Recognizing Your Sense of Place

The catalogs have started coming in the mail, shaking me out of those feelings of frozen isolation. They remind me that, indeed, spring is coming. It may not be here as soon as I want it to be, but the soil I like to run through my fingers is sleeping and preparing itself for me. The yard that I have grown to love so deeply because it is MY yard is still there. Winter makes me feel off kilter sometimes, but when I remind myself that the place is as it should be and that it is growing and changing with me, I feel more stable. I now have those gardening catalogs to help remind me to hang on to that gardener identity and remember what is important to me during the ups and downs of the season.

I am honestly tired of looking out the windows of my home to see the evergreens holding their needles tightly and the rhododendrons curling their flat leaves into long, thin finger like protuberances. I am tired of gray and snow. I feel done with the smell of cold. (Do you too know that feeling that gets into your nose and tickles it until you swear that cold does have an odor?) On a snow day home from school two weeks ago I lit a fire in my fireplace and kept it blazing all day long, with a blanket on the recliner, a cat on my feet and computer in my lap. For once, I was glad that my MacBook tends to run hot. Hot coffee is extra appreciated when you wake up and the thermometer reads -2 degrees fahrenheit. But, it's those catalogs -- no, it's the thought of those catalogs -- that really helps me get through it all.

Last week, I bought some frost damaged plans at Home Depot. Large, beautiful plants were on sale for $5. With a pretty good green thumb, I knew that a little pruning was all that was necessary to turn them right. I brought the greenery -- beautiful symbolic greenery -- home and trimmed it up. I have kept the new plants isolated from my old for about a week now to make sure I don't have any bugs or diseases that can contaminate the rest. I was right. The plants are luscious. (Is that the right word?) I'm heading back to Home Depot for some more. This time, I hope to gather up some $5 plants to decorate my school library. My assistant suggested adding plants for a more homey feel and she's right, that's exactly what this place is missing.

I have lived in three houses in my lifetime. I have lived in two dorm rooms and four apartments. They became "home" as soon as I hung a picture on the wall and as soon as I brought a plant into the space. That's what makes me feel at home. I like homes with views of greenery. It can be a public park or a manicured yard. I like work spaces with books and art. My office must have a picture of flowers. I love flowers because they make me feel grounded. They make me feel like me. I recognize that wherever I am, whatever time of year it is, I can focus on that feeling of being connected to a space. Then, I know I am alright.

It is when I un-tether from our surroundings that I feel out of sorts. I try to bring my sense of place with me. Where are those flowers around here? Where is the art work and books? Where are the signs of nature mixing with man's hand that remind me of communities and my role? I have done so much reading, thinking and writing about sense of place that I now very consciously seek it. I recognize it wherever I go. I can find it whenever I need it. I seek to mold the idea of my surroundings to what I need it to be. Recognizing my sense of place makes me feel part of something bigger. It ties me to the history and communities to which I have dedicated my life as an archivist and information professional.

I wonder...What do you recognize as integral to your own sense of place? Do you have times that you feel detached and out of sorts? Does paying more attention to your surroundings help you shake the winter doldrums too? 

More Finds at the Local Antique Shop - Some Winter Fun

I am deeply involved in editing 220 book pages today and feel like taking a break for some light hearted work. So... this blog post has a different, less professional, and less probing tone than usual, I think. It has been inspired by my most recent antique shop find, which is pictured to the left. I want to play up the sentimentality here to release myself from the thought of cold fingers typing away in my frigid office.

We were blessed with more snow in New England last night. (I say that in a snarky tone to get it out of my system before I move on to good-humor and sweetness.) I am not a winter person, but his charming little piece of ephemera makes it all seem less bleary. Though I do not usually like the word "charming" (because its use makes me think of those small fixer-upper houses that realtors like to describe as such hoping that you will overlook  flaws to see some kind of inner beauty), it does seem appropriate for this early twentieth century card. The sun is shining out my window this morning, which makes it easier to have spring on my mind. The flowers framing this scene and the warm, soft colors are practically making my bones ache for the garden!  I asked my youngster if she could imagine skating on those items they are affixing to their shoes and she responded negatively. I'm sure the dress-up costumes would be a hit. I'll have to remember to ask about that later. Those Victorians certainly could play up the sentiment. I wish life could always be happy little children in a garden...even in January.

