. . . On my own property, where I now live and farm with my family, there is an old stone wall that runs in a perfectly straight line for about a quarter of a mile. Cutting across the top of a northwest-facing slope, the wall was made from the rocks taken out of the cleared field to the west of the line; this field has had cultivated crops in it for probably over a century. Curiously, none of the rocks were ever removed from the cleared field on the east side of the line, the other side of the wall. To this day, that field remains a wild blueberry field with lots of huge glacial erratics and tons of stones of all sizes—it’s never been plowed. Partway down the slope from the point where this stone wall emanates from a different, perpendicular stone wall, there lies one very large stone into the surface of which someone long ago carved or drilled a distinct, unique shape about four inches deep; it is the shape of an old-fashioned keyhole, like one might find on a treasure chest or jewelry box. But the most astounding thing about this wall, something that I discovered only after we’d lived on the property for five or six years, is that its straight line of stones, over 1,000 feet in length, is directly aligned with and points to the place on the horizon where the setting sun goes down on the summer solstice. You can stand on top of this wall—right near the “keyhole” rock, if you want—in the evening on June 21st, and look straight down along the wall to watch the sun disappear into the ridge of hills many miles away, as if it’s pointing the very way.
I ache to know who built this wall. And when. And why. But alas, I never will. All I know is that this work leaves a yearning, a deep feeling of the need to connect beyond our humble places in time. The silence of a cleared field and a stone wall ultimately and simply underscores our brief, but significant, relationship to the people around us and the work we choose to do alongside them. . . . I didn’t know it at the time, but Stacy was sick. She had been sick as a child, had beaten it, and was trying to enjoy a young adulthood in remission. But, only a few years later, the cancer returned, and within another few years she passed away before she was even thirty. Stacy’s memorial service was held at the farm where we had worked. It was her wish that her ashes be spread all around the farm. With heavy steps, I once again walked up to the top of the hill, this time to cast a handful of Stacy’s remains upon the Skyfield. That field now holds part of Stacy along with our work there together. I am left holding on to the memory of that work, which both filled us and emptied us completely.