The Magic of Place

I’ve only “really lived” in three places: in Connecticut on Long Island Sound; in New Hampshire in a 200-year-old farmhouse on the side of Moose mountain; and in Placitas on the high desert plain. In Connecticut I know the Sound. I still have the navigational map in my head, though I haven’t been sailing or big blue fishing in years. In New Hampshire I know the land, at least the 350 acres of it that were mine to care for. I know the old stone walls, the various pastures; the hay fields; the slopes of virgin timber; the apple orchard. I knew the creatures that I lived with, side-by-side: the bear; porcupine; hedgehog; deer; fisher-cat; birds and coyotes and their habits and hangouts. In New Mexico, at last, I know the land pretty well. I know the architecture, how buildings were built and how they are built. I know what grows here -- though not all the names. I know the creatures that live here. I even know a lot of my neighbors. I know a little history. I have a history. It feels good. Maybe feeling the magic of a place is really as simple as just feeling good where you are.