This place has magic.
I go to sleep at night to moonlight and wind chimes and wake up to sunlight and mysterious footprints in the sand under the porch. We suspect cougars.
There are seeds in my orange juice and sand dollars waiting to be found on the wide flat beach.
The windows look out over the river as it curves through the marsh, and the spanish moss hangs lazily from tree branches. This place's casualty is enchanting--no rush or urgency--the live oaks can’t even be bothered to shed their leaves in the autumn, preferring to just let one leaf fall as the next grows in.
The sun is warmer here, the colors brighter, the days slower, and the creativity stronger. The meals are longer here, the conversations more meaningful, and the company is as merry as ever. There is magic here.
(They also have a fantastic grocery store. And I got a massage and some ridiculous light blue Crocs.
Needless to say, I’m a happy girl.)
It's funny how when you try to put some things into words they change.
They cease to exist or they grow to titanic proportions. They get better or worse. They lose their meaning. They gain meanings. They gain import. They are trivialized. They are transformed in countless ways.
Whatever the transformation of those things is... they are forever different once they are expressed with words.