In the spring of a while ago, during a trip to Ireland, I had the chance to visit a sacred well. Sacred wells are pilgrimage sites–have been since pre-Christian Ireland–with the pagan rituals adapting and persisting through new Christian tradition.
The well was sheltered in a squat, stone hut whose entrance was easy to spot from a distance by the amount of stuff– bright, eclectic, and dense– croweded around it. and dense. The interior was even more saturated in things, objects of worship left behind by a past visitor, or a personal object left as a way to strengthen and direct their prayer. Candles, a saint's pendant, a picture of a loved one someone wanted to remember, or a picture of a sick child who asked to be held and kept safe. Many of the objects did not give up their meaning, some personal artifact whose depth or intention you could only guess–a toy truck, a picture of a house, a rose, sunglasses, paper folded tight and small, likely filled with a letter not meant for human eyes. Then there were the notes affixed to the walls, so heavy as to obscure the stone beneath, whose messages were much easier to understand–direct asks, written simply: to request money, or health, or a child, to mourn, to thank, to let go.
The traditions of the well weren't necessarily my traditions, but I felt the reverence of the place immediately, fully. I unconsciously took off my hat at the entrance, walked softly down the passage way. The friends I was with all grew quiet as well, or rather it was as if a type of profound quiet filled the place and we all followed its lead.
Some places hold a power that is more felt than explained; a breeze from an unseen gap. Perhaps the power comes from your own attachment to the place-- the tree outside your childhood bedroom, a familiar street in your mother's hometown. Often the power comes from knowing the tremendous energy others have given or lost to it-- the heavy presence of a battlefield, the unbroken calm of a holy site.
There was clear power held in this sacred well-- a specialness that set it apart from the world surrounding it. What built up this power? How diffuse was its source? When people left behind these intentional objects, did something else linger? A trace of their intention, an imprint of their belief, the voicing of their desire still hovering in the air?
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We've lived with the world wide web for over three decades, and with each year the amount of places visited online diminishes, while the breadth of activities we do online increases tenfold. Today there are a handful of sites people visit regularly, while giving the full spectrum of human emotion to them.
On facebook I have posted dumb jokes, asked for shaving cream recommendations, and made sincere , lonely calls for help– some intentionally, some only recognized later. I've flirted and fought and fallen in love and announced huge moments in shared lives and blocked someone so I would never have to see, or hear, or talk to them again. I've said the last words to someone I wanted to see again, not thinking our trivial FB message conversation would be the last one we could have.
On twitter, I've witnessed, and participated, in the most nakedly emotional and densest proclamations of hope, anger, desire, and fear. Organizing, raging, networking for a job, coping, bonding, grief---- all of these expressions of humanity given out publicly, though not necessarily intended for everyone to read, given out to some vast collevtive other.
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We give so much of ourselves on these sites, and we kinda hate them the entire time. Or not even kinda. Referring to twitter as 'the hellsite' is a bit corny these days because it's so played out. That the site is hell is self-evident, and something people stopped feeling the need to say years ago.
And yet, these platforms are so hard to quit. There's the addictive design of the platforms that contributes to this, but something more. Whenever social media comes up with myself or my friends, the conversation follows a familiar arc.
"It is terrible, I don't like it."
"It's making the world worse."
"I deleted it off my phone, trying to check it intentionally."
"I should fully delete it, honestly."
"I just use messenger now, cos it's the only way to talk to some family."
"There is some great stuff on there though." "Terrible, but funny."
"And when {event} happened, it was incredible to see the stories coming out."
"I have real connections on there, I use it differently, I think. It's the groups I'm a part of."
"Honestly, it's really important and some people don't have the privilege to give it up."
"Have you seen this?" "Hahaha, that's great, have you seen this?"
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There is a power felt in cherished items that is explainable enough, if still hard to articulate. A childhood journal with some drawings scribbled over, a partner's shirt you use as a pillowcase when they travel, a childhood boardgame cherished because it still has a scorecard in it from a game between your parents from before they had any kids. I can say it's memory, connection, a history held in place...but these explanations feel incomplete to me, like describing a movie using just its box cover.
And there is the power felt in objects that I cannot explain well. Like items found in second-hand shops that still seem emotionally charged, a basic and ordinary tea kettle exactly like what you're looking but you, for whatever reason, don't want in your home. A city bench on a small side street that has nothing remarkable about it, except that whenever you sit there you feel such an immediate, strange peace. A necklace you don't want anymore, but know you can't sell or donate, but feel compelled to give to a friend as a gift.
Things that demand a respect for reasons you can't point to, beyond a feeling that they were important to someone, part of some powerful event, a simple object with inexplicable presence.
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When you speak aloud a wish, where does it go? Do we leave something behind in the spaces we inhabit, the items we hold?
Whenever I move to a new home, even though it is bare and swept and blank, why does it feel so good to clean it before moving my own objects in?
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