When I go to the kitchen, I pass my desk and throw open the curtains that screen a three-wide window. Outside beyond the deck is the marsh. This morning the tide is in and there’s something of a lake out there with marsh grass growing in thick islands about the water. By noon it will be all marsh grass with a muddy trail snaking through the roots.
I have the same “love” for Brussels, Belgium where I lived for four years. The old quarter, or Grand Place, is ancient with cobble streets, stone alleys, open-air restaurants displaying fishes from the North Sea, and a square of castle-like guild houses. It’s physical beauty is entwined with my memories of being there. But to visit is sweet sorrow. Brussels for all its beauty, is filled with strangers and thoughts of days gone by.
Many writers are inspired by their love of place. For example, Aida Rogers has published a collection of “love letters” to South Carolina by local writers titled State of the Heart.*
THE WORD LOVE
Tomorrow night I’ll be back in Columbia where the scenery is rather boring. There’s no window by my bed. My desk overlooks the driveway. And the wind rarely blows. At least that’s my impression but I look outside so seldom that may be a misconception. But I’ll be with my friends again. There’s Ginny and Carole and Miriam and Laura and many more people of fond acquaintance I look forward to seeing. I’m confident when I say I love them. But do I love this apartment at Shell Point?