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Ghost in the garden

I am moved by places, tied to places.

It'd be easier for me to list favorite locales and haunts than activities and interests. For whatever reason, places carry meaning and gravity for me. Regrettably, I've also travelled like Adam through Edens, burning bridges and wearing out welcomes. As they say, sometimes you can't go home again.

Strange as it is to go back to those places, it's stranger still when others mistake me for one who belongs there. Yesterday as I walked to the Chapel of St. Ignatius, someone approached me for directions elsewhere on campus. Naturally, I helped, because I could—it's all still imprinted in my brain. Even so, I felt a bit like an impostor, or at the very least, disoriented in trying to connect myself in this time with a role better filled by a former self. The exchange itself had no great impact, but I could feel the ripples.

The past is past, a clarity I haven't always been able to enjoy. I'm happy where and when I am, but sometimes I need to take a moment to remind myself of that. Building a new relationship with an old place isn't simple.


I'm interested by the idea; and I wonder what it will be like to visit Compass again. Even in our last days there I kind of felt like a 'ghost'.