Notes from the Editor

Rain is falling tonight in western Oregon, tapping out a light but steady rhythm on the roof of my yurt. This rain will water the plants in the garden, and, in the short term, it will also make the garden beds more difficult to work. How much rain falls tonight will largely determine what I do tomorrow. And it's affecting what I do now. I light a fire from last year's dry firewood, carefully kept out of the rain for several seasons. These sections of wood were once parts of trees, the products of the magical convergence of sunlight, air, water, minerals, and genetic information. These pieces of wood were themselves once parts of biological water pumps, depending on water for their very existence and operation. Without the fire now raging in my woodstove, the result of those trees' success at growing for many years (they were probably older than I am), my fingers would be too cold to type. Without the sun falling on my photovoltaic panels today (and yesterday, and for many past days), my batteries would not have enough power to run my laptop computer. Without the rain which fell last month, the greens I ate for dinner would not exist, and my meal and my energy would be coming from elsewhere. Without a place to live where I can work in the garden, listen to the rain falling on my roof, explore the woods, sit in the sun, and stay out of a motor vehicle for days or even weeks on end if I so choose, it is quite likely I would also not be editing this particular magazine--or possibly any magazine at all.

I live in a place which has attracted groups of people for many centuries, even millennia. The native Kalapuya gathered camas bulbs, hunted, and camped here--we still find artifacts as we dig our garden beds--and more recently, a group of Christian seekers made this 87 acres their home. Lost Valley is merely the latest group of people drawn to this land; and over the last 13 years, many residents, visitors, and guests--both short- and long-term--have felt its power. Did we "decide" to come here, and did we choose who we'd be once we arrived? Or are we perhaps expressions of the land we have arrived on? Are we purely the autonomous individuals we sometimes think of ourselves as, or are we actually the fortunate results of rainfall, sunlight, soil, and air, with a good dose of genetic information and who knows what else thrown in? Tonight, I wonder, where do I stop, and the rainfall begin? And what is the boundary between me, and the path through the new forest that I run nearly every morning? Without me, that path would be different, less distinct, and perhaps less loved; and without that path, I too would be different, less distinct, and also less connected to the world around me. Without the forest, there would be no path; without the rain, there would be no forest; and where this leaves me is anybody's guess, except I know that my well-being and my self are inseparable from everything I've mentioned above and much that I haven't even started to mention.

Which is to say: "ecopsychology" and "self and place" are absurdly broad topics which cannot be confined to discussion through prose. It was gratifying to see so much poetry pour in for this issue; somehow, each poem or prose piece we selected seemed to flow into others, and they're ordered accordingly. However, what makes sense on this piece of land may not make sense somewhere else, so if you're confused by the flow of this issue, please blame it on the rain here in western Oregon.

Finally, this may be the last chance to obtain TL on a newsstand, due to a possible format change which would not affect our quality but would affect our distribution. Please see the "high water everywhere, financial buoys needed" alert on page three. If you've ever been tempted to support us financially or to give subscriptions to friends, now would be a very good time, and it might make a real difference in how we continue publishing and who has access to TL in the future.

Thanks for reading Talking Leaves.

©2002 Talking Leaves
Summer 2002
Volume 12, Number 2
Ecopsychology, Self and Place