September 14, 2026

To belong: to be the property of a person or thing; to be in the right place; to have a proper or expected location.

When I think of belonging, I think of ownership, taking responsibility and care for something—all mine.  But belonging is more than ownership.

Williamson is beginning to feel like it belongs to me, and yet it’s a place—a place for everyone not reserved only for my footprints.

A place belonging to someone and everyone is like a wave belonging to your feet at the edge of the ocean, or the wind belonging to your lungs. It’s vague, fleeting, and impossible to truly capture and contain. And yet, with each step, mile, and inhale and exhale, this preserve belongs to me more and more.

Perhaps not in the traditional sense, like a toy belongs to someone, but in that it’s the right place. The proper place for me on this adventure and nature experiment. Would another fit so well? Or is it something about this place that fills the space where nothing seems to fit and is disguised so well it looks full?

For me, this seems like a frenzied love affair—falling head over heels quickly with each passing mile and visit—but the forest has yet to claim me.

Maybe I’m walking too fast or not fast enough. Maybe it’s my shoes that prevent my soles and our souls from meeting, that provide a barrier to my acceptance by the preserve.

Or maybe, like so many things, it’s time and length that satisfy the penance one must pay to have a place claim you as its own.