I learned of a poem called Lost, by David Wagoner, on an episode of the podcast On Being. I don’t remember which but the idea of approaching place as a powerful stranger stuck with me as a useful metaphor for how I would like to relate to place and landscape in my own life (even though I find the rest of the poem a bit to sentimental for my own tastes).

… Wherever you are is called Here

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger.

Must ask permission to know it and be known…

On a different topic, this does bring up something I’ve been struggling with lately. Despite how much I’ve referenced nature writing on this website, I don’t consider myself a fan of the genre as a whole. Much of it feels detached or overly simplistic, and I find that that my own interests lie somewhere at the specific intersection of landscape, culture, and history. Even there, though, I have recently felt stymied. I’ve collected books in that limited category over the years in the hopes that they would make me see my own landscapes differently, or motivate me to relate to the world in a more reflective way. But I feel like so far I have failed the Robert Macfarlanes, Barry Lopezes, and Alan Rabinowitzes of the world and that somehow my bookshelf, instead of being a repository for knowledge and inspiration, has become a somewhat stressful reminder of a misplaced dream. I’d be curious to know if anyone who ever reads this message-in-a-bottle version of a blog has ever felt the same way.