The Writing and Musings of a Southern-Fried Earth Angel
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Call Me Trahlyta
"May you always have a smile on your face and a song in your heart." ~ any body know?
Today I realized I am depressed. I looked at myself in the mirror, our eyes locked, and I said, "You're depressed."
My reaction? Tears of relief. This explains my inability to write. It also explains my recent hesitation to have interaction with other human beings.
Just naming the source of my malaise allowed me to answer the phone when it rang. And talk to my friend who declared that she and three others were coming to roust me. I assured her it wasn't necessary and that I would come to them.
It was no coincidence that the last address of my afternoon census run put me smack dab at the intersection of Highways 19 and 60. Here sits Trahlyta's grave. I had heard of it.
Last week Kimber, Funky Writer Girl, told me that when she lived in Dahlonega she put a stone on Trahlyta's grave every Sunday. It is tradition.
It turns out that I was passing this monument every time I drove to Walasi-Yi.
I saw it, but didn't 'see' it. Trahlyta's grave sits in the middle of the Y and is a classic example of something that is hidden right under your nose.
The inscription on the marker says:
This pile of stones marks the grave of a Cherokee princess, Trahlyta. According to legend her tribe, living on Cedar Mountain north of here, knew the secret of the magic springs of eternal youth from the Witch of Cedar Mountain.
Trahlyta, kidnapped by a rejected suitor, Wahsega, was taken far away and lost her beauty. As she was dying, Wahsega promised to bury her here near her home and the magic springs. Custom arose among the Indians and later the Whites to drop stones, one for each passerby, on her grave for good fortune.
The magic springs, now known as Porter Springs, lie 3/4 miles northeast of here.
I left two stones. One for Kimber and one for me.
And Kimber, you're right. I felt different when I left.
This, my friends, is the beginning of the Appalachian Mountains, aka (down here) the Blue Ridge Mountains. See those blue ridges?
The resident German Shepherd was being protective of his territory, so I took this picture through my windshield from the top of Porter Springs Drive.
What do Trahlyta's grave and the Blue Ridge Mountains have to do with me being depressed and unable to write?
I feel Trahlyta's suffering.
No one kidnapped me and threw me on the back of a horse. No one made me leave my home.
But as beautiful as it is here in the North Georgia Mountains, my soul cries for California. The depression is her reminder.