Middleton Place - Charleston, S.C.
"Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle shall not be shortened. Happiness (reassurance) never decreases by being shared."
~ Buddha
Driving north from Florida I stopped for a few days at a South Carolina setting I'd been to before, birthplace of planter and slave owner, soldier, politician, and signer in 1781 of the terms of British surrender and withdrawal from the American Revolution. Close to one hundred years had passed when, in February,1865, the homestead was occupied and almost completely destroyed by the 56th New York Regiment, burned ruins and the chaos of a violent and confusing emancipation left behind.
Following years of family efforts to restore the property, destruction roared through once again in 1886 in the form of an earthquake, taking with it all but a single wing of the original home. Today, in this same brick structure, the interested and curious can view a dining table in full dress - English bone china, silver cutlery and serving dishes - readied in a ghostly sort of way, as if waiting for the Middleton family to enter, sit, and be served by slaves who lived and worked the land - those whose hopes and dreams suffered the longest waiting of all.
With its exquisite plantings dating back to the 1700's, the land is now host to an inn, an equestrian farm, and a smattering of costly private homes barely visible through strands of low-hanging blue-green moss draped on limbs of ancient oaks. With every visit I think about the secrets and stories held in their thick brown trunks, rooted firm, on silent watch long before and since the fall of Charleston.
Some view the acres as a reminder of a time of unspeakable hardship, not to be memorialized, while others see them as a place where we're invited, even encouraged, to remember, remain vigilant, perhaps be a better people. An energy of character lingers in the air of the slave's tiny wooden chapel, a place for quiet reflection, asking us to question who and what we stand for, what we'll allow, and pointedly - do we, will we, can we - understand the value of life. And, there's a small wooden cottage, home for more than 40 years to a slave by the name of Ms. Eliza Leach, its simplicity a message of humility, in stark contrast to the way we live today, enslaved by choice, bound by responsibility tied to objects and status and longing for more.
On our first morning, the horses were out of their paddocks, paths empty, muddy and deeply rutted, but temporarily free for use. As I stepped out of the car - I realized a feeling of relief - reassured as boots sunk into the ground and my chest opened for the first time in days. Until that moment, breath was shallow, choked off with tension I blamed on hours of driving in heavy traffic, the heat of a smothering, blazing sun broken only by blinding rain and fog, and the hundreds of threatening, ungenerous fellow drivers crowding America's highways.
Added to the list of challenges - the night before, about 100 miles outside of Charleston, a piece of metal lodged into a rear tire. When the 'low air pressure' signal lighted, I pulled to the side of the road and under a darkening sky began emptying the trunk contents onto the edge of the highway. I'm not as brave as I used to be, not as cavalier. In one minute I felt small, facing a sky too wide and a world too big, dwarfed by deafening, aggressive sounds of thunder, fast-moving semis, and rain falling on bags, boxes and luggage. In the next, a kind and quiet man by the name of Alex, came to the rescue.
After changing the tire, speaking in a soft Southern accent, he suggested I keep my speed low - "take it easy on that spare until you make it into Charleston". He grabbed a pen out of his truck and on a piece of torn pink paper wrote his name and number, telling me to call if I had, "more trouble". His gentle goodbye, "Ma'am, you'll be okay.", gave me the courage I needed to keep going.
In less than a 1/4 mile a second warning signal flashed telling me the trunk latch wasn't holding. Again I emptied clothes and books and dog belongings onto the pavement, and with frustration overtaking fear rolled out the too bulky tire, rim and all, and left it behind on that same highway. Half crying, trying to both 'take it easy' and keep up with the push of traffic, grumbling turned into an admonition - I was not to ignore the good - I'd just met an angel named Alex. Off we went.
That next morning I walked slowly as my pup ran ahead, visibly thrilled, freed from her own silently shared stressors. My mind moved to thoughts of reassurance - it was there, in the words of the man who stopped to help, and here, in the scent of mud mixed with sweet-smelling air. Under the wings of loving oaks, we were safe.
We grow up thinking we're invincible - other people get sick, not us. Tragedy happens to people in the news, not us. We won't make the mistakes made by others. None of this is true. We're all vulnerable and no matter how hard we try, no matter how 'good' we might be, no matter how prepared and informed and sure - the tire will puncture and the latch won't hold. The need for reassurance shows up when we least expect it.
Perhaps the better way is to accept what's real in every life - there will be loss, there will be 9/11, there will be hurricanes and financial worries, health scares and endings, transitions, the unfamiliar and the sometimes exhausting familiar, there will be what we cannot control and what we never expect - at times like these, all of us find relief in the words, "You'll be okay".
When we notice, when we step out into the day in search of what's offered, we may find comfort in surprising places...
...in the flow between strangers talking on a bus, in the smile of the server who may not know you, but seems to sense your day is not the best, in the never forgotten voice of someone who will always love you, in the sparkling eyes of a newborn, the slow, side-to-side wag of a tail, changing seasons, gentle caring of a stranger on a highway, and in the struggles and messages left by those who came before, telling us somehow, some way - "you'll be okay".
ah
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thank you for visiting. Comments and suggestions are appreciated. Please pass posts on to friends, family and co-workers.
Like many of your photos, these, especially the ones with the horses, give me a sense of quiet, peace and beauty found in nature.
So honest, authentic and beautifully written. I felt your anxiety and even without Alex, you would have worked it out. Thank you for sharing and writing… a blessing on so many levels.
Beautiful and helpful, as always. Thank you, Austen.
Loved this slice of life. I could feel your anxiety dealing with the flat tire and the threatening sky and your relief, and my own, when your guardian angel came to your rescue.