At Summer's last Gasp, Ken had to work the weekend so I decided to do my own mini-retreat. I've done this in our past on occasion, when I needed solitude to assemble homeschool study plans or to bring focus to a difficult season. It's not my favorite thing to do, in actuality. I don't really like to be alone, certain that I'm missing out on something. But life these last few months has my brains feeling like scrambled eggs, so I thought a tiny respite might do us all some good.
I needed the sound of moving water, and immediately thought of Cave Spring, Georgia. It's less than an hour away, a delightful park with a fresh, bubbling spring right in the middle of it. You can bring your own bottles and fill them up with delicious water to take home. There are park benches and swings. It feels like you have gone back in time when you are there.
I wheeled into the little grocery store in town and stocked up on fruit and snacks. It sadly seemed like it had gone downhill since the last time we were there. The shelves were sparse, it was dirty and unkempt and the cashier seemed world-weary. I wish for every small town to flourish, which seems to be a difficult thing these days. Unbeknownst to me, this was the weekend for the annual Pickle Festival in Cave Spring. I wasn't prepared for any significant amount of walking, as I still have a big, honkin' boot on my left leg because of a pesky Achilles tendon that refuses to heal. My masseuse friend reamed the thing out last week, and it's starting to feel better, but I didn't have a Granny Mobile to spend long hours perusing booths and merchandise. It's probably for the best, as I spent enough money in the little local stores. The prices are amazing and the eclectic antiques store is my favorite. Since we live in a true Victorian house with a massive yard, it is only right that I should fill it up with statuary, and they have it in spades. I found the perfect concrete coach boy there last time, and he's now painted and standing guard over our front gate. I've always admired the statue that is on the front of the book "Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil" (have never read it, though)...the little girl holding two containers (presumably weighing light and darkness?) that stands in Savannah. As I wandered the antique store, they had replicas of her, already stained and aged. She came home with me, to Ken's chagrin. He always marvels at the weight of these things but somehow manages to drag them around until I've found the perfect spot. Now, what to place in each hand? Glass orbs seem just the right thing. Maybe I'll get some with fairy lights in them.
The weekend was sweet, silent, contemplative. I prayed, read, watched nature and the squirrels around me at the house where I stayed. Nighttime was strange and scary, but I slept like a baby with my gun beside me. I don't know what will happen if Ken goes before me (that ain't happening, unless he messes up with his NASCAR-qualifying-driving. His DNA definitely trumps mine). I'll have a Granny-pod built and will strive to torture my kids, rotating locations every six months.
By Saturday afternoon, I was feeling the need to see people. I trundled to the park with my Bible and journal, and took up residence on a bench. It's hard to write and read with such interesting characters coming and going. Rolater Park is very special to me. There's an ancient church house there and an old schoolhouse. We were supposed to have our daughter Elizabeth's wedding there, until Covid shut it down three weeks before the event in 2020. We had all the flowers and decor ready, but instead celebrated right in our backyard, with the heady scent of the magnolias blooming around us. It was magical. When our dear niece was looking for a venue a couple of years ago, we all piled in and did her wedding at Rolater. Four days of sweat and hard labor, but it was gorgeous.
As I was musing over all these things on Saturday, I got warm and had the urge to get my feet wet in the spring. There were two older couples at the little bridge who had already pulled off their shoes and were chatting in other languages. I settled in right next to them, and within minutes, a precious woman named Tara and I recognized that we were kindred sisters. We spoke of our families, our lives, our Lord. Wisdom spilled from her heart and I ended up in tears. Maybe she was some kind of angel, as the things she spoke about were the very things I had prayed about over the weekend. As the dark descended, her family sang a beautiful hymn that spilled out over the lawn.
We embraced as we said our goodbyes, a new friend I may never see again in this life. Beauty and goodness in unexpected places.
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