I knew when I was very small that I wanted to go to college. This wasn’t common in the neighborhood where I spent my early life. Kids in my neighborhood would, in fact, sometimes taunt me by calling me “College Girl.” I knew that I wanted to learn a foreign language and travel. I wanted to write. I wanted love. I wanted, as we all do, many things. The first plane I ever took carried me from New York City to Paris for a study abroad. I had no money, but the itinerary was covered by my tuition. I stored memories from France among others, much humbler, that had come before. Mont St. Michel approached at night, shimmering within an inky dark. Vineyards in the Vosges. Aubergine autumn skies. I saw chapels and churches, the Bayeux Tapestry and Grunewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece. Heaps of crutches from supposed miracle healings. Historical sites have their difficult stories, of course—complications and tragedies, lead in the roofing. The theme of the program was pilgrimage. I never saw Notre Dame, but as it burned this year, a sacred space within my life was burning, too. It was burning, and it burns still. It’s difficult to write about work right now, which had been my original mission. So the question is how to end this short post. I wish you health and, where applicable, the chance to safely rebuild.