Unexpected Magic in Mississippi

Mississippi was a magical place for me last Saturday. It was cold and overcast. Trees were nearly bare. Cows and old barns dotted the landscape. Small creeks cut across the cotton fields. Tractors, sheds, farmhouses, and tall pines were in every direction as I headed north. Crimson Alabama logos and Ole Miss flags waved from vehicles along the highway, all moving toward the big game in Oxford. I bid them farewell and exited for unknown country roads, far from cell phone coverage and the ubiquitous truck stops.

Perhaps inspired by my surroundings, the old tune about “shortnin’ bread” popped in my head. I found myself singing about “mama’s little baby” and I wondered about its origins. I found Mississippi John Hurt’s version of the song, which led to more of his songs, which led me to wonder about the man, himself. Before long, and after listening to after a couple dozen of his recordings, I found myself at his gravesite near Avalon, Mississippi.

The cemetery was a couple miles up a dirt road, past some small houses, dilapidating structures, and a pitbull or two standing guard against the infrequent blues loyalist. It took a bit of effort to find the location. No major markers to announce the final resting place of this brilliant and significant artist, and even Google Maps was off by several hundred yards. I missed the place on my first pass, had to double back, get out of my car and physically search for evidence of any graveyard at all along the remote road.

I was tempted to give up the quest, but what else to do on a random Saturday morning in the rural South? I had come so far, and the gentle music of Mississippi John Hurt was echoing in my car, in my ears, in my heart… as well as the melody and memory of my son, recently buried in Southern soil several hours away. Something in me needed to find the grave, and so I searched along the leaf covered shoulders and embankments of this hidden dirt road until I found the cemetery.

Accompanied by a pawnshop ukulele purchased from Louisiana a few days prior, I found Mississippi John Hurt’s simple grave and played him couple of his songs. Sure, it was a pretentious gesture of thanksgiving to such an amazing musician, but it was honest. And it was more than that: it was for my son. Something intertwined in my heart today, something about my son Isaac, about Mississippi John Hurt, about myself and memory and music and pain and beauty. It is so difficult to describe. 

Even the day was fitting: cold, overcast, fallen leaves spread over the back woods of a hidden cemetery. It was just me and my sweet son, and all the wonders of life. I played a few more songs, wept and prayed and smiled and wept some more. It was a good visit to this small Mississippi graveyard, and I felt warmth in my heart toward all of it.

I turned my car around on the dirt road, and once again rolled past pitbulls alert and cows aloof. An ancient treehouse in disrepair stared down at me. A black vulture in flight floated above the hills, looking for a meal or just enjoying the pleasure of dancing in the wind. How many people had driven up this road over the years toward this cemetery, to bury their loved ones, to visit, to weep, to remember?

Once again on paved roads, I made my way to a special place I had hoped to visit a couple of years ago. It is a place devoted exclusively to contemplation and the art of mindfulness, quiet reflection, peace, and natural beauty. Located deep within the Bible Belt and the painful history of Mississippi sits a small Buddhist monastery. I had been curious to explore this welcoming community for quite some time, and today was that day.

I arrived at 1pm and stepped out of my car into the brisk November air, just a few degrees above freezing. Visitors are invited to come on dedicated “Days of Mindfulness” or for special events, and retreat participants are instructed to arrive on specific days for orientation. Today was not one of those days. I did not know what to expect to encounter. Would I be disrupting a group of meditating monks or nuns? Would Shaolin security guards in saffron robes burst forth from the bamboo groves to confront me? Who’s to say?

Alas, there was no dramatic entrance. Rather, I met a friendly American man who was on a personal 90-day retreat. