February 13, 2014 – Lovely County Citizen – Page
The Village Writing School We seem to be on a metaphysical roll, with today’s piece coming on the heels of last week’s discussion of morphic fields by Shiva Shanti. This week, Tandy Belt tells a little of the journey by which she realized that she possesses retrocognition, the awareness of the past. Tandy’s novel in progress is based on a story that she discovered during a stroll through Lost Trace Cemetery (name changed), a truth long hidden but that surfaces again, as stories will.
I
Lost Trace, Arkansas
have never been to Lost Trace Cemetery before. I know nothing of its history. I am drawn to it in a deeply personal way and for no obvious reason. For a long time, I sit in my car and look through the windshield. I am filled with a peaceful curiosity. The style of the ironwork is simple in design, but shows pretensions to grandeur in the adorning whorls and curlicues. The words “Lost Trace” are spelled out in iron and rise high into the air on handworked metal side posts that hold the curving arch against the sky, causing the name to stand out clearly. The iron work is black as tree bark in late fall. The trees inside stand like sentinels behind the arching words and amidst thetombstones. It is quiet and lovely and absorbs my attention completely.The light streaming in on me through the trees is filled with history. Its invisible spectrum emanates from something that had no beginning and will continue without age. Although I am a finite individual, I reside within the prism of eternal reality. Those who lie inside the gate are no different, really. I learned this in my accumulated years of cemetery strolling. I never realized that I was training myself to discern spiritually about the essence of revealed light. This light came to me very gradually in wordless revelations. I never spoke of my experiences to anyone. At first I did not even think about the visions privately. It felt very natural, very clean, and ordinary to sense the occasional woman walking by in a long skirt, soft old-fashioned shoes, wearing a shawl. Because she was not visibly alive, I accepted her presence in my awareness as an imaginary thing. But over the years, with constant and increasing practice, I began to pick up more than mere glimpses. I would be passing through some lovely burial ground, and suddenly, at one grave, a story would roll out in front of me. I would stop and think and watch the scenes in the same way a person might stop dusting to follow something on televi-
sion. I never considered the possibility that the stories in my mind had any substance or that my perceptions might be more than pure fantasy. I have seen old men whittling, lonely for their youth and gazing into the distance. I have met grinning soldiers from World War I, small and neat from discipline and pride in their status as soldiers. They melt my heart with their vibrant smiles and clear eyes when I realize they were lost in the struggle between good and evil. As they fade, they say nothing, but convey the message that they are content with their deaths and their rewards. An occasional jaunty salute feels like an acknowledgement of my respect for the sacrifice made on my behalf. A small girl in a boxy yellow dress and skinny legs comes to me with flowers wilting in her little hands. She is unaware of the bouquet and her eyes shine with some kind of fever. She looks delirious and I am troubled by such a countenance on a four-year-old child. A bigger boy comes and gently encourages her to walk away from me. She follows him, but she looks over her shoulder at me, and I see the longing in her eyes as she fades from view. Infants appear to be sleeping, appear to be living. They stir and purse their lips and settle back with a sigh, their fists coming together. Death does not touch these in the same way as the mature. They are tender buds waiting for the time of blooming. I never comprehend why they lived such a short life, but maybe they will be the ones who will bring me the most joy when I pass to the other side. Their fragrance fills the air around me, reminding me of lilacs in Spring. These thoughts and perceptions are what keep me going back for more. What it all means is the question that can only be answered in my most private heart. This answer is too true and too fragile to share, yet it seems I have no choice. I release it like I would a butterfly and watch it as it flutters and fades away…into the light that burns my
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To support our local writers, the Lovely County Citizen is providing space each week to showcase a student of The Village Writing School. For more information, email alisontaylorbrown@me.com or call (479) 292-3665
This Week’s Writer Tandy Belt Tandy Belt grew up in Minnesota, surrounded by a host of Norwegian relatives, whose humor and perseverance was exemplified by the often repeated reassurance: “Things are never so bad but they couldn’t get worse.” From earliest times, Tandy recalls family storytelling and was inspired as a young child to write plays for her parents and siblings. The gifts of humor and perseverance, coupled with a deep concern for children and compassion for struggling young parents, served her well as a foster parent to 18 children, mostly teenaged girls. While rearing three daughters of her own, Tandy continued to write and journal daily. Currently attending the Village Writing School in Eureka Springs, she also writes an online blog http://tandybelt.wordpress. com and is an avid social networker. She has taken to heart the words of Crescent Dragonwagon: “While you might not [yet] be a published author, you ARE a writer.” When not caring for her newest delight, a young Tim Roberts American Quarter Horse filly, Tandy works as an innkeeper.
eyes when I look directly into it. I hesitate before cutting the engine. Doing so signals intention, a decision to stay awhile. I have returned to Lost Trace because there are victims who call to me about a wrong never righted, about brutal crimes never judged. This story has unfolded before me in much more detail than others, perhaps because, as God told Cain, “blood cries from
the ground.” Cain thought he got away with it, but he didn’t. I am listening. The victims of the man who was buried as a Civil War hero in the center of a family plot at Lost Trace Cemetery compete for their turn to stand in the light and release the truth of how they lived and most of all, how their lives were desecrated by the man who should have loved them most.
Everything You Need to Write a Beautiful Book 2014 Writing Craft Core Curriculum
February 13 - Feature Writing How to Research Rebecca Mahoney (RebeccaMaFebruary 22 or March 15 – The honey.com) Word & the Sentence 3-5 p.m. $20 Diction February 15 – Dialogue and Setting Sound Devices What to Say The Sentence How to Say it Figurative Language Types of Phrases Setting - More than a Place Setting - Friend or Foe? Style The Four Elements to Research Unless otherwise noted, all workshops are 9-4 and are $45. Register online at VillageWritingSchool.com For more information, contact alisontaylorbrown@me.com or 479 292-3665. Follow Village Writing School on FB.