"A house is but the four walls that protects and nurtures the life inside"
This quote rolled into view, at the end of "Under the Tuscan Sun" and just before the credits. I will track the book down, read it, highlight that passage.
Mine is small. I joke and tell my friends about my front yard, and how planes land on it every day. Little planes, colorful and musical things that lift into the sun, past my window, and touch down too, with little rubberry satisfying sounds.
I live above a hangar, in a house that is not a house at all but which we love anyhow, my child and I, huddled in there during the quiet nights: You see, little planes don't fly at night, and definitly not into small primitive strips that don't have the amenities busier places require.
Here, somehow, the land stretches and disappears into trees which melt into the skyline, and the movement along its lines swirls and vibrates the way Vincent's brush would in the thick paint.
Does peace come from within or from without? In a place like this, it is hard to tell.