“Since he had put aside his books, he had begun to feel the land like a living thing, a presence that never left him. The life and rhythm of it pulsed in his blood, in his skin, the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. When the first buds appeared on the trees, he’d felt the hard nodules on the ends of his fingers, masked by velvety skin. He felt the water moving through the earth, the green shoots pushing upwards, the delight of the lambs frisking in the fields.
He told no one, afraid they would think him mad.”
-Deborah Crombie, Now May Your Weep, HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 2003