Consciousness rejuvenates everything, giving a quality of beginning to the most everyday actions. – Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
Imagine…. being called to a place in your dreams. A call to sit in the little wooden boat like Winken Blynken and Nod, to sail, along two rivers flowing to their center, the sea.
It was early in May, four years ago. The dog and I were out under a midnight sky. The full moon had turned the wide smooth beach into a lavender mirror. I’d just arrived onto the island, a guest of friends. My beloved little long legged greyhound pup and I, after everyone had gone to bed, wandered the two blocks to the sea. The air was crisp and clear and the night sky reflected the deepest sea, but light from the moon so brightened our walk it seemed liked day. Beau was intoxicated with the freedom call he heard from the expanse of the pure, powdery sand, and he began to run circles, wider and wider ones, running faster and faster with all the beauty and elegance his miniature black stallioned body was born to do. It seemed like all taste and sight and smell and touch were quickened, the salt of the air, the sound of the waves rolling and crashing in regular rhythmic order, the light, the bright blue light. I sensed some very deep memory, of the past and the future and the here and now, not only my own childhood days by the ocean but also that of my ancestors who had been on these very shores, who had felt this same awe. It was an extraordinary experience of bliss, of knowing, of joy….of being fully alive. …of feeling so alive you could just sail on out to the great unknown. This was light in the dark for me. This was where I needed to be, the call was clear and profound.
That’s how the dream began. That was four years ago under a full moon. It is June now and the widget on my MacBook says the moon will be full again in a few days….I am packing boxes to move, finally, down to the little island the Indians called Edistowe, pronounced like those who have lived on the island a long time say it, with the access on the last syllable, STOW, the middle i sounding like two ee’s. The Island is just south of Charleston, a place with no stoplight or hotel or Starbucks. It sits between two rivers and the South Edisto was even called the River Jordan on maps from the 1600’s. My art supplies are boxed and my high speed internet is scheduled for installation – so far, no TV. My life will be in transition for the next couple of weeks, but hopefully I will be back to this blog with new energy.
There will be much to say in the summer about this new life, and the daily challenges and inspirations inherent in island life. Keep me in your prayers. For now, I feel I am blessed beyond measure! Here’s to dreams!
I was called to be an artist. And as an old old midwife said to me "If the Lord wants you to do something, you won't have no good luck' til you do." So, here I am, sharing what I love, longing to illuminate the work of art, which is everywhere.
Charleston Through an Artist's eye 
I loved this entry. I can see Beau running in wider and wider circles, and am touched by your sensitivity to the environment of the ocean. I like this about you, mom. I hope you build a homestead soon, so me and my little furry running companion can come visit you.
Charlotte – congratulations on your move. My goal is for my family to do the same, one day in the not so distant future! Now, gotta’ make that goal a reality! Visit mom and dad at Brick House this summer. They’re there every weekend..last house at the end of the avenue.
Cork Hutson
Hi Charlotte
We both enjoy your Blog up here in Canada and miss the south.
Cheers.
Shell&Chris
Such poetry from a soul who has found her home…in herself..
God’s grace and peace to you living your dream
Love it!!!!!!
Diane
Diane. Thank you.
This post always brings a sigh every time I read it…the kindred spirit connection I suppose. I’ve been there…on that quiet little road…that piece of paradise on Edisto. It is magical! And it calls to me every day…. I love your posts about Edisto. They are too far and few between.