What Is a Place Asking of Us?

Never before has my life radius been so small. Circled by giants, the valley becomes a fishbowl. I am the fish. I walk in circles.

In the mornings, my steps are fast and straightforward, as if I were still living in the city. Down by the water. At night, I walk up the hill on the other side, passing closed storefronts, a few people still sitting across from each other at tables, half-full glasses between them, letting the evening conversation fade. On weekends, the nights stretch longer, and tipsy teenagers linger in front of the bar.

Sometimes I stop at the playground and swing. The chains creak, loud and itchy in the dark.

Sometimes my thoughts follow the same pattern. Circling. Swinging back and forth.

As my body repeats the narrow paths, my mind widens. I observe my own thinking more closely. Thoughts are shaped not only by our past — lived experiences, patterns we hold, perceptions of reality — but also by the world we move through.

I notice them shifting with the silhouettes of the land.

Place is not a backdrop to thinking. It participates in it.

In the city, my thoughts would get lost easily in the blur of movement. They’d stay up late, dancing under the sky until sunrise. The wind scattered them into conversations, coffee, and novelty. It is easy to spark inspiration there. Harder to keep the flame alive.

Here, inspiration arrives more slowly but lasts longer.

I reach out my arm; the mountain seems near enough to touch from where I stand. My thoughts settle, unmoving, like the trees lining the ridges. They do not slip away so easily; the rock faces sharpen them.

At night, the brightest star I have ever seen appears between two peaks. Only it is no star at all; a hut glows atop the summit. What seems to orbit in the distance is, in truth, firmly anchored.

In the mountains, my thinking expands by tunneling under the surface. Under the earth, it can get cold and lonely — yet it is where the roots grow.

It is when we look up and see what is around us that we are pulled out of ourselves and into relation.

Thoughts begin to root themselves in the world around me: the full moon peeking from behind the Schreckhorn, two bright eyes glinting in the night, snow melting. Soon flowers will burst open and butterflies will dance.

It is only because I am here that I find myself thinking about the formation of the Alps millions of years ago, how these ancient mountains have watched generations of lives come and go.

I will be one of them.

Not every place asks us to root.

And yet it feels contradictory to write about reciprocity, stewardship, care, and community while being unrooted. I am a visitor, in transition.

Still, there is a connection here.

I may not have become part of the village. But I have grown familiar with the fox who crosses the field at dusk. With the birds who sing their morning song. With the currents of the river. With the trees who change their clothing with the seasons. They have become recurring figures in my newsletter these days.

In their presence, I feel at ease.

We often assume that giving back to a place means serving its people.

Yet reciprocity also begins with learning to live attentively among the more-than-human world.

Our relationship with a temporary place does not always look like belonging.

I am still figuring out my relationship with Grindelwald, and what this place asks of me.

In the meantime, I am paying attention without claiming ownership. Doing my work with care, even though I will leave. Improving systems within my reach. Showing respect in small interactions that will never become friendships.

The mountains will not remember me. And the village will continue without pause. Not every relationship is meant to be forever.

Like some people, some places are meant to teach us something particular and then let us go.

Grindelwald has its own story to write. I am not here to author it. I am here to pass through it lightly.

IN RELATIONSHIP WITH

The Regenerative Practitioner Series
I recently began the Regenerative Practitioner Series with the Regenesis Group. I seek to step from regenerative theory into practice, from thought into action — evolving from working on my own potential and capacity toward contributing to something larger than myself.

Spring travel plans
As soon as we returned from Sri Lanka, I started planning the next trip. In April, we will head north to Copenhagen, then return south to wander through different towns on the Italian side of Switzerland. In June, I will spend a few days in Portugal, more on that in another note.

The full moon
The March full moon was a blood moon, the first lunar eclipse of the year. While it couldn't be seen from here, I still danced under the moon on my way home. I do this almost like a ritual. This time I danced with the stars to Mama Calling (Tedd Patterson Remix). As always when I dance under the moon, I am dancing with my mother.