Recently Byron said I want to go back to Chimayo.
Images from that trip flickered through my mind: the long drive from Denver to Santa Fe in a borrowed car that kept breaking down. Lunch in a roadside diner with locals glaring at us. Watching lightning storms crackle across the desert.
I remember sitting in a graveyard on a bluff talking to Marisa. Wandering around ghost towns. Another long ride to Taos, and the One Railroad Circus on stage performing – dazzling in every possible way.
Then the journey to Chimayo, talking about the Penitentes; we were both on a pilgrimage of sorts, looking for solace and relief from serious problems that could not be addressed in any way that either of us could figure out.
That day I offered my tribute, took a small amount of soil from the chapel, and wore it in a silver necklace for years, until I was in fact healed. Not by the trip or the chapel, not through the intervention of medical science, not from the presence of good friends, not through love or longing or anything at all except the simple determination to get better. To feel something. To live.
When I left Seattle the necklace joined the other objects in my scientific cabinet: just another trinket, another article of proof, jumbled in with old spectacles and my grandmother’s mismatched porcelain cups. Now I can’t even remember what it felt like around my neck. I can’t imagine wearing any jewelry at all.
I might go back to Chimayo some day, but I will not go for the sake of nostalgia or because I am looking for something that is gone forever. I may be able to see the circus again – and if so I will be endlessly thankful – but the experience will be unique and whole unto itself. It is likely that I will see Marisa soon, but I have a true understanding of mortality and never place faith in an uncertain future. I know that it is more important to enjoy her when we are together than count on anything else.
There are other people I care about and will never see again – because they hate me, or love me in an inconvenient way, or we’ve lost track of each other, or they died. This makes me sadder than I could ever describe, no matter the reason for the separation.
I fling myself into all manner of chaos, hang out with impetuous people, go on thrilling adventures, have the opportunity to move around the world whenever I like. I’ve also made promises and accepted responsibilities that leave me flayed and open to equal measures of grief and joy.
I’m not afraid of death, loss, risk. I simply appreciate whatever I can to the best of my limited ability, and remain fully aware that each moment will contain something new and true and unpredictable.
There was a time when I thought that I had a home somewhere in the world, and also a time when I thought that I didn’t belong anywhere. Now I know that I don’t need a home, and the objects in my cabinet truly are just artifacts.
Life is a series of choices, not just of actions but also of attitudes. I do not regret anything, even though I am currently experiencing intense pain and confusion. Like Byron noted in the course of the conversation: Good thing to know rather than be told.