A sense of place. Good afternoon from cloudy Vermont. Long ago, Tim and I spent ten days exploring Prince Edward Island–this was before the bridge from New Brunswick spanned the water in between. One lovely day we biked to a point, and quite near it, we discovered a dirt lane lined with tall, pretty pink flowers and wind chimes. Always curious, we followed the path, encouraged by the small worn sign “Potter.” Waiting for us in the barn that served as his work place, a tall, youngish man puttered among his wares. His hands looked copper-colored from working with the island clay. We wanted to buy a pot, but had no way to carry it back to our tent site. “We’ll come back!” we said, but we never did.
But I did carry something away with me that day. The desire for a cooling breeze, pretty flowers, terra cotta pots, and wind chimes. We returned to Vermont, and soon after, we pooled our money and bought a set of wind chimes. These wind chimes, the description said, would last “forever” and make the “loveliest sound.”
As I sit in my corner office, the breezes coming into each window beside me, I hear the wind chimes, still in great shape, and indeed making the loveliest sound. If I crane my neck around our enormous old oak, I can see the tips of our tall, gawky pink phlox, hanging onto summer like I’m trying to. Our terra cotta pots rest in the garden shed–we’ve had no time this year for planting annuals and setting them out. But we could.
In every home we’ve lived in, we’ve created what we saw years ago on PEI, without the ocean, of course. The chimes stay sturdy and strong when we cart them from place to place, our pots stack up at our feet in the car, and once we’re there at our new place, it’s easy enough to create a space for flowers, especially with cosmos.
As I’ve said before, moving is difficult, yes, and for me even the smallest transitions are rough. But I can make a home almost anywhere, just by recalling that perfect summer day long ago.
Check back next week for another segment of Finding Home.