Steeple Chasing

In the fall of 2001, during the aftermath of September 11^th, Sarah and I drove the New England Coast. I was terrified. The world felt precarious. Loving people that it seemed to me might die at any moment, felt precarious. The only thing that kept me grounded was looking for steeples—insisting upon themselves in the landscape—poking through amber-golden and scarlet foliage. Touch points. Counting them meant I was alive. This recollection precedes the beginning of this blog. A backward movement. For some reason, tonight I thought of those heavenward pointing domes and the smell of October—so sensuous and homey—reckless and pandering—full and simultaneously wan. I was 28.