There is a special magic that permeates the ground of these forests and swamps in Western Massachusetts. The light slants through the branches at certain angles that squeezes your heart. Summer in New England is wet and sticky and joyous and hopeful and full of life. In this valley, life thrums in the ground, the rivers, the forests, the sky, the cities. The streets of Springfield are alive and full of moving people. Older siblings babysitting their littles while wandering their neighborhoods, seeking limber from porches, exchanging quarters for honey buns and homemade stickless ice pops in tiny plastic party cups. Crushing bright berries between our fingers and drawing on concrete, skin, marking our faces and worrying our parents. Walking down worn foot paths in thickets between abandoned lots, ducking behind trees and bushes to catch a kiss or smoke. Scrapping our knees and picking the scabs, marveling at how life continues to grow and heal.

It's here in New England that it really feels like the land will take it all back in just a moment, where humans have struck together a venerative accordance with nature. If I stand with one foot in the river and one on the shore, I might be able to see the liminal spaces where this magic comes from. The Connecticut River is a leyline and with one foot planted in the silt, I can touch the life that feeds the magic into the land. In fae lore, it is through these in-between states that we can see into liminal spaces, at dusk or dawn, standing in a doorway, times of transition, or standing with one foot in the water and one foot on the shore.