Mid-May in Vermont means apple blossoms and the first really warm porch mornings, coffee in hand, bees working through the orchard, just enough quiet to read something that actually asks for my attention. Most days, I plow through my inbox like everyone else does, half-skimming on the way to the next thing. But there’s a particular kind of writing I save for these mornings.
I write about slow living. About taking the time to dip your feet in the water on a hot summer day, and all things tangible, deep, and real. About our life out here in Vermont, raising littles in nature in a chronically online world, putting up food, foraging the woods, tending animals, and the slow, satisfying work of doing things by hand.
But I’m not the only one who speaks of the value of a sense of place.
It's writing with roots. Writing that smells like woodsmoke or rising bread or fresh-cut hay, where you can almost feel the dirt under the writer’s nails and the wind on their face. Writing where the words are anchored to a real life, being lived in a real corner of the world.
Some folks call it sense-of-place writing, some call it terroir writing, some just call it rooted writing. (I keep trying to land on a catchier name for what these all have in common. I’ll let you know if I find one.) Whatever you want to call it, these are the voices I won’t open at a glance. I save them for an actual quiet moment, with tea and a blanket and time to feel what they’re telling me. In no particular order, here they are.
Echoes from an Old Hollow Tree, by Ryan B. Anderson — Another Vermonter, not far from me as the crow flies, writing about building a more tangible life in an increasingly intangible world. There’s something especially lovely about reading someone whose seasons match yours, but on the flip side of the coin. Where I write as a mother holding my littles close, he writes as a father building a legacy on the land for his children’s children.
Dispatches of a Feral Housewife, by Hannah Beukema — A mother of four, living thoughtfully within her means and building real community as she goes, gathering up stories along the way. Hannah’s in the thick of things, with a baby on her hip, but still just as ambitious as I ever was when produce goes on sale and the pantry needs filling. She’s an inspiration to me, honestly, and I have a feeling she’ll be one to you, too.
A Life in Season, by Jess Sowards — She writes straight from the heart, and her work speaks to me like very few others do. We’re both women who weren’t born into this life, but who saw the world with all its hardships and chose another way for our babies. (I don’t even open her posts unless I’m already sitting down, with a cozy blanket, ready to feel all the things.)
Milk Trekker, by Trevor Warmedahl — This one is about terroir, literally. As a passionate cheesemaker, I’ve learned more from him than I can begin to say. About cheese, yes, but also about the world we live in and the way a place quietly shapes everything that grows from it. His book, Cheese Trekking, is something special, and lately he’s been branching out beyond cheese into honey and oysters and all the other ways a place can taste like itself.
Cold Antler Farm, by Jenna Woginrich — A single woman making homesteading work entirely on her own terms, with a healthy dose of philosophy and humor stirred in. Her work is raw, real, and at times vulnerable, and I absolutely love her for it. And hawks! Oh my goodness, the hawks.
A Private Chef, by Will Cooper — A chef on a small family’s organic farm in rural England, writing about everything I want to be cooking and eating in this very season, every single time. I rarely close one of his posts without a new idea for dinner (or for my charcuterie cabinet).
The Sassafras Curio, by Martin Philip — Another Vermonter, also not far from here, writing about baking with terroir in a way I’ve never quite seen anyone else do. I don’t hear from him all that often, but I relish every single post when it lands.
Prairie Philosophy, by Jill Winger — I’ve been following Jill’s homestead for more than a decade now, and even though we’re the same age, I always feel like she’s a step ahead of me on this journey (in the best possible way). Family, burnout, finding meaning and value. Unapologetically, all the things I know I’ll see myself in one day, one way or another.
If you’ve got a sense-of-place writer I should be reading, leave them in the comments. I’d love nothing more than a few new voices to add to the rotation.
Or, if you’re so inclined, send me a note via email. I have noticed that my Substack replies are often enough filtered out and lost to spam folders, so I set up a dedicated email where I’ll actually see your lovely words. Feel free to send me a note at Ashley@practicalselfreliance.com
Speaking of inboxes (and don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere), my monthly seasonal updates will keep landing in your Substack inbox just as they always have. But Substack is, at the end of the day, a social media platform, and platforms are fickle. Terms can shift, algorithms can change, and one morning the whole landscape can look different than the night before. So I’m building a parallel home for these letters and much more over on my own list, just to make sure my words can always reach you, and your replies can always reach me, no matter what tomorrow looks like on Substack.
The tech side is a bit tricky, but I’m putting on my big girl pants and getting it done piece by piece. If you want to make sure you’re on the list as I get it sorted, go here to sign up. You’ll have me in your inbox no matter where I’m writing from.
Until Next Time,
Ashley at Practical Self Reliance
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