The Worm Hole at the Piggly Wiggly

I walked into a grocery store this week in a town that I don't go to often. I lived there once, in a world that seems so far removed from me now. It was just going to be quick stop to get green peanuts for a boil. It was 2025 when I walked in, but within seconds, it was 1971.

The throwback hit first with the smell of the store, it was as if the concrete walls had absorbed the decades bygone.

The aisles were laid out the same, people talked in the aisles like they did in the 70's and 80's. I could see my grandmother in a wool cap on a hot June day mulling over the smoked meats looking for a few good pieces to cook her beans. I saw my mother arguing with the meat manager about bologna she bought that went bad too soon (she was a Karen), all of us kids would disappear when she lit into someone.

Grave stands and bright colored funeral flowers lined the top of the frozen food aisle as they always had. And I saw my own kids begging for a quarter to get Tootsie Pops at the register. I went out the door and looked to the left, half expecting to see the mechanical pony that the girls used to ride while they ate those lollipops. It was gone, but not really, the imprint from my memory conjured it again.

I got into the car, Don was waiting. as I opened the door and looked at him, I realized that he wasn't part of those memories. We have been together for 41 years, how could he not have been with me? Am I really old as Methuselah?

I told him how surreal that little run was, it was as if I had fallen into a worm hole. Memories are strange, powerful, terrible and beautiful things aren't they?

I hope your memories, your dejavu, your conjuring's of mind soul and body are as blessed as mine on my favorite day.

Muse musings

I love that Don and I can dream together. That I can bring up crazy questions and he will play along with me. Questions like this from last night, inspired by a photo of a cliff that looked like one from Avatar, a lone man standing atop it and a small beaten path that seemed to be carved out for his trek alone. 

"If you could go remove all manmade obstacles, and tourist from a single place to have just to yourself, where would you go?"   

Yes, that is my muse asking — she has kept me content that I can see without going. That's what imagination can do. I know who my muse is, without a doubt. I walk with her and talk with her every chance I get, Creation. She is outside of every window I peer out. Every door that is closed is Narnia's portal.

My muse opens the jetties for me, fills me with inspiration, makes me believe in impossibilities, tells me not to confine myself to the grounded plains, to a calendar of years, but to reach now, today, for the skies, the treetops and beyond. 

She's taught me to see what lies beneath the plastic and metal rebar and pylons. I can mentally remove everything from a scene. The big house on the peninsula, the dock, the boat, the cell towers, mosquitoes, and then, there it is — creation. The tundra is no longer private with million dollar price tags, it belongs to all of us, and always leads me to the ultimate creator. 

I've been blessed to live in some beautiful places and there are some that I've longed to visit so badly, so long forgotten, not even on an  an Atlas. I want to trek there by foot, like a nomad, holding a stick to a ground charged with the long dead sinew of the extinct eastern Chestnut, and the nascent frozen tundra of the ice age beneath it. My stick with a point would remove all obstacles and trappings of man along the way. Yes, that would be my superpower, busting obstacles. 

And — all of this while I plan what I'm cooking for dinner.  Can y'all tell I'm reading The Chronicles of Narnia? lol. Read books, get inspired. 

The photo is mine, taken at Biltmore, Asheville. 

Mama Got A Squeeze Cloth, Daddy Never Sleeps at Night.

 

I was pulling my "squeeze towel" down to twist all of the excess water out of the squash to make our squash fritters today. I keep those old cotton threadbare towels for just this purpose, mostly because I don't like the feel of cheesecloth on my hands, I know, that's weird.

Anyway, I looked at the towel and laughed, thinking of the similarities in the old worn out rag and myself. We've both wiped a tear or two, wiped up a hot mess, been washed of it all, and hung out to dry fresh and renewed.

God, a Monk, and a Little Girl, Go Fishing

In 1966, I was 8 years old, a newly transplanted minion via divorce, when we moved to a little white house near Main Street in Moncks Corner from Chicago. We moved during the summer, a totally different fresh hell than I experienced up north. One of the first things I found out was that — Carolina moms put their kids out a daylight after breakfast and retrieved them, miraculously sound by dusk. It didn't take long to find new friends to commiserate with. Debbie was the first friend I can remember. 

There seemed to be a pretty large pack of kids on our street, we gathered on a curb shortly after breakfast and mulled around until someone came up with a plan on how to spend the day. We found ways to cool off under shady oaks or creeks that grown ups didn't know traversed the woods nearby. A few of the mom's occasionally felt sorry for us and would come outside to bust open a cold watermelon on a picnic table to disperse. 

I was fortunate to have reprieve, jaunts with my friend Debbie and her family. Her grandfather was a supervisor of some sort on a plantation nearby. I believe it was Gippy, but I can't be positive. I know that I traipsed a few magical plantations that summer with Debbie; Medway, Mulberry and Rice Hope, never realizing how privileged I was to have this backdoor experience until later. Somehow even at the young age of 8, I knew that the dark hands and dripping backs of the workers on these beautiful places were the sacrificial foundation of their majestic presence. 

