Lost in Time

There is an old cemetery behind my house - the oldest Unitarian-Universalist cemetery in this country. From the window by my desk I can see it as I work. It has been well-tended in recent months by caring neighbors. The old headstones have been cleared of debris and the eight stone vaults set into the side of the hill now have woodpiles blocking them from all the trees that were thinned out. At the moment it is full of fog - so much so that I cannot see the houses on the other side.

When I was booting up I checked the harbor cam and it, too, looks out on a wall of fluffy gray. I love mornings like this. I tidied up, made a pot of my favorite tea - Twining’s Ceylon Orange Pekoe - put a lilting Celtic CD on and came here to write.

Years ago my brother Jack told me that on cold nights when there were no sounds around his house but the wind in the trees and the babbling of the little brook out back he loved to sit in his kitchen working on a gun stock or carving a knife handle and lose track of time - not just the hours but the centuries.

Jack was a man from another era anyway. He loved to hunt and fish, make wine and beer, bake bread and can the vegetables he picked in his garden or the berries that he picked in the woods that surrounded his house. He and his wife lived a life of admirable simplicity. He fashioned beautiful gun stocks from exotic woods and carved bone and horn shafts for pocket knives. Losing track of the century he happened to be in wouldn’t surprise anyone who knew him.

But I have had that experience too and it is beautiful. For me it usually comes while reading or knitting. I get caught up in the story or in my own thoughts and release my attachment to the linearity of time.

Once, when I lived in Marblehead, it was a gray, foggy October day much like this. I was living in a house that overlooked Salem harbor - where so much of this country’s history has happened anyway. From the porch I could see three lighthouses and the fog horns were lowing that particular day. I was in a chair on the porch reading one of Mary Stewart’s luscious Merlin novels bundled in sweaters and under a fur throw. I was totally enthralled. I have no idea how much time passed but when I was startled back into the world I felt like I had been abruptly awakened from a very deep dream. A friend was standing on the porch beside me with a worried look on her face.

“Where were you?!” she asked, “I’ve been calling to you for five minutes.”

I was stunned to look up and see cars and motor boats and other mysteries to the century I had been lost in. The feeling stayed with me for days.

I think it is a wonderful thing to be able to let go of the world - to let go of time and place and modern conventions. It is in times like that you can most readily understand the fathomlessness of existence and the endless possibilities of your soul’s unique life.

That is one of the gifts of great story - it can transport you not just to another time and place but to an expanded awareness of being. Today is shaping up to be a good day for some time travel. I need to finish up my work and then take a break from this millennium.

Thanks for reading.