The last three days, I have walked down memory lane, back to my roots. Visiting the farm house, spending time with my mother, hearing the old folks speak with their unmistakable accent, gazing at the luminous sky, venturing in the few vineyards remaining, buying walnut oil at the local merchant, shielding from the familiar hot sun, and enjoying the coolness inside the thick, ancient walls, . . . Now, I am in the train that takes us back to Paris, same one we used to take at the end of every summer.
Memories are powerful. They grab one by the heart, not leaving mind a chance to process even. As we speed further and further away from the place I call home, I find right inside my throat, and my chest, a bittersweet mixture of fondness and grief. Nothing to do, other than being with.
And I think about post I wrote a few days ago, about the wisdom of guarding the sense-doors, and I say no, not now.