Cave Spring

I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a draught going on. The governor of North Carolina tells us we're supposed to SAVE WATER, so I'm doing what I can. The best way I know to do this is to start by simply being mindful. Do I really need to be showering this long? I'm clean now--I could just get out. What if I hand-wash this sinkful of dishes instead of putting them all in the dishwasher? Do I really need to flush? Important questions to ponder. Just being mindful.

In Georgia, the governor's declared a state of emergency for the northern part of the state, and is asking for prayer. When I heard this news, it connected with some deep place in me. My preacher granddaddy would have been bemused by this, I think, but I'm pretty sure he would have encouraged his congregation to add their voices to the growing swell. Fishin's lousy when the lake's low. And he definitely believed in the power of prayer.

North Georgia water has been important to my family for decades. Our special secret lake is in northwest Georgia--our own magical family haven. Our sunshine-filled memories there go back to my mom's childhood--or would, if dementia hadn't stolen them away. I have pictures from back then.

I find myself thinking of Cave Spring, an old Georgia town not far away where we'd often go while we were at The Lake. Less than an hour from our haven, the historic cave in Cave Spring was always mysterious. And nobody in the family will forget the one year they actually had a perky tour guide to show us around the cave's small rooms, educating us knowledgably about the "stactalites and staglamites," now long gone, that had formerly graced its ceiling and floor.

It still only costs a dollar to go in and explore the cave's depths by the light of the bare bulbs hanging from the rough, damp ceiling. I know, because we went this past summer. My beloved, my children, my cousins and I all made our way over there, explored the cave, splurged on ice cream (never did THAT when I was a kid!), and waded in the ever-flowing water emerging from the cave.

It's not just about the cave after all. It's Cave Spring. It's just as much about the water. People, all kinds of people, still bring their jugs from miles around to collect the sparkling water flowing from deep underground. Cold. Clear. Clean. Free. Somehow more honest than the water that comes out of the faucet or comes in little plastic bottles from the store.

I just looked on the internet to see if I could find out, even in this time of Great Draught, if the water is still flowing at Cave Spring. My Google search turned up nothing.

But I don't really need to find out. I think I know. After all, I haven't blogged since March, and yet here I am.

The water still flows. I believe in it.

If I'm thirsty, it's there.

Life & Death

Today,
to mark the third anniversary
of my dad's passing,
I held a
four-day-old baby
against my chest
for an hour,
his tiny heart beating
against mine.
It gave me
hope.

> ding <

Fresh Water from Old Wells. The title of my book-to-be. I've been thinking a lot about that title lately, bustin' it wi-i-i-ide open. I thought I knew what the fresh water and the old wells were, so I set out to figure out how I could fit them together. As I started trying to fit them, I realized that I actually didn't know exactly what they were. Time to back up.

I was pretty sure I knew what the old wells were. My roots. Where I came from. My parents and grandparents. Where our family lived. All that stuff. So I needed to figure out about the fresh water.

Fresh water, fresh water. I've been going on the assumption that it's me--me in the present, what I'm learning, the now. But as I explored this over the last few days, it became clear that fresh water is, to me, something much more specific. I came across a quote from my blog last April, and realized I'd known what fresh water was all along:

Buddha said that carrying one's anger is like holding a burning-hot stone in your hand.

I'm hoping that new understanding
will help me
finally
trade the hot weight of resentment
for the cool water of forgiveness,
running lightly across my fingers.

For me, fresh water is and has always been forgiveness. Ahh--that quiet ping of recognizing something that I've known all along. That's when I know it's real. I printed it out and stuck it on the wall above my new fountain.

Okay, so fresh water is understanding and forgiveness. Then what are the old wells? Time to rethink that, too. This morning I got up and knew I needed to go for a walk. In fact, I knew exactly where I needed to go, through a nearby neighborhood to a high hill overlooking my little valley. It's rare that my walks have that clear a destination, so I figured I'd better head that way.

Along the way there were several points when I nearly veered off in a different direction.

It's cold. I could go up that way, and be home for breakfast sooner.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.
I could head straight down that way, and see cows and fields.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.

Here's the amazing part: when I got to the top of that neighborhood, set my foot at the top of the hill, an idea popped into my head, lightbulb-style.

The old wells are the stories.