Debbie's grandmother took us fishing. We pushed off in a little jon boat with a small engine into the Cooper River from a boat house so thickly disguised by flora that the temps dropped 20 degrees it seemed. In the reedy inlets near the plantation, I caught my first fish on a short pole with a bobber. When I pulled it in, it was eaten by a larger fish that got away. I can still see the alarm in the freshy dead fish's eye glaring up at me from the bed of the boat. But their was no alarm in the occupants of the boat. Debbie's grandmother chuckled and told me to throw the line back into the water to catch a bigger fish, and I did. I have done so several times since. 

Was it an ode to the future? My first sermon? Or just elementary particles of the universe coming together haphazardly?     

We moseyed across the tidal Cooper River. The boat stopped and the engine was cut off. We drifted while watching the bobbers intently. I saw a group of 15 or so hunched white men with hoes and scythes in brown belted dresses and straw hats just beyond the marsh. I remember wondering how in the world they could stand wearing all of those clothes on such a hot day.  

I asked quietly on that still river, "Who are they?" 

Debbie's grandmother said, "They are monks." 

That wasn't enough info for this kid. "But, who are they?" I asked again. 

Debbie's grandmother didn't answer but Debbie told me that they were men who never got married. 

And that's where I left that until the first dictionary or encyclopedia a few years later told me more. What I gathered was that monks deprived themselves of the privilege's of life to dedicate and consecrate themselves to a life of adoration and worship of Christ. They were a self sustaining group that normally farmed and sold their abundance to fund charitable organizations in their communities. 

Fast forward 20 years and I was once again on that serene river with Don at Mepkin Abbey as we took in the beauty of spring on a trip down from the NC foothills. I looked at a plot of land to the right on the monastery where a few monks gardened and it felt as if I were 8 years old again. Could any of them be ones I saw two decades ago I wondered. 

Another decade goes by and I take my granddaughter here for a picture day. I look at the plot of land near the marsh and remember the day bygone that I saw the monks once again. 

I visited on Christmas once with my friend as well. A beautiful Creche gallery was the draw. 

Having gone to Mepkin in all seasons but summer, I picked up my sister one day to take a tour for the first time, previous times I just walked the grounds. It was sooo hot!  I don't remember the brother who guided our small tour of 6 people. The name Brother Francis comes to mind though, he was well advanced in years and smart as a whip. A botanical, universe, local, historical, and religious history lesson ensued for the next hour. Down one of the pea gravel path's he took out a small matchbox from his pocket from which he said held enough weaponization to kill tens of thousands of people along the eastern seaboard. 

"Do you want to see?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

I did, and moved in closer. The little box held beautiful red and brindle colored beans. After we ogled them, he slid them back into his pocket and pointed to the beautiful large leafed flowers behind him. The Castor plant produces the bean/seeds. The toxin in castor seeds is ricin, one of the deadliest natural poisons, estimated as 6,000 times more poisonous than cyanide. The apple in the Garden of Eden so to say gave the brother an ironic story to share in Mepkin Abbey. A mosquito swole to the size of a large fly on his eyebrow as he talked with us. My sister told him about it but he didn't flinch. I read in Thomas Merton's book The Seven Storey Mountain, that the gnats and fly's were penance as well and were not to be swatted.  But, I do believe the frequency of those bites would have been much less in Kentucky than coastal South Carolina. Anyway, I would be asking for a lot of forgiveness myself for that one. Before leaving Mepkin Abbey that day, I once again felt the connection to the invisible spot in the water where I sat in a jon boat, with a friend and her grandmother so many years ago. .  

So, here I am 58 years later, closing the cover on Thomas Merton's book, The Seven Storey Mountain. What possessed me, a protestant with no knowledge of Catholicism, to pick up this book this past Christmas? And is it providence once again to finish it on Palm Sunday, 2000 ish years later as Jesus entered Jerusalem on the back of a donkey? I told myself when I questioned why in the world I was buying the book, that it was to understand what makes a monk, just as I questioned the grandmother in the boat the day I first saw them. 

I have seen reference to Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk in several books over the years but nothing to make sense of the purchase. On the pages, I found beautiful writing, and difficult to understand ramblings. I thought my last few months of reading were going to be futile, but too far in to stop now, I finally found a pea graveled path once again, in Gethsemani with Father Merton and ended it here, on the Sabbath, my favorite day. 

I knew nothing of the Order. Nothing of the Cistercians, and not until the last 20 pages did I know that the church that he wrote of, "that was being planned for the deep south" in 1949, was Mepkin Abbey. I quickly Googled Mepkin Abbey to find that indeed it was. 

For me the short answer to my lifelong question of  "What is a Monk?" is, an individual with intense dedication to contemplation of God. A worthy endeavor and one rarely examined for its intensity. The rewards of such devotion to Christ would take Merton and countless others until the end of time to deluge, but he helped me to see contemplating Christ in a different way and enabled my small jaunt of Godly mysticism (which isn't encouraged, but manifested) in the closing chapters of his novel.  

