When I was growing up in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., my family often drove out into the countryside on Sunday afternoons. We’d pass abandoned farmhouses, sitting faded and forlorn amidst tall grass.
I lived in a modern, red-brick house on a street lined with modern, red-brick houses, but I loved those old wooden farmhouses, and I could never understand why their owners had gone away and left them to deteriorate in the sun and the wind and the rain. I would fantasize that the farmhouse walls had memory for all they’d seen and heard, and that somehow the lives that had been lived within those walls lived on in that memory. I would imagine people, conversations, dramatic scenes….
I never shared my fantasies with my parents or my sister because I knew they were just that—fantasies, driven by a mix of curiosity and escapism and somehow too personal and too ridiculous to share. I knew that walls don’t have memories any more than they have ears.
Or do they….
Maybe those farmhouse walls really did hold memories—not Hollywood-movie-like memories, perhaps, but energy memories, memories which nowadays might be termed “vibes,” good or bad or even ghostly. Continue reading