The two cottonwood trees stood as sentinels in the yard on my Grandparent’s farm. From my bed in the little room upstairs I could hear the leaves rustling and the frogs croaking, calming me with their constant rhythm. The frogs were something that was steady unlike the other things that scared me. There were field mice and large moths that found their way inside searching for warmth and light. Those were the things that scared me. I chose the bedroom on the south side, because it had two windows providing more light. A picture of my Dad sitting on a pony, sat on the small dresser. The sheer ruffled curtains covered the windows, making a thin veil between me and the outside world. The bed sheets were always clean and crisp, and there was an abundance of soft warm blankets providing plenty of weight for a cozy night sleep. In the evening Grandma would open the windows to let in fresh air. Through the open windows I could hear all the wonderful sounds that came when the sun went down. My Grandparent’s farm, though not perfect, was full of special kinds of relationships. There was adventure and experimentation mixed with safety and love. There was also plenty of freedom to explore and learn. All these relationships were weaved together in a sort of cocoon to hold me as I grew through childhood and prepared me to, “hatch-out” into the next developmental expression of myself, adolescence.
What was it about the Farm that made it a transformational space? Stephen Cope in his book, “Yoga and the Quest for the True Self” describes transformational spaces as having several unique qualities that enable them to be effective. The Farm was a refuge built for my family in 1898. It was surrounded by the mineral rich land full of heavy metals and semi-precious stones. The mines near by were abundant with lead and silver, and the Mineral Mountains hosted the largest exposed plutonic body in Utah. Smoky Quartz and feldspar could be found in cavities in the granite nearby. These stones created a natural energy flow of creativity and intuition, drawing early settlers to these abundant rich mountains. My 4th great Grandpa was one of a handful of men that took his family in 1858 and settled near the Lincoln Mine. This small settlement in central Utah was sometimes referred to as the “Cottonwoods”, “The Farm” or “Punkin’ Town” until it got it’s official name as Minersville. Everything was different there from my life back home in the suburbs. Away from my peers and surrounded by extended family and cousins, I was accepted, loved and nurtured. There was a consistency with things. When the rooster crowed, we got up. We ate breakfast, dinner and supper without fail. We helped with chores, which was more like fun and we had plenty of time for playing. Several hours a day were spent visiting while lounging on the three love seats that filled the small family room. The consistency did not end there, but was present in the relationship I had with my Grandparents. I knew they loved me, and were happy when I came to visit. This rich earthy environment encouraged creativity and experimentation. I could try on new ways of being.
In my Grandma’s hair salon, I was a hairstylist. Washing her hair in the porcelain sink, then setting it in antique metal rollers. When I went with Grandpa to take his water turn, I was a farmer learning about animals and gardening. Riding horses with my friend Tammy, and playing outside for hours gave me a feeling that I was a true country girl. In the old barn we played house and did our circus acts swinging from a long rope tied to the rafters. One day I tried my hand at being a thief, stealing green apples, and eating them with salt until my stomach ached. My cousin Dick made a Ouija board and we tried to contact spirits during a séance, I recognized quickly that was not my thing! We put on plays and watched TV in the parlor. Played the grand piano, and spied on the adults through the heat registers in the floor. There were secret passage ways in the farm house, and a “dungeon” filled with coal for the furnace.
I experienced a wide variety of foods grown in the large garden on the north side of the house. As a picky eater I grew to love vegetables of all kinds and fresh fruits in season. Seeing them pulled from the earth or picked from a nearby tree, made me excited to try them. My Grandma would load her large metal wash basin with the freshly harvested fruits and veggies, and bring them into the house. She would then proceed to give them a good scrub in the white farmhouse sink. 
Homemade bread was served with each meal, and I could cut it as thick as I wanted. I would toast it and pile on mounds of butter, until it was dripping down my wrists. This just added to the overall pleasure.
This transformational space on the Farm was set around “transitional objects”. Stephen Cope explains these transitional objects as constant and reliable, and that during the process of transformation certain people, places or things become highly charged with meaning and for a time become symbols of transformation itself. He gives an example of the classic “blankie” and how it is a constant and reliable tool that becomes an integral part of the growth process. This held true for me and my yellow blanket and stuffed kitty, that my Mom made for me.
As I matured, the blankie and kitty were left behind with fond memories, and I relied on other things entirely to help myself transition. Here on the Farm there were highly charged objects that helped me. The giant cottonwood trees, my Grandparents home itself, with its sounds and quirks. The buzzing noise the clock on the stove made, and the sound of the rod iron gate as it swung shut. The feel of clean sheets, fresh corn on the cob, sliced cucumbers and peaches and cream. The large white sink, the pantry and the love seats draped with furniture covers.
As we become adults, we have different developmental challenges than children. The objects that we cling to during these periods of change are usually less tangible, but are still needed to help us navigate the transition. They act as a bridge helping us get where we want to go. As each of us develops toward true maturation, and become who we really are, it’s important to recognize that the transformational spaces and objects only help to facilitate and support the growing and transforming process. The glory of the transformation is given to God. This helps us to not put people, teachers, gurus, or objects in the place of God, understanding that the objects are transitional, but reliable.
Spending time every summer with my Grandparents on their Farm provided a way for me to FIND out who I was becoming for myself. It was not a perfect environment for everyone, but it was perfect for me. These days I’m more aware when I’m either in, or creating a transitional space. A true mentor for helping me understand this concept, was my yoga teacher Syl Carson www.gobodhiyoga.com It was in her quiet studio where I could feel a new transformation beginning to take root. I didn’t know what I would need to hold onto through this growth process to help support me? It was as if the universe was answering my question, I heard the wind blow in the cottonwood trees while on a trip to Glacier National Park this summer. I knew I had to go back to my roots. This week I made my way back to the Farm. Everyone is gone now, buried in the old cemetery.
My Great Grandma Nellie May Burk 1871-1946
The house still stands, changed over the years. I close my eyes and I can see every detail from my youth. With absolutely no fear at all I walk to the door and ring the bell. A kind man comes to the door and asks, “Can I help you?” Yes, is my reply. “You see this was my family’s home for many generations. Do you mind if I just have a look around?” “Of course,” he said, and he was very interested in what I could tell him about the property of my youth. On the table he had a binder with pictures of my Grandparents and Great grandparents. His wife said, “Your Grandma Devota is here with us in the house.” I smiled and said, “Of course”.
They had an appointment so time was short, dropping in unannounced, they were so generous and kind. I asked If I could take some pictures of the outside. I stood by the two giant cottonwood trees in the spot where Grandma threw the food scraps to the magpies every morning. I looked up into the expanse of the branches, its mighty arms stretched out to hold me and my fears.
Its old and reliable, roots deeply rooted to defend against the strong east winds. I wrapped my arms around the huge cottonwood tree and cried. I thought, “You’ve grown a lot in fifty years!” Ironically, so had I. In that moment I realized, that even though so many transformational spaces and transitional people and objects have come and gone over the years, they are still a part of me. They were there when I was discovering who I was, and what I wanted to become. They will always be a part of me. I have learned to never underestimate the impact of a transfromational space or experience. Some spaces we can create, other spaces may just happen, like the farm. Either way growth and change are inevitable. I have also come to understand the importance of accepting someone just as they are, giving them permission to become who they were meant to be.
Namaste, Holly