Mepkin Abbey was established with 29 monks in Moncks Corner on the Cooper River in 1949. 15 years later, my 8 year old self was fishing in the Cooper River when that big fish took a bite of my little fish and then I caught a big fish with the little fish head and saw the monks. Whether it is my mysticism, or God's, or just a grand ole fish story, my take away is that deep goes deep and the reward that you seek, may be on the last page, continue the quest. God through his infinite wisdom joined Merton and I through his novel, two souls over time and space, he affirmed that I am always (unless by willful denial of his guidance), in the exact place he wants me to be.  

I am so glad that he shared his faith, and lack of it. Little did Merton know, that it would will ripple out into the universe and come back to land on a little girl in a boat and stay with her the rest of her life.  This is from the last page of Merton's book that I just finished. "Your solitude will bear immense fruit in the souls of men you will never see on earth. Do not ask when it will be or where it will be or how it will be: On a mountain or in a prison, in a desert or in a concentration camp or in a hospital or at Gethsemani, it does not matter."   

Dream, Dream, Dream

 

Zoe is twitching, all four paws are trotting in a dream as she lays by me while I write this morning. I whispered "I know how you feel girl."

I told Don this week that I've concluded that I really don't like to dream. They are unsettling in the least. And here I am up at 5:30 writing because of them. As flightly as I am, one would think that is odd for me to say. But, I don't like the feeling that they are unsolved, I don't like the questions unanswered they seem to ask.

I do believe there is some residue that we take of them throughout the day, whether good or bad. I seek the best of people, art and music, and books to "dream" during consciousness, so — the unstable and shifty patches of sleep at night are bothersome when compared to them.

However, saying that, I do enjoy a good flight and that has been a recurring dream since childhood. I can lift my arms and glide un-ossified through time and space. Weightless it seems, so much so that the landings are almost unattainable and I usually wake myself flying.

After Mickie died I would try to dream, I would hope to spend time in any space with her. Those too are usually brief, and don't leave me with the joy I thought they would. I can do little but tolerate them now.

I don't want dreams to go away either. I'm not foolish enough to think that they aren't part of the wirings of God and — I do want to keep all communication lines open.

Zoe just woke from her twitching's and immediately wanted to go outside. Perhaps to search for the elusive rabbit of those dreams.

True Indigo An Illustrated Biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney, Planter and Patriot

I cannot fathom a need arising for a biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney ever again. Dianne Coleman — artist, author extraordinaire has raised the bar to dizzying heights with her just released book, True Indigo, An Illustrated Biography of Eliza Lucas Pinckney, Planter and Patriot.

 Eliza Pinckney was a determined trailblazer in young America. She endured battles, diseases and maladies that had my knees trembling as I read them. Eliza tried, failed, tried again and finally succeeded in producing a royal grade Indigo. But Eliza did so much more, she persevered, and was personally responsible for the documentation and introduction of a large variety of plant and animal species to our coastal communities.

  

The (Indigo) seeds were planted in the mind of True Indigo's author, Dianne Coleman approximately 25 years ago while attending a family gathering in Asheville, NC. A relative mentioned that there was a leg of their family that was distantly related to Eliza Lucas Pinckney. The seeds took hold and for the next 25 years, Dianne has pursued the mesmerizing tales of one of South Carolina's first feminist. Dianne spent years reading the journals and letters of Eliza that are still in existence, and absorbing every publication and tidbit of information available to compose this beautiful composition. 

The book itself is absolutely coffee table worthy. It arrived with an Indigo blue ribbon inside as a bookmark, the ribbon is identical to the choker ribbon that Eliza wears on the book cover. Every single page, including chapter notes and bibliography is beautifully illustrated by Dianne, with some period and artist renderings mingled in. The maps are exquisitely detailed. I found myself scanning the pages with a magnifying glass to better take in the details.

  

I had no intention of reading the book in a few short sittings, but there I was, curled up on the couch with this book while a half taken down Christmas tree and other decorations glared at me out of the corner of my eyes. 

  

Ms. Coleman, an artist and botanist herself, identified with the endeavors of the blue handed woman Eliza Pinckney. That kinship is evident in the details of each page. The artwork is amazing, and the perfect compliment to the pages of Eliza's story.

 

Although her home is in Winston-Salem, NC, her curiosites and research brought her to the lowcountry for many trips to walk in the footsteps of her subject, Eliza. The bond she feels with Eliza from the research and telling of this book is evident. Ms. Coleman stated that she felt most connected to Eliza on the Hampton grounds outside of McClellanville, SC.

 

The story of Eliza is woven around the history of Charleston and surrounding communities; Settlement wars, slavery, separation from England, hurricanes, fires, disease and maladies long gone, weave through the lives of Eliza Pinckney and her family. 

I personally have learned more about Charleston history and flora than I ever have from any single volume book. The index and bibliography are astounding and I went down a few rabbit holes just from those. 

I can truly see this biography being enjoyed by anyone, from pre-teen to 100 years old. I believe it would be a wonderfully informative book on colonial living to introduce into schools and other learning institutions as well.

The book will be available on Amazon soon. I look forward to seeing her at a few book signings here in the lowcountry and will update this story as needed with those dates. In the meantime you can purchase the book and contact Ms. Coleman at the link below. 

https://www.facebook.com/ElizaLucasPinckneyPlanterPatriot