by David St.Germain

We all want to belong — to feel welcome and accepted by a group, however small or large. If you grew up in a small town, surrounded by peers and family, it may be easier to feel a sense of togetherness with those people. But whether we've always lived in the same town, or recently arrived, we all face the question of how to belong to the place where we live, the land beneath our feet.

Many of us didn't grow up in a culture that taught us how to pay attention to the natural world around us. Although it's never too late to start, it does take time to begin seeing the patterns in creation. Children who are allowed to direct their natural curiosity to the landscape and our non-human kin will have a huge head start appreciating their home, compared with those of us who were bereft of connection — living in dense cities and virtual worlds.

As an antidote to time served in the concrete and steel jungle, visit the places in the landscape that are mostly free from the agendas of people. The land and creatures who live there have their own agency and way of being. When we give our undivided attention in those locations, in a small way, we start to participate in processes much larger than our individual whims.

Animal tracking, especially in the snowy winter, entunes us to those rhythms of survival in this particular place. Witness the crisscrossing "desire paths" of deer, or the well-trod highways emitting from porcupine dens, or the first bear footprints after a long winter's nap. Silently tracking, by yourself, allows you to inhabit the minds of these animals who already keenly know how to live here. They can be our teachers.

Our miraculous senses are survival tools, as well as portals that reward an intimacy with those around us: smell every variety of fern; feel the texture of the abundant granite of our home; become fluent in the songs of phoebes; taste the wild blueberries; appreciate the quality of moonlight reflecting on a pond; get yourself bitten by deer flies. Consider your experiences as rites of passage into a world that wants to welcome you.

You will probably find certain places feel more special than others. Where do you feel free to wander aimlessly? Where do you go to find peace? Draw a map of your surroundings — the stately oak tree down the road; the confluence of Ware and Burnshirt Rivers; the lookout from Hawes Hill — and consider the twisting footpaths connecting them. Respect those locations like you would a cherished friend. We often think only about what we can get from places — whether a photo or a brief feeling — but if that's how we treated other people, we'd have shallow friendships.

The truth is that the land doesn't belong to us; the land longs for us to connect as mutual partners, not domineering managers. It may not ask for grand gestures, but like any relationship full of longing, it craves our presence and participation. Perhaps just listening to Galloway Brook babble is enough to be invited in to further intimacy. Sing a song to Rum Rock, and see what happens. Just as with ordinary friendships, when we share gifts with the land freely, with no ulterior, extractive motives, our relationship shifts toward deeper connection.

When a friend is in pain, you naturally want to help. With a very close friendship, you might know there's a problem before they even tell you. Can't it be the same with our friends, Hemlock, Beech, Deer, Turkey, Salamander? We share each other's challenges, as well as our joys. When life bursts forth every spring, we celebrate along with our more-than-human friends.

We, a people who often don't know where we came from or why we persist, have to start somewhere. Whether we're putting down deep roots or intentionally drifting like tumbleweeds across the landscape, wherever we arrive has a presence mysteriously drawing us in, inviting us to uphold our end of the connection.

August 2025
Published in the Barre Gazette, October 2025