Last night I was trying to fall asleep after reading a chapter from On Writing Well about travel writing. For a long time, I have thought that this might be a worthwhile genre for me to pick up, considering my desire to write and my love of travel. Unfortunately for an aspiring travel writer, I usually find travel writing boring. There’s too much detail and an absence of narrative. I rarely get the feeling that I’ve taken a voyage with the author. But that’s what I want. And I want it to be more personal than a dictation of facts.

As I laid there thinking about it, I realized how important place is to me. All my vivid memories are filled by an overwhelming sense of place, it’s like my mind chose to store things on a memory card. This is likely why I am drawn to photography–it allows me to capture these spaces so easily.

Place is also imperative to my faith. Every season of my faith is linked with an image shuttered into my mind that encompasses the feeling and fruition of that time. The school play ground, the lakeside picnic table, the dirt road made running path, the road in Katmandu, the red chapel floor–and if I let my mind sort through the images, I could conjure more.

I just got back from By Kracke Park. There’s an overlook of the city, but unlike it’s sister Kerry Park, there’s a sense of serenity. Wedding parties and tourists don’t gather here. The benches are almost always empty, and I usually hear the birds chirping. I am still in the city–cars drive by, airplanes fly overhead and I-5 hums in the distance. But I’m hoping this will be my new place, an image to define this season.

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