Holy grounds

What memories does a space hold? Apart from humans who have walked around and around there, making a ring for their own silver memories about the place, doesn’t a place itself hold its own past to its heart? I can think of an apple grove at a former seminary that’s now a state park near Seattle. When I used to visit, the grove was just down the path from the busy parking lot, but it was ten times quieter, deeper, not just a former favorite place where seminarians climbed the trees and prayed but a present place, holy grounds, where the gnarled trees —quickened branches, sweet fruit and all— were actively praying.
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