Well… Dorothy, it seems I am no longer in Kansas—or perhaps I should say, Shannon, I am no longer in Boulder. I have stepped into a world so different, so warm and alive, that every breath feels like a reminder that change is both beautiful and humbling. Here, in the muggy southern air, with its constant symphony of buzzing insects—oh, the very creatures you would loathe—I have taken one more step closer to the life I dream of each day.
I have landed in the enchanting town of Fairhope, a place that feels like one of the best-kept secrets in the entire union. Norman Rockwell himself could have painted it, or perhaps he already did in a dream; that is the only way I can describe the charm it holds. The town is quaint and quiet, where life moves at the pace of the tides. Stores, restaurants, and even the little plant shops keep their doors closed not only on Sundays, but on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays as well, as if the town itself takes a long, thoughtful breath each week. On my first visit to the quirky downtown, I quickly noticed that golf carts and electric bikes are the preferred means of travel, gliding silently along the streets like characters in their own easy-going story. I’ve already acquired a bike of my own, and I find it perfect for gliding to Geer’s—the local market that has stood for nearly a century. A golf cart will come soon, I’m sure, to complete my initiation into Fairhope living.
Here, church is not a ritual reserved for Christmas and Easter; it is a way of life, woven into the very heart of the community. Each day at noon, I pass the stately Methodist church and pause just to hear the bells ring, their peals echoing like a memory from a classic novel—except this is no fiction. It is my present, and in hearing those bells I find my heart leaning more and more toward God. Though I remain Catholic, I feel my soul stirring here in a new and deeper way.
The World Cup has just come to an end. France, my beloved team, fell in the semifinal, and yet I can say that I experienced it in such a perfect, unforgettable way. I watched the match at McSharry’s, the local Irish pub owned by Ronan—a true Irishman with a gruff exterior and a loyal heart. He cares deeply for his regulars, and I now proudly count myself among them. Though the pub keeps to its own rhythms and is usually closed on Tuesdays, Ronan opened it just for me, so I could watch my team face Spain. That day will forever be etched in my memory, even though France did not triumph. I will not go into the details that might test Ronan’s humor, as he has little patience for too much French lamenting, and I’d rather avoid another of his colorful “fuck offs.” Instead, I raise my glass here in my writing: cheers to you, Ronan. Before anyone else, you made Fairhope feel like home.
I suppose, in time, I will speak of my new place of work, of the school that will soon call me back to the cycle of learning and giving. But for now, I am simply savoring the stillness and the awakening of my soul. Oh, Boulder—I miss you. One day, when God calls me to my heavenly home, I hope to leave a part of myself resting near your park, where I once carried so many dreams. But for now, my heart whispers for less of me and more of God, more of this simple, sacred life in Fairhope.
Source: A little bit of Fairhope