Sharing Passion, Community, and Stories Worth Telling

As I sit here in my office waiting for winter, I see empty trees that invite me to dream of my recently colorful space... This post is about a project that was special to me and relates to a community that plays a vital role in MY life. If you are not a member of the gardening community, think about how this story applies to a community that is important to you. How can you explore what you find personally meaningful, allowing the experiences of others to feed your own while adding your own imprint on the community?

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A few years ago, while taking a "break" to have a child I returned to my photography roots. I had studied photography in high school and college and originally intended to pursue a career as a photo journalist. I took a detour when I discovered art history and left dreams of professional photography behind me. As a new mom seeking time for quiet contemplation, I found myself gravitating more and more to the garden with my baby. I sat her on a blanket while I weeded. I sat her near pretty posies that invited my recording of the scene, recalling old passions and using old skills of documentation that were tucked away for safe keeping in the recesses of my personality.

This seemed far from my archives world, sitting out in nature rather than inside among inanimate things. I began daydreaming, as I generally do, thinking of things beyond myself. The garden was a breath of fresh air that allowed me to ponder my life path and purpose. I began wondering if all gardeners came to the pursuit as I did, looking for a sense of calm and seeking communion with something larger than life. So I decided to find other gardeners. I had never belonged to a gardening club. The hobby was passed to me by my parents who kept their own gardens and shared their passions for it with me. All my gardening knowledge was taught by them, was learned from experience, or came from a book. Like my parents, I had never explored gardening beyond my own yard, but I knew that there was a community of gardeners whom I soon itched to know. I wanted to know what made them tick. I put up flyers at local garden centers and asked people to call me if they were willing to be interviewed and photographed for a project about passionate gardening that I called "The Gardener's Soul: Nature's Path Toward Inner Peace."

When I thought to embark on this project and while I conducted it, I honestly did not relate it to my archives work. Now I see how it fits so nicely among the archives and cultural concepts that I try to promote - acknowledging communities, documenting communities, preserving intangible heritage, sharing experiences, etc., etc. It began as a self-directed project to feed my curiosity and turned into a documentation and community project. The fourteen women who shared their gardening experiences with me also allowed me to record their stories and garden portraits in my book. They became an important part of my life -- a community bound by my writing and representing a larger global gardening community.

When we think about culture beyond ourselves as I did in my pursuit of "The Gardener's Soul," the possibilities for documentation opportunities are endless. What matters most to you that is worth exploring deeper? What communities have you formed or can you form around your own personal passions? How can you contribute to a greater good by sharing your experiences and your community with others? What tangible things can you create from your activities that will live for posterity? How can you tell others about what makes you joyful and what is important to you? Think about what is worth sharing and find creative ways to pass it on.

Cross Professional Collaboration

IndigoGardens brought this article to my attention through her Facebook page. The New York Times article, "Botanical Gardens Look for New Lures" addresses an issue that has become common in cultural institutions -- the idea that we need to redefine ourselves to stay relevant. I love this article because it promotes the benefits of collaboration. It allows us to embrace the possibility of considering beyond what we know and that with which we are comfortable. I have frequently professed the benefits of archivists, librarians and museum professionals working together because of our similar missions and our dealings with collections. But I love contemplating moving our cross-professional collaboration beyond the colleagues with whom we can most easily identify. I'm thinking of archivists working with gardeners, delving into the archives for the history of place and natural beauty. I picture librarians working with artists to design spaces that entice scholarly endeavors and cultural appreciation. I envision curators working with chefs to bring foods in still-lifes to the table.

There are infinite opportunities to work with others to enhance our value and extend the influence of the cultural heritage institution. Consider in what creative activities your institution embarks to make unlikely collaborators part of your team.