It seems to me that we all spend a lot of our lives looking for our place; the place we belong, the place we feel comfortable. Often that place is illusory, ephemeral – it is a state of mind rather than a physical locale.
But sometimes it is a place. It might be the forest-clad side of a precipitous mountain – it might be the wind-swept reach of a long, sandy beach – it could be the rocky rills of a mountain stream. Or it could be all those things – the long stretch of a rumbling river as it moves from youthful exuberance in gorge-enclosed containment, through expansive valley to a reunion with the sea at a south-facing beach.
Or it could be something a lot simpler than that.
This weekend we went north to Rotorua, for the second anniversary of my daughter Lavinia’s death. We went to spend time with her mother and her partner, and to remind ourselves that her life continues in our lives. It went very well – it was heartening to see how well they are both doing.
And I found my place!