So... I've felt rather burdened by the bloody Baptism received by the "hand" of The Purification. Today's beautifully rejuvenating respite served as ample reminder that even among the most frightening and challenging aspects of my unique existence there always exists the sunshine to offset the darkness... Its too easy for me to become enraptured of the quiet death of Autumn. Sometimes it takes a breathtaking Spring day to really flush my cheeks. I considered meeting my boyfriend and some of his friends out for a drink, but eh... I've cleaned my bedroom, put my trinkets away. I think a night alone is best. Interactions are difficult for me. Social interactions that is. Maybe its due to the solitude I experienced in my formative years.
For me early life was one sequestered, but not skulking about in mausoleums and graveyards as you might expect, such gloomy pursuits were spent much later in life. Quite the opposite - I came into my current self immersed in splendid nature, And I'm talking natural nature, too - not the urban green spaces city-folk flock too before 9 a.m. so they may unleash their bandana'd, canine companions - bourgeois satisfaction plastered across chemically whitened smiles as though they're one with nature and one with humanity. Such hipster sentiment is bullshit.
I do envy them - even if it's ignorance I'm jealous of.
I truly grew up in the wild, lost among the ancient trees of the Appalachian foothills. The earliest spirits who spoke to me were ones of Gaea, the Earth Mother; creaking trees that if you listened close enough seemed to whisper as the wind rustled their lush, green leaves. They were playful and innocent - full of imagination, not tainted with the burdened perceptions of Mankind. My bare feet found first root in unsoiled soil; Earth not trodden with Man's heavy heels and heavier hearts. My first glimpses into a world apart from yours was framed by the gentile exploration of a wild child. The voices whistling among the song birds and splashing in the rivers of my native Georgia weren't something to be feared, but rather understood.
And there I romped and roamed and discovered a mysterious old farm site which I've simply named The Well.
The Well was a flattened patch hidden among natural coverage about two hours (on kid's legs) northeast of my family's land. A rotting oak which hid a family of bats, a fallen tree across a shallow gully upon which I dared to challenge my balance, a rocky outcrop covered with blue moss, which time and time again I pretended were the sapphires of an ancient dragon's treasure hoard - all map markers in a child's mind, who as an adult finds today's blaring horns and red/green/yellow lights more confusing and frightening - but still I'm there to face those things which everyone else would find much more horrific by comparison...
Not that I mind.
So following my trail, one would come across a most modest of areas - in the Winter rather nondescript save for a section of mossy logs laying across a gaping well.
But come springtime in the South - when Mama Nature is all gussied up in her fanciest emerald gown and colored jewels spill forth from her ample cleavage, and her perfume sends mortal men swooning and poets reaching for their quills (and pens) - you truly realize how the forest becomes a mystical place, a place where the mundane and mystical mingle.
And so I found The Well on one of my many stomps through the acres. My ever faithful companion, Possum, by my side. Oh, Possum. What a good dog. Golden mutt - one of my earliest memories is my dad asking what I wanted to name the dog that just showed up (as dogs do in the country) and I said Possum. They also simply disappear in the country, as Possum did. He was a good dog.
Did he lead me to The Well? Maybe... I still see him in my dreams from time to time. The golden guardian who perhaps knew more about my Fate than any dog should have - not even Lassie! But this boy never fell down The Well.
I simply sat beside it, in the glory of flowers which weren't wild - tulips, daisies, morning glories and daffodils. They were a colorful audience who eavesdropped on my discussions with (very likely) my first spiritual communication - the old lady, long dead, at the bottom of her well.
I never got her name. There are a few different rumors regarding who she was. Depending on when you wish to place the classic Southern misogyny and racism, she was either a kind, old medicine woman who was raped, beaten and tossed into the well by filthy heathen Cherokee Indians or a kind, old medicine woman who was raped, beaten and tossed into the well by filthy runaway slaves.
Go figure.
I never had the opportunity to ask her which miscreant minority it was who raped, beat and tossed her into her well. Quite the contary, we spoke of gentler things. Bear in mind that I spoke to her a decade before I ever heard such colorful rumors. It wasn't until I was at the University of Georgia, that I realized the fabled old medicine woman was very likely the same old lady I'd been discoursing with for so many Springs as a curious young'un.
Talking to her felt so serene, so free of the anger and the fear that pours off the living. Her tinny little voice echoing from deep below. I remember practically whispering back, for fear of someone (my nosy little brother especially) hearing and ruining my secret talks. Those breezy Spring days, when I'd pack a pimento cheese sandwich and inform my mother that I was off to stomp around the woods, hatchet in hand - they remain some of the fondest memories from a childhood often plagued by a variety of worrisome topics.
But Mankind doesn't slow down for childhood memories and secret spaces. About twelve years ago most the land north of my family's property was purchased by a pulp wood company. They unceremoniously shaved the entire area, replanted saplings and moved on. Nothing familiar remained,
I've tried to retrace the path. When home (rarely) for holidays, I've called out into the wild for the old woman's answer... nothing. Part of me wonders if the darker deeds I've witnessed (and pursued) have pushed my kind, childhood friend away. Or maybe she, like some spirits, exist in a particular space and time. Or maybe she just needed an innocent child's ear. And luckily enough a child was there to listen; someone like that ghostly old lady - part of his world, but part of the darkness too.
