Winter has entrenched the valley where we live in Idaho. It is a Narnian world of bitter cold and snow that locals know as an inversion, and it is characterized by a constant haze which dulls the sun. In an attempt to lift our fog-laden souls, we uncorked a special bottle of Chianti last night. La Forra. It was a palate of memories. I could smell the Tuscan soil and feel the Mediterranean sun. I saw the perfectly plotted Sangiovese vines, the friends we had shared it with, and tasted the food it had accompanied.
“Do you remember where we had this?” my husband asked. A place that had been a familiar friend was a now-forgotten name. That is a special kind of sorrow. But he hadn’t forgotten. And we sat, and drank, and remembered. That bottle of wine transported us through time and space with some sort of magic power.
It was as if a part of me was still there and I was being sewn back together.
It was as if part of me no longer exists, or just as bad, that it was once part of me yet now exists without me.
And I flipped through a highlighted book to find the right words:
“For one thing, whatever we know, we cannot know what it would be like in the absence of our knowing it, ” Iain McGilchrist, The Divide Brain and the Search for Meaning