Hindman: A Healing Place, 2005

Donna M. Crow

In honor of the upcoming session of the Hindman Settlement School’s Appalachian Writer’s Workshop, I am revisiting an old, old journal entry written by my past self. That self was just embarking on a great new journey, walking through a door to her “second” adulthood. At the time of this writing, I was still unaware of all the plot twists and turns to come. If you read my introduction about there being “lights” positioned at the junctures of your life to show you the way forward, the Appalachian Writer’s Workshop was/ is a beacon and the people that are drawn to it are changed forever.

            Though I’ve never been here before, I am known to this place.  Familiarity brings memories that welcome me like a lost child come home. Spirits, past and present brush past me in their dancing circles and my head swims in pure delight.  Their energy refreshes my own tired spirit and renews what I have lost, giving back that part of me, pushed away long ago. My ordinary words, inged with pronunciation, shamed out of me in school, find their home here in spectacular places of the heart, held solemnly in the souls of family whose bloodlines are the seams of coal connecting their lives to mine, comedy and tragedy. I am home. 

            Writers convene at the Hindman Settlement School Appalachian Writer’s Workshop every year for a full week of fellowship, lectures, workshopping their own writing and so much more. For the first time, I have joined them.  Not knowing what to expect, I come prepared for anything, except what I find.  Myself.

I cross the footbridge over Troublesome Creek and notice my reflection in the water, a girl of twelve, barefoot, squishing sand between her toes as water trickles around her ankles, tickled by minnows.  She wants to know where I’ve been, why I left her behind.  She is hurt, but she will forgive me.

A carved wood bench placed on the hill, a worthy pew in this mighty church.  I sit with eyes closed, and hear my dad’s voice leading a song from the Old Baptist Hymnal for all to follow.  The harmonies fall into place and fill the air around me, each voice a song of its own, in shaped notes of poetry, memoir or fiction.

I recognize old souls in new faces and together we study the walls that separate us from the other side, sharing footholds.

The dinner bell rings.  Old and new, gather around the table to break bread, a communion of work and play, libation for the soul, a workshop, a reunion, a healing place.