Sense of place is the name of this week’s assignment. Landscapes, the teacher smiles at me; she knows where I am most at ease. I think about the places I like to visit, Acadia, Popham, Morse Mountain, but only briefly. I already know that this time I’d like to stay indoors. I’d like to stay at home.
Back in my studio apartment I look at the tight space as a visitor might, a random collection of furniture, none of them match, few plants, paintings on the walls, books on shelves and yarn tucked away in corners. I look again, more closely this time. I look at objects and see stories. The paintings are my grandfather’s, and there is my teacher’s print, and my photograph in between, the first one I made in Prague. Plants, gifts from gracious friends or books, volumes from childhood. A kitchen table made locally from barn-wood and a blanket, hand-woven in bright colors. I brought it from South America into an empty place in Maine. I remember the rainy day in late spring, the first time I thought; "I am home." This house is not just my home now, it is all the places I lived before, the ones that felt like home and those that did not. It is moments and memories, a collection of stories gathered over time.