Thought and Places of the Heart

Finding a Place to really think isn’t easy.  I’ve thought about it.   Where is this place where I can have a dispute with myself and no one wins or loses?  Where is this place where answers are found?  Where is this place where ideas form into actions?

I was thinking perhaps it was at the piano. Music almost always gives way to thoughts.  That particular thought dissolved very quickly.  My talent (or lack thereof) requires complete concentration.  The only brain activity going on is between it and my fingers. I thought again.  Perhaps the place was my make-it room.  It is a quiet space and with few interruptions.  However, losing myself in thought there once caused me to spill a quart of red paint on cream carpet.  Clearly, the make-it room was not going to be the place for me to be pondering world events.  The answer eluded me.  After still more thought, I remembered sitting in a rocking chair on the deck, staring at the lake.  Surely, this could be the spot.  The only drawback was the possibility of falling asleep before any real thoughts crept into my mind. 

Laura Ingalls Wilder referred to her special place when she wrote “We who live in quiet places have the opportunity to become acquainted with ourselves, to think our own thoughts and live our own lives in a way that is not possible for those keeping up with the crowd”.   For her, it was away from the crowds.

The point is, the place we go to think needs to be a place where we can be lost in our thoughts.  A few years ago I wrote a short story about Blueberry Picking.  It has little to do with thinking, but a great deal to do with finding a place where thoughts are free to linger.

Blueberry patches are family affairs.  That is, once a prolific patch is located; the secret stays in the family.  The one I head to this morning is in an area I had explored many years ago.   We take a turn off the highway onto a two-lane.   Actually, it isn’t really two-lane.  There are no lane markings at all.  Still, it is blacktop.  It curves around hardwoods, pines and occasional lowland areas of Hemlocks.  We turn off the blacktop.  This time it is onto a road more typical of most roads in the area.  My companions aren’t accepting my definition of a road and persist on referring to it as a path.  None the less, it is navigable by car.    It is the kind of road that has no marked indication of where it is going or where it will end.  It is sand.  If we were walking on it with bare feet this August morning, the sand would squeeze up between toes and make our feet feel toasty warm.    In the center of the road is a ridge of grass which gives the driver a clear indication of where to maneuver the car.  It isn’t difficult to find a little area to pull over.  Getting out of the car proves a more difficult process for my new pickers. Reluctantly, they slide out, straddling a small birch stump in the path.   We are ready to go.

The feeling of warm sand on my feet.  The feeling of coolness generated by giant evergreens. Feelings that tie us to a special place.   Feelings so familiar and comforting that nothing on a to-do list, or sleep, or anything can get in the way of just thinking.  That is the place to find…a place of the heart.

Think about it.