get
attached to the place I lived because they were projects and projects were not intended to last. To my way of thinking, projects of any kind are created to serve a
specific purpose and then they are taken down. And to stretch this line of thinking a little more, something very dangerous happens when temporary becomes
permanent. When temporary housing becomes permanent. When the temporary job becomes permanent. When the temporary living arrangement you have with
a visiting relative becomes permanent. When the temporary inventiveness you employ to get by during a rough time becomes a daily battle for survival. When
the energy that is supposed to be used for propelling you forward is needed every day to keep your head above water. And sense of place can be thought of as
the flow of life that is attached to a particular place. The demands that are made on the people who remain there and the ways that the land or environment
accepts the offerings and gives back sustenance, nourishment and promise.
I’ve tried to cultivate a sense of place in rural places. I’ve been fortunate enough to experience cows’ breath blend with cold, morning, winter air; to feel an
owl pass over my left shoulder as it flew in the direction of another owl’s call far on the other side of a corn field; to feel the flow of my blood quicken as I
witnessed temporary streams, caused by melting snow, rush down ravines that seemed to enjoy being streams for a short time; marveled at the greenness of the
watercress that lived in the tiny stream that never froze even in the middle of a Wisconsin winter; or the color of a visiting oriole that resembled the color of the
richest and brightest orange imaginable. These wonderful and mysterious images were bound together by the stories and memories of the people who knew the
land. And not just them, but their parents and even the parents of their parents. I have arrived at the conclusion that I borrowed their sense of place and
reciprocated by sharing my stories of growing up in New York City. All that was necessary to complete their borrowed sense of place was to live in, breathe in and
open themselves to New York for a time in a manner similar to my attempts to live in, breathe in and open myself to their places for a time.
One universal truth is that the places we have not been are usually quite different than we imagine. No? For those who have not lived in New York City, what
images come to mind when that city is mentioned? I won’t be presumptuous and say what I think those images might be, but I’ll tell you a few of the New York
City pictures I store in my mind that help form my sense of place: earthworms that washed up on the concrete paths after a heavy rain; the whiteness of seagulls
as they swooped in and out of the black shadows under the Williamsburg Bridge; the cooing of millions of gray pigeons; the way the bright blue feathers of a Blue
jay stood out against the grayness of winter and fingers of thousands of leafless trees; the way the East River seemed to flow in different directions on different
days. These might not be the usual sounds, sights and smells associated with New York but they are the prevalent sights, sounds and smells that help to form my
sense of place.
‘Round Midnight is one of my favorite movies. It’s about jazz, jazz musicians, New York City, Paris, relationships and many other ingredients that make up
the stew of life. It can be said that the film is about trying to cultivate a sense of place. It’s been said over and over that Europe savors jazz and even deifies jazz
artists that the United States barely pays any attention to. But my favorite line in one of my favorite movies is uttered by the dying friend of Dale Turner — the
fictitious musician played by the late, great tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon. Dale Turner is talking with his bedridden friend in a dingy, depressing New York
hotel room with ancient, peeling wallpaper and annoying fluorescent lights blinking on and off outside the window. He announces to his friend that he is leaving
New York to go to Paris. His friend is unimpressed and says, “You know what you’re going to find in Paris when you get off the plane, don’t you?” After a long
silence with no answer forthcoming, the friend answers his own question by saying “you.”
Maybe sense of place is ultimately connected to what we carry inside ourselves and the willingness to share experiences — as thoroughly as possible —
until we come to the collective realization that the place we all share is called earth. That my pain does not feel that different from your pain. That my joy is
remarkably attached to yours, and that all the distinctions and divisions we support and perpetuate are as solid as the breath we see on a cold Wisconsin winter
night.