Sometimes, words seem to lift right off the page and pierce your heart.
Thank you, Ellen Meloy.
It seems as if the right words can come only out of the perfect space of a place you love. In canyon country they would begin with three colors: blue, terra- cotta, green. Sky, stone, life. Then some feather or pelt or lizard’s back, the throat of a flower or ripple of sunlit river, would enter the script, and I would have to leap from three colors to uncountable thousands, all in some exquisite combination of Place, possessed by this one and no other. Between the senses and reason lies perception. At home or afield, that is where amazement resides, shunning explanation. Certain places, writes Jorge Luis Borges, “try to tell us something, or have said something we should not have missed, or are about to say something; this imminence of a revelation which does not occur is, perhaps, the aesthetic phenomenon.”
From “The Deeds and Sufferings of Light”