I went to Athens this week to visit my parents and the cousins and a few good friends. We went to the Mary Lyndon House, the original mayor’s family home. It is on a little rise and faces due south. It has the most wonderful lighting. At the time of our visit, about 1:00 p.m., the front rooms were luscious with light. I would so love a studio office there…The fund that saved the home also built a first class art museum and community center with every kind of art studio for classes…I miss home. I saw lots of local works. They were beautiful and provoking. But nothing bore into me, stained me, until we were pulling out to go home. The yards of fairly old, 1920’s-1930’s, homes butt up against the parking lot of the Mary Lyndon. There was a rusted and crumpled fence, not chain link, at the edge of the property. All through that fence wound what looked like Forsythia, but the vine was larger and more supple and it was beginning to leaf but not bloom. That image impacted me…I don’t really know why, yet…It’s tied to something…a time, a story, a figure. I am not yet sure.
I drove around Wednesday afternoon in the rain looking for places, architecture, yard props, people, shrubbery and scenery. I saw hundreds of homes circa 1850 to present…. but the only thing that I SAW was that vine. All that called was the vine and this same place, not too far from Mary Lyndon, that has always spoken to me, and still speaks… I can hear it resonate and murmur. I can get near…But I can’t find it – I can’t get to it. I drove all the way around the property looking for a way in. But buildings have been built, fences erected. It’s covered over and corralled…but its speaking…still.
So I am going to meditate on that vine, what it made me feel and smell and taste and breathe all over again. I’m going to let the story come to me on its own, in its time…I felt a little tremble on the walkway of the Mary Lyndon, on those bricks laid so long ago…My breath caught looking out the great beveled glass window, front and center on the house. But that vine, who knows how long living…pulled…still pulls…the story is there. The story is there.
Around the edge of the place that speaks was a fence, not chained…wound round with vine…I remember now.