A Pilgrimage, Of Sorts

Field Notes II.III: A journey to an unlikely location in Middle Georgia

Welcome to Field Notes!

What qualifies as an adventure? Does it have to be an adventure in order to write an adventure story about it? This trip was about helping my Mom get to a place very dear to her. Its not my usual type of desination. There is no wilderness, no backpacking, no danger or discomfort. I originally considered dropping her off and driving an extra hour to stay overnight at a state park, but she made arrangements for me to stay at this place. I’m glad. I was surprised by its tranquil beauty and the great people I met.

This was a quiet and contemplative time, yet still a new location for me to explore and spend time outdoors. I think, perhaps, it was an adventure of the soul. So, here is the story.

Lets go!

Farmland and pine trees. This is what comes to mind at the mention of Middle Georgia. It does not draw attention for dramatic scenery or wilderness adventures. It is flat, rural, and in my imagination quite featureless. Yet here, east of the town of Dublin, below the fall line marking the shores of the prehistoric seas and in the midst of the coastal plain, is situated a house of worship. And here I must go.

My mother is a devout Catholic. She grew up attending incense filled chapels in Austrian villages, resonating with echoing chanted rituals. She carried this faith with her as she immigrated to the new world and has maintained it all of her life.

For almost 20 years Mom has attended this house of worship in Middle Georgia for retreat, prayer, silence, and communion with people she values on a spiritual level. Lately, her health has declined and she no longer drives a car. I ask her about places I can take her to see or visit. She has one answer. The house of prayer. In Middle Georgia.

We leave in the afternoon for the three hour drive south. She naps and the uneventful highway miles whip past the windows in a blur. Afternoon unwinds into early evening as we turn onto tiny, cratered country roads. Astringent light from the low winter sun throws sharp shadows of bare trees across furrowed fallow fields. The open acres of earth are dark and wet from recent storms.

The house of prayer is actually a cluster of old, nondescript rural houses situated together on a sizable tract of farmland and woods. We arrive and settle our belongings into the guest house. Through a window I see the sun through the trees, inches from the horizon. I excuse myself, grab my camera, and photograph the last moments of light reaching across white seed heads of brown January flora in the yard. The moment passes and I explore the property, discovering established trails all around. In silence I witness the eastern skies intensify to a crescendo of post sunset pink above the still, gently sloping terrain. Somewhere in the dark damp forest a tree frog sings a lonely aria of homage for these lands.

Upon my return Mom and I go to the main house for dinner. Over a home cooked meal of venison chili and collard greens grown in their garden, I become acquainted with our hosts. They have a genuine concern for my mother, and are grateful for her delivery here once more. There is a level of familiarity amongst us and I realize that in some respect they already know me through stories relayed to them over the years. I find them to be humble, authentic, truly good people.

The small, minimalist rooms here contain a bed and a desk. On the desk rests the book Celtic Benediction, by J Philip Newell. It is Wednesday night, so I open it to the passage Wednesday Night Prayer-

‘Yours is the day, yours also the night, you made the luminaries of the sky, the sun, moon, and stars.’ -Psalm 74:16

Silence

Be still and aware of God’s presence within and all around.

In the early morning I awake to the stillness of the guest house. Mom still sleeps. In darkness I make my way to the kitchen. A ceramic wind chime softly clinks from an impalpable breeze gently exhaled by the heating vents. So many unspoken words surround me on brimming silent bookshelves as I sit, sip coffee, and wake.

Stars outside are obscured by thin, hazy clouds. I follow the tree line to the south field. Empty and open, the sandy soil cradles the wide expanse of the sky. Darkness still reigns and I continue to explore. Back to the wood line, through the yard of the guest house, and now to the north field. This land also sprawls empty, with striated rows of young grasses beginning to sprout.

The sky to the east grows pale. The north field is contained in a perimeter of trees and I circle it, trying to find an angle for the sunrise. Much walking and I am unsatisfied.

Clouds on the horizon blush. Time begins to slip by quickly in the fading dark. Camera, tripod, and camera bag in hand, I run. Back around the north field, my boots turn up sandy soil with each step. I may be able to cut through the forest and reach the south field in time, but the skies grow paler each second. I see a path and follow it into the trees. It leads in the right direction, but a short distance into the woods I stop. Here the trail leads up to the banks of a hidden pond nestling clusters of tall grasses while leafless hardwoods watch over from above. I stand still and inhale the serenity. Silhouetted ducks fly overhead, wings whistling as they flap.

This location asks for more light to be photographed. I set a time lapse camera behind and continue along the trail, emerging into the south field. Here the land slopes upward to a farmhouse on the horizon before the rising sun. The silent orchestra of flourishing orange and yellow performs before me and I make many photographs.

I return to the pond, which has experienced a more subdued daybreak. The setting is still worthy of more photos, and I choose my compositions with a careful reverence.

Slowly, I meander back to the guest house. Mom is awake and we have breakfast of home baked bread, butter, and honey amidst the bookshelves. She continues visiting with our hosts, receiving the comfort and guidance they provide her. I sit in reflection among the unknown volumes of publications and all of the human experiences contained within. Time settles and stretches. This house of prayer has re-defined my idea of Middle Georgia, and given an awareness of the sacred existing in every corner of this world.

A window reveals the soft light of an overcast January day. I sit and await our return.

Thanks for joining me on this journey! I hope that these images and words have brought you some ideas or inspiration for your own explorations. I’d love to hear about them, so let me know in the comments!

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