Between Two Worlds

I am the corporeal being that binds.

I live in the land of sleepy small towns—remote clusters of once-bustling hubs reduced now to sneeze-and-you’ll-miss-it stretches of backroad. The equation is almost always the same: a church steeple heralds your approach, then an old post office (converted to something else, now—a residence, a hardware store), the local pub (still miraculously in operation), a neat line of historical homes bearing similar architectural styles. You’ll know you’re on your way out when you pass a large barn or two, a cemetery, a confusing stop sign configuration.

Most folks see these borough blips as transient spaces where the driving speed is reduced to 25 mph. But these pockets of history render me utterly goosebump-laden. I call the reaction “past life feels.” I don’t know how else to describe it—if I’m anywhere within 20 feet of a place built or settled in the 1700s or 1800s, I’m utterly suffused with a heart-pounding, charged sensation of belonging and longing in equal measure. And the sentiment isn’t limited to structures—when I smell a wood fire or sourdough starter, it’s as if someone has pulled the ripcord on a parachute strapped to my torso and I’m wrenched back centuries, somewhere hazy that can only be felt.

I’m sure this is why I obsessively research and visit old buildings, why I instinctively slow down when I see a flash of old stone or weathered red-painted wood, why I fell in love with my 1847-era cottage the moment I saw a photo of its massive old fireplace. I feel this way when I’m in cemeteries or practicing my mediumship, too—like I’m straddling this world and another.

I suppose I know now why my 15-year attempt to embrace an urban existence felt stifling—it’s a realization solely acknowledged in hindsight. It’s only in being surrounded by sprawling fields and farmhouses with hand-hewn beam frameworks that I know I’ve come home, or close to it—because, as these transportive drives remind me, I’m still searching. For what, I’m not sure. I can only express it as the feeling described by people who’ve lost a twin in the womb—a constant ache for my other half, only the half is a place and time. Perhaps that’s our work while we’re here: to attune to our most foundational calling, follow the deep-seated inner compass pointing us to our true north, even if the direction can’t be found on a map. Or maybe it’s a glimpse of the journey to come after this one.