There’s something about being here, in a quiet, close-knit community surrounded by Amish country — that makes the world feel slower, softer.  I’m writing this from a porch in Kenton, Ohio.  It’s a small town of about 8,000, where neighbors know each other by name or by one to five degrees of separation.  Where the horizon stretches so wide it feels like the sky is swallowing the earth whole. The clouds here aren’t just clouds; they’re characters. Impossibly vast, pillowy and slow-moving, hung with such weight and texture I wonder – if I climbed a silo and reached out my arms could I pull one down like cotton candy?

It feels personal. Like the town has a memory and you’ve quietly stepped into it.

This is Niki’s world. A place where drive-thru convenience stores still call you “honey,” where high school football scores ripple through town gossip faster than Wi-Fi, and where front lawns are curated with the care of museum exhibits: freshly mowed grass, back-yard hammocks that sway in the breeze, and golden retrievers patrol white picket fences like shaggy sentinels. It’s a town where everyone’s business is everyone’s business—a web of connections so tight, you’re either family, neighbor, or “Oh, you’re the friend from Atlanta—my cousin’s wife went there once!”

There’s a lived-in familiarity to everything: This isn’t just a change of pace… it’s a shift in presence.

As a Southern gal raised on sweet tea and Atlanta’s humming chaos, a city whose heat, movement and pulse lives in my bones, I didn’t expect to find pieces of myself here.

But there’s something about the Midwest that feels like America’s heartbeat stripped bare. 

Maybe it’s the mornings in Niki’s cozy home that smell of fresh coffee, it’s the way the golden-light slants through her living-room curtains at dawn, gauzy and butter-soft, as  you hear the low rumble of the neighbor’s lawn mower across the street. Or the way dusk smells here—like freshly cut grass and distant rain, the buzz of borer bees harmonizing with the clatter of dishes from open windows. It’s slower. Simpler- the sound of life that reminds you to look up and pay attention.  A stark counterpoint to my world of honking horns and hurried small talk.

There’s something grounding about it all. 

Don’t mistake this for naivety, though. The South’s magic is its own: Spanish moss dripping like lace, front-porch debates that last till midnight, humidity so thick it hugs you like a cousin. But here, in this pocket of Ohio, I’m struck by how big America feels—not only in miles, but in contradictions.

Yesterday, we stopped at a pasture where two young cows clustered at the fence line, their onyx-colored coats glowing in the sun. They blinked at me with long lashes, curiosity radiating from their bodies like heat off asphalt. On another road, playful goats hop and trot with boundless energy, heads cocked as if asking, You new here? Nearby, horses—their manes tangled and proud—ambled over from their drinking posts, eyeballing us with the solemnity of philosophers. Only the sheep kept their distance, huddled like shy teenagers, though their lambs braved a few wobbly steps closer.

I passed horse-drawn buggies and sprawling fields where the land seems to breathe. The fields here are a patchwork quilt: buttercup yellows, lavender purples, and greens so vivid they hum. Roadsides explode with blooms that sway in unison, as if choreographed by the wind. It’s a reminder that nature doesn’t need permission to be extravagant. There’s a hush in these stretches of Ohio that lingers, even once the red barns disappear and front porches take their place.

It’s soft. It’s wild. It’s alive in a way that feels deeply human.

This feels like America.

Not the headline version. Not the noisy, divided version. But something more elemental- something quietly shared. A moment, a breeze, a front porch, a smile.

Of course, being a Black woman in a predominantly white, deeply conservative town carries its own mental weight. Yes, that tension hums beneath the surface like a power line. There’s an awareness that never quite fades. But here’s the thing: Niki’s neighbors wave when I walk past their flower beds. Her mom made an apple cobbler for us for dessert.  Her dad made a campfire for us out on his land as day slowly turned to dusk and the stars filled the sky. I’ve only been met with kindness, with warmth, with neighborly decency. Even the bees seem polite, hovering over hydrangeas as if apologizing for existing.

And I return it in kind. No politics, just presence.

In these moments, I think about how easy it is to reduce places—and people—to caricatures. To let politics, religion or geography harden us into assuming we’re nothing alike. But then I sit on Niki’s stoop, watching the sky turn pink and purple as the sun sets, and wonder: What if “America” isn’t a slogan or a border, but this? The shared language of waving at strangers. The universal ache for a home that feels safe. The way we all tilt our faces toward the same sun.

I walk these streets with a calm curiosity, noting the hand-painted mailboxes, the weathered porches, the stories each home seems to hold in its bones. There’s something sacred in the simplicity.  The world out there is loud. Fractured. Relentless. But here, in this tiny Ohio town, there’s a quiet truth: Sometimes, the most radical thing we can do is sit still. To let the breeze carry the scent of someone else’s laundry detergent. To listen to the way their laughter sounds just like ours.

Maybe that’s where hope hides—not in grand gestures, but in the space between a stranger’s “Hey, how’re you doin’” and your “Hey!” back.

In those moments, the world feels vast and intimate all at once. And I feel fully here.  Rooted not by place, but by presence.

Yours in the joy of the moment,
Mye