I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

There’s a place where the trees defeat the technolgy, defeating the streetlights every night. The shadows merge, forming a dark union in the circle. They give a pitch blackness that still opens up, gives way to the moon. There is the place where nothing can go wrong, where Christmas is always nearby – salvation not so silly. A place where when I spin, I smile, because I can see. All the trees laugh along with me. It is a good thing, a holy thing, a place where it all comes together as the memory falls apart.

I’m writing about this circle of pines that was on campus that had a sidewalk running through it. The pines were cut to form a kind of dome that you could walk through, and there was an opening at the top that you could see the moon through at the right time of night. I loved going there when it was late. It felt peaceful, and even thinking about it now, I feel a calm wash over me. If I were to return to my alma matter, this tree circle would be number one on my list of things to do. In fact, it might be the only thing on my list.