One afternoon, when I was a sophomore in college, I sat in a darkened classroom and watched a documentary about a small town on the west coast of Ireland. The narrator’s voice lilted and swayed, wrapping itself around the words. The rolling hills were an extraordinary green, with rock walls meandering across them as if straight was a concept for people who couldn’t sing. I stepped out into the bright and glaring light of Los Angeles, and all I wanted was to run back inside the classroom, diving into that movie once again.
How would it change you to live amidst all that green? I wondered. To reside in a place where every word felt loved?
Some places, the spirit of a place. For them, it was something literal; for us, the term has generalized into a feeling, but that does not diminish its strength. We walk in a house, get off a plane, and suddenly something speaks to us, and, in turn, something inside us wells up to meet it. It feels like a seed finally finding its soil. Here, you can grow.
