On Thursday I flew to visit my family in southern Ohio where I was born. I have been looking forward to this little respite for some time. In addition to getting a little dose of real spring and seeing my family, I am always anxious to once again bathe myself in this landscape that shaped me. Driving from the airport and seeing once again the rolling hills and greenness, I was reminded of the words of Irish poet John O’Donohue that had guided our pilgrimage to Ireland last fall: “Landscape is not just there. It was here long, long before we were dreamed. It was here without us. It watched us arrive.”

Driving down the highways and country roads that held my growing up, I have felt a tug at my heart that has been both joyful and melancholy. Passing houses and farms that once housed folks who were the legend of our small town, many now have younger, different owners, these wise ones having passed from this world. Others stand empty or have been torn down altogether. Change comes in its varied forms. Wisdom passes from our midst. But the memories I have, the stories I remember, have a special place in my DNA.

As for this landscape, I know I have been formed by the soft roll of hills and valleys, sights that no doubt lured my Welsh ancestors to settle in this place. I am also shaped by the country roads and creeks that flow through farmland tied together by wooden bridges that help travelers hop from one side to the other. The wooden houses and trees that line the streets of most small towns would look familiar to anyone who had come from such a place. Except I can look at these houses and pass spots on streets only to have vivid feelings of childhood or adolescence course through my veins. These are not just buildings or strips of asphalt but vaults of memory.

This is my experience. But what about you? What landscape gave birth to you? What landscape watched you arrive? What patch of land housed your earliest dreams? What soil and sights stir joy and melancholy in you?

When we are offering thanks for who we have become, we mostly think of the people that shaped us. This is important to remember and to honor. And most places cannot be separated from the people we associate with that particular landscape. It is a tapestry we weave our whole lives though are not always aware of doing so. Whether it is through the gift of travel or living in a particular place, we meld the landscape and the people that add a pinch of this and a dash of that to our life experience creating the ingredients that feed and nurture us.

Landscape watched each of we two-leggeds arrive. Long, long ago before we were dreamed and before our own dreams shaped us into the people we now are, the landscape stood, strong, true, fragile, beautiful. Every now and then we have the opportunity to dip once again into the fullness of this gift. This has been my privilege these last days. It seems a bit like taking a deep drink of a cool and refreshing water.

This landscape which welcomed me was once rich with coal and iron ore. A part of the legends that laced my childhood were the stories of grandfathers who worked in the mines and the brickyards and the furnaces. It was hard work. But what I remember and have now heard once again were the stories of the community that grew up around this hard work. Men who did honest, hard labor. Women who made homes and food and watched over children. Children who played, making fun and friends out of whatever was available. These communities were carved out of a landscape they came to call home. The children’s children of these communities now live different lives, many like myself, moved to larger cities. But the landscape is remembered in us. There is both joy at what we have known and melancholy at what we have lost.

It is, as it has always been and will continue to be.