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."
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
This day-trip was approximately 20 minutes further out than my usual excursions, but I knew the experience was going to be worth it, because I know Kara O'Brien and that's what she does best. I first met Kara and her partner Kate when my friend and I did a day trip to her Alpapa Bamboo Forest Tree House in the suburbs of Atlanta a few years back.
https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/13245035?source_impression_id=p3_1700309957_bV34XwIF9VkpeWxS
My belly tickles a little from excitement, mingled with a tad bit of respectful fear of the unknown zip code. The first stop was to pick up my friend on the way to Hot Damn Alabama. Per usual we talked non-stop for about 3 hours, plumb across the state of Georgia.
I told her the time zone should change soon and told her Alabama is in the central time zone and one hour behind us. She said "Oh", looking surprised and then told me, "I didn't know where we were going, I thought we were going to North Carolina.
I was cracking up, she was still talking, "I told Glenn and the kids that I really didn't care, I was just going wherever you were taking me."
The terrafirma started changing, we began ascending and descending Alabama’s rambling hills. Five hours and 30 minutes after I left my driveway, we pulled up to the gate of the Enchanted Forest. We would be staying in the Airbnb Fairy Tale Cabin, the first of the unique experience short term rentals that Kara is building here. The aptly named cabin is perched on a sloping woodline. Two river rock chimneys were the inspiration for the design. Kara happened upon them on a hike one day looking at properties. The 2 old forgotten chimneys called out to her to re-habitate the forest. Kara is a very good wordsmith and I won't even try to recall the work that has gone into the originality of this structure. She does it best, and I will provide the link for her to do so. My pics should tell the story pretty well too.
The end result of her labor leads to a rewarding rest for the weary and rejuvenation for the not so weary. Quiet solitude just oozes from this place. Bird-speak, quieted by breaking branches of other wild critters, reminds me of how earth once was, how it still can be if we don't cut everything down.
This place is just magical. Think antique barn wood planks, tin, glass doorknobs, and stained glass. No TV, no want for it. The kitchen has a beautiful granite countertop, the bath has a stone tile floor crafted with pieces of pottery and tile, and glass bottles from the initial clearing of the land here. There wasn't a single thing we needed on our trip, everything was thought out for us. We just dropped our bags, grabbed an apple, some cheese, and a couple of wine glasses and headed to the porch to dissolve the ride away in a Adirondack and nest swing.
I knew that I probably should read the guest book to get the where, when and why's, but I didn't want the act to bring me back from my swing/wine/apple and cheese induced state of being just yet. I cooked us some salmon on toasted English muffins, topped with over easy eggs and sided with avocado and brie. The double element cooktop was perfect for this.
Time stopped, literally. We could barely make it to 8 o'clock before climbing the ladder to the big comfy loft bed. Nicely weighted coverlets and good sheets, that's the ticket to slumberland. Oh, and the magnificent large sky light! A blanket of stars was the last thing I remembered that night.
The morning was a chilly 42 degrees. I made my tea extra hot and made my way to the nest swing on the porch. I was wrapped up in the couch blanket, steaming tea, hoodie pulled up when the sun crested through the tree's. Birds were waking, and I could hear the bray of cattle as they were being let out from stalls nearby. My friend joined me shortly. She and I migrated back and forth between making coffee and tea and back to the porch all morning.
Later I walked down the path to another plot that Kara is building, a thatch covered earthen home right smack into the hillside. It will be looking out over a steep embankment and into the brilliant sunrises over the valley below.
The evening was spent digesting the most wonderful authentic Mexican food ever from a restaurant Kara recommended. The night was creeping in as we returned. My friend enjoyed some time in the jacuzzi on the platform built around the second chimney that Kara happened upon that day. A huge barred owl flew off behind us as we relaxed more outside into the night. Okay, so it was only 7:30.
The next morning as I watched my friend latch the gate to the Enchanted Forest, I felt grateful for the time we spent together, the super long days of Alabama and my incredibly creative and talented friend Kara. I hope she keeps salvaging and building and making things to share for a long time to come.
https://www.alpacatreehouse.com/fairy-tale-cabin
