Heartmoor:

The primal longing for a place that may no longer exist

n. the primal longing for a place or home village to return to, a place that may no longer exist, if it ever did; the fantasy of finding your way back home before nightfall and soon after the sound of the dinner bell clangs back and forth with each tug of the rope; picturing a cluster of clouds piled one on top of the other settling over the mangroves with the power of the solar system behind it; hearing the deep rumble and vigorous buzzing of the diesel generator, its sound drifting in and out with the night breeze; finding your place in the clubhouse made of native stone and cement, a place of maximum aliveness, where you'd sit and listen to the voices of highwaymen and other fascinating guests from around the world, telling bold stories of a time when people could still melt into a collective personality around the central fireplace, not distracted by technology - tv, radio, the Internet... phones - and weren't just floating around alone lost in an abyss of uninterest like a snuffed-out candle.

(*From heart and moor, to tether a boat to an anchor.)

My heartmoor is Cutlass Bay Club on Cat Island, in the out-island Bahamas. What's yours?

*Inspired by a term found in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

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Hello! I’m Michael Kennedy, Olympic Valley, CA resident. I’m a teacher, freelance writer, and photographer. Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it, please share with others. I value your attention, it means a lot to me and it helps others see the story. If you're interested in any photos in this post, or in my gallery: click here, let me know what size you want, and I'll send a quote. My email: michael.kennedy999@gmail.com