It is a strange experience to go home to Innermost House in spirit. I can feel it. I can touch and hear and see it. To stand inside of it again I simply go inside myself. Not far inside. Just inside. After seven years it comes easily.
One thing is changed. My first experience of it when I go there now is always its taste. As I approach the house and put my hand on the worn stair rail, even before I am aware of its touch I am aware of how it tastes. I can taste the redwood on my tongue. I can taste the dust of the forest breeze. I can taste the wet of a hundred rains.
I never tasted my house when I was there. But that is exactly how it first comes to me now. No matter where I look outside or in, before I see it I taste it. When I listen for the space inside, before I hear its silence, I taste it.
I read once of the learned monks of the middle ages, feeling for the way to regain the taste of civilization in their wines. They would walk the hills and valleys. They would scent the air and watch as the fall of shadows marked the land for growing. I believe they were men of highly developed reason. But they were feeling with more than reason for their treasure.
They would bend down to the soil and taste it. They might almost be mistaken for children. But they were not children. They were tasting I think for a remembered beginning.