You feel the power of the world and the universe when you stand before a sight that engulfs you and dwarfs you at the same time. For some, it’s the breath you take amid the mighty redwoods towering above the California coast, their majesty undeniable. These are the same lands that recently quaked under a 7.0 magnitude earthquake near Eureka. If you’ve ever been in the midst of such an event, you’ll remember how the earth beneath your feet undulates, rippling like waves on a vast ocean shore. It’s a freaky, disorienting experience—a raw, visceral reminder of the forces that unspool time. And yet, when the ground stills, those towering redwoods, rooted for centuries, seem even more eternal. They invite you to marvel at their endurance and to find solace in their timeless steadiness once your fear subsides.
Similarly, the granite peaks of the White Mountains bring their own kind of awe. These jagged heights, stretching across New Hampshire and Maine, hold a raw, rugged beauty that commands respect. Here, you might find yourself along the Appalachian Trail, crossing paths with through-hikers near the Zealand Hut, where a weary traveler can savor a bowl of vegetable, rice, and lemongrass soup—a humble but profound respite. Others camp on the valley floor for just a night, while the casual wanderer ventures above the treeline, drawn by vistas that might return to haunt their dreams. Forty-eight peaks soar to over 4,000 feet in these mountains. Some adventurers devote years to conquering them all, chasing views that are earned, not given. Unlike the gentle trails of Muir Woods or the coast of Eureka, the White Mountains demand effort. Those who walk the rocky, root-laden paths here know the truth: to go deep into yourself, you must first go up. These are places where people lose their hearts—and are better for it.
For others, the call of water resonates most deeply. To see above and below its depths is to understand its endless contradictions: peace and chaos, clarity and mystery. Surfing, sailing, snorkeling, or simply standing on the shore—water connects us to something larger. It calls to mind the Queen of Cups, mermaids floating beneath the surface, sirens singing their beguiling songs. And then there are the dreams: waves rolling and rolling, carrying emotions too vast to name. On the western shores of Manhattan Beach, Hermosa, and Redondo, you’ll hear locals—those sun-kissed keepers of memory—talking about the sixties, about wood-paneled wagons and surfers as far as the eye could see. The German Shepherds, as they call themselves, sit on porches in old surf shorts, spinning tales of a simpler time. Even May Gray and June Gloom can’t diminish the charm of these places, where sunsets and a “flash of green”
on the horizon, and ships disappear into the watery expanse. The tug of these beaches lingers, their beauty etched into the mind like salt in the air.
And yet, there’s something singular about the beauty of a flyover state. Missouri, Kansas, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio—these are lands defined by rivers, lakes, and rolling hills. Each season tests its inhabitants with weather extremes, but it’s in this proving ground that the landscape reveals its quiet majesty. In Iowa, the hills roll blue and green, unassuming yet unforgettable. In Missouri, the Big River carves its way past Saint Louis, a city unlike any other.
Saint Louis produces emotions as deep and steady as an old spinster aunt, the kind who saves every letter you’ve ever sent and dotes on you when you visit. This is a city that welcomes you with one hand and challenges you with the other. Its beauty—the old downtown buildings converted to lofts, the stately mansions of Ladue—sits alongside its fraught history of exclusion and oppression. It is timeless and seamy, worthy and forgotten. It is compromise embodied, straddling East and West with grace and tension. At its heart, the Gateway Arch rises, a curve of steel and sky that captures the soul of a city that is as much a beginning as an end. Saint Louis murmurs to me, and I come.
All the places I’ve lived and loved—from the redwoods to the White Mountains, from Pacific waters to Midwestern plains—each has left its mark. But Saint Louis holds a place above them all, like the quiet heartbeat that keeps the rhythm of a larger song. It is a reminder of love, endurance, and the strength to hold contradictions in balance. Like the circle of dancers in Fellini’s 8 ½, these places come together, reminding me—and us all—that we are loved and that, in the end, everything will be alright.
Curated Listening:
When I write and produce my first Broadway musical, Iamson will be my composer and libretist. I love the variety of his work. It is unapologetically what it is. No shirking. No hiding out. Most of what he writes gives me chills. “Thousand Years (feat. Cassandra Matondo & Nikko Ielasi)” makes that rise in the flesh feel permanent. Listen to it HERE.