I spent a long while other day listening to people speak at length about magical ideas: pathways, imaginary landscapes, memory, and the ability of a place to collapse into itself and to thwart time and proximity altogether.
But I didn’t really understand much. Or maybe I understood everything the wrong way. If I had dared to raise my hand, I would have asked: when do we get to fold back on ourselves? At what point will I see this space I have inhabited clearly as if under glass?
When I was twenty, I visited a violent outcropping with soft green grass that grew on volcanic rock by a cold ocean. And I returned ten years later and spoke again to my former self, a ghost-person walking those same steps with stones in her pockets. It would be all right in time, I told the dirt and the ground and myself. And, of course, it was.
It’s curious how these remnants of long-forgotten things emerge only when one is faced directly with evidence of the past. But loss is just a pile of rocks, a grief and nothing more. And I think it’s true that you could circle the globe with footsteps and not really understand why all the walking.