7/24/2016 1 Comment Natchitoches, LAThe hot Louisiana sun beats down on my skin as beads of sweat form on my neck. When you’re this far south, even a summer breeze blows hot and angry, as if the devil himself were breathing it. Here, it is old. It is quiet and slow as the Cane River: once a waterway swift and powerful enough to carry boats all the way from New Orleans but since has retired to a lazy stream as we all seem to do with age. Here, it is plantation porches and wide-planked floors; they don’t quite make them like that anymore. They are marked with time, worn by the hundreds if not thousands of feet that have tread those dark-stained boards. Here, history is living in the walls and breathing in the live oaks. Oh, the stories we could tell if we were to chip away at these layers of wallpaper and paint. Oh, the secrets we would know if these trees could talk. They’ve seen it all. Faulkner was known to come to this sleepy little town, once a hub for artistic retreat and expression. As he wrote, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” It’s not past. It is very much here. I feel it, like the hot summer breeze. Dark and old and twisted, we are told only bits and pieces. We don’t want to think about it. It haunts us, it is the dark stain on the wide-planked floor of our ancestry. There is beauty to be found here, that is clear. But there is something else too, a feeling you can't shake. Eerie and looming, like the tall magnolias. Their branches stretch across to form a canopy of sorts, keeping it in, keeping it here. It’s not past at all. I now know why artists, starving and famed alike, came from far away to this little town in Louisiana. It is slow enough to recharge but there’s a vibrant, steady pulse of inspiration to push you forward. The food is good and the people are kind and it’s enough to brave the summer heat. Faulkner, Steinbeck, Chopin, and many more. All drew from their well of words to carefully craft masterpieces; I’d like to say this little town helped them. Chopin sat here, in this very room where I now sit with an ornate blue and white teacup and a copy of my favorite of her works. Right upstairs are my suitcases; maybe she stayed here a time or two as well. I can feel her here, she comforts me. I smile as I imagine her straying from the beautiful front parlor to chat with the gentlemen in the other room. She smokes a cigar and laughs too loudly for a lady. She is strong and she is beautiful and she breaks all the rules. I’d like to think that we would have been friends, Kate and I. This kindred spirit whose words inspire me to write, even if no one wants to hear it. They will hear you someday, she says, so just keep saying it. Say it loud and messy, say it straight and wide. Touch every soul you can, and say the things they need to hear even if they don’t want to talk about it. Push forward with the steady pulse and listen to the stories. Hear the secrets and know that the past isn’t past. The things you know as truth will pull us into the future, but will keep the past close. Let your pen drift like the lazy Cane River and watch as it empties you out. There is so much inside you, did you know it? It is lovely and wild and ugly and tame all in one. It is dark in how much you know but bright in how much you see. It is strong, but you are scared. And why are you scared? You have so much to give. So much to say. You just have to keep saying it. And then suddenly the hot summer breeze breathes on your skin and steadies you. You are grounded. You are ready to break all the rules. You feel the pulse and pick up a pen. Not because you want to but because you have to. And they will hear you, someday. This is why you write. . . . There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested. —Kate Chopin, The Awakening Written by Sarah
1 Comment
Dona Dixon
7/25/2016 07:34:33 am
So beautiful! Maybe perfect is the better word! Natchitoches obviously I inspired you as well. Well said, my sweet, smart, and sassy girl!
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