There it was. Not the past, not the people, not the places. The stories. I sat down to think. If the old wells are the stories that I've been collecting from all these amazing people across the South, then the fresh water truly is my new perspective on all of it. Forgiveness. Cool water running lightly across my fingers.

As the pieces settled into place, a gentle breeze stirred the windchimes to life on a porch nearby.

Ding, ding. Right answer.

Somebody's got a sense of humor.

WATERMELON!

At the end of my recent crisis, I recognized that I would truly be heartbroken if I give up on my dream now. So I built a little fountain for my study, with special lake rocks and a slender candle, and recommitted myself to the effort.

Yesterday I opened myself up to the whatever’s next that’s out there, brainstormed a little, watched my burbling fountain. Eventually it became clear that the only thing to do was get out in the woods with the dog. So I did.

I drove on the parkway for a little bit and found a pull-off where I could get on a familiar trail. Zip up the coat, dog out of the car . . . I was only about ten steps into the woods when I heard my dad’s voice in my head as clearly as if he were on the path right behind me.

I hope you’re ready, ‘cause this thing’s fixing to BUST WI-I-I-I-DE OPEN. Like a big ole ripe watermelon on the concrete. There’s gon’ be seeds and juice EVERYWHERE!

I wasn’t afraid—his voice sounded like he’s as excited about it as I am. And he’s rooting for me.

I’m not sure what it means yet, but I’ve got my pen out. I’m ready.

And I do love watermelon.

Taking it all for granite

My daughter Katie loves rocks. Always has. Show her a gravel driveway and she’s happy for hours—discovering, examining, imagining. To me, an expanse of gravel. To Katie, ROCKS!

One of her favorite Christmas presents was a collection of rocks from all over the world. It’s a clear plastic box with fifteen little compartments, each holding two versions of the same rock—one polished, one not. A nascar driver and an opera singer in each little pocket. What a concept.

Given Katie’s geologic tendencies, when our family went to Atlanta for a January getaway last weekend, it made sense for our first stop to be Stone Mountain. I was the only one of us who had ever been there, and hadn’t been back since our family moved to North Carolina when I was ten. I had blurry memories of Stone Mountain—family picnics by the lake, almost-ripe persimmons (yuck!), swimming in the mill pond, resting at the halfway house on the way up the trail, watching a blimp flying overhead on a gray winter’s day, so close I thought I could almost touch it. Happy memories. It’s good to remember that I have them.

When we got there this time it only seemed vaguely familiar. The big carving on the side of the mountain is unforgettable, of course: Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis, all on horseback, as tall as a five-story building. An imposing trio. But the amusement park-style development around the base of the mountain is new. None of that was there thirty years ago, and John and I were just as glad that part was closed for the winter. We decided to splurge on tickets to ride the skyway to the top, and then hike the trail down.

After a quick ride up, I emerged from the shiny building to find that the mountain top was just as I remembered it. A huge expanse of curved granite with all the busy-ness of metropolitan Atlanta spread on all sides below. It took my breath.

As I stood taking it all in, my eye wandered to three men dressed in burgundy robes and sneakers. The older of the three was engaged in a halting conversation with a young woman wearing a sari with a baby in her arms—they clearly didn’t know each other. I drew closer and they welcomed me with smiles, so I perched on a ledge and listened. He was a Tibetan monk, an abbot, in fact, and she was asking about his religion, why he seemed so happy, his opinion about why most people are angry (“including me!” she said. “Especially in the morning,” her husband chimed in), and how she could be more like him, more serene in the midst of the ups and downs of her chaotic family.

As I sat and listened, looking out from that amazing mountaintop, I thought, no matter how humans may deface mountainsides and build tacky things, there will always be sacred places in the world that transcend all of it. If you pay attention, in the midst of the metropolis, the sacred places are still there. Thirty years later. Thousands of years later. Still there.

My life has felt out of whack lately. I nearly gave up on my dream of writing a book. I’ve been trying to think about priorities and the now clichéd concept of the “big rocks” in my life, the things that matter most.

Maybe I need to focus on the sacred spaces instead. When I stop and listen to the wind, I realize that the big rocks, the things that matter, are the sacred spaces in my life. It’s the sacred spaces that matter most.

But I have to see them as amazing rocks, not just gravel, to realize how sacred they are.