I can’t describe the feeling I had when the plane lifted off the ground. Six months in a foreign country where most people weren’t too kind? Never again. I remember hugging my teddy bear and shivering with anxiety as I waited for the plane to get in the air.
Once in the air, it was the longest flight ever. I didn’t sleep a wink; for some reason, my mind was full of twelve different songs that mixed into a weird, warped playlist that drove me insane. I turned on my iPod and went through five albums (Cleopatra, The Lumineers–The Undoing, Steffany Gretzinger, Pines by A Fine Frenzy–among others.)
I left another Mariella behind in Lima, Peru. She’s in the past; the pressure is off, and when I arrive at home, I’m going to be a stronger woman. I won’t be the person I was when I left. I’ve grown too much, mentally and emotionally.
There are more adventures to come. I’m exhausted; I’ll sleep for a few days, and then I will come back to life, and I am going to shine. There’s no room in my life for people who don’t appreciate me.
You don’t get to choose your family, but you can choose your friends–and they become like family. I have a family of people who truly love me, aside from my parents and brother. I’m not alone; I will recover.
Surfing the Internet years ago, I learned of a place in Concord, Massachusetts called Authors Ridge. It’s a corner of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery; if the mention of Sleepy Hollow doesn’t bring to your mind the Headless Horseman, don’t worry. The symbolism behind Authors Ridge deepens.
This is a place where several greats of literature are buried practically side-by-side. You can visit Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Ellery Channing, Louisa May Alcott and her family.
I haven’t been there, but the thought of it makes me dream. I don’t think cemeteries have to be frightening, and this place would inspire me. Not everyone believes in ghosts, but any creative knows of muses.
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote something staggeringly appropriate: “Death comes to all, but great achievements build a monument which shall endure until the sun grows cold.” Those monuments aren’t tombstones; they’re stories powerful enough to outlive their authors.
Writers and bookworms make pilgrimages to this surreal place, leaving pens, poems and notes at the graves of their favorite authors. Perhaps they hope some talent will rub off, or want to thank them for writing characters that never died.
Whatever the motive, Authors Ridge is full of wonderful mystery. It’s one place I hope to visit someday; perhaps I’ll leave a pen of my own.