As I walked deeper into the woods I noticed a change in the atmosphere... not the air, the atmosphere... the feeling, the sense of a presence.  It was subtle, but very real, as though I had wandered into a parallel universe.  I was in the same woods, but I wasn't in the same woods.  I was standing in the unknown.  Not the unknown of a B movie spookiness with a threatening underscore of warning unknown.  An unknown whose pulse was inhumanly more serene and more present. Though I'm not sure if it was more present around me, or I was more present to it. Unintimidated, I walked deeper into the place that seemed to be waiting for me. Expecting me.   I became aware that, although I had no destination in mind when I started this stroll, the woods did.  Ahead of me was a face.  A big face.  Or head.  I wasn't sure.  I approached the face and saw that it was made out of stone.  Its cheeks and forehead of crumbling blocks; it eyes of windows; it's gaping mouth of what was once a door.  An abandoned chapel, overgrown with vines, dappled in branches.  And more.  Off to the side, a grave.  And the grave's headstone.  Old and bidding.  I went to it.  The carved lettering, barely discernible, had been worn by decades of soft Irish days.  But what could be read was this: Died 31 May 1930 at the age of eighty-one years.  I noted with irony that I was born on the 31st of May.  I brushed the moss off the name above the dates. It read: Catherine Dunne.  She was born in 1849.  And she was my great-grandmother.  Today, when I take my walk in the woods as I often do, I wonder if I will be invited back into a magical space, right next to where I am, where others wait for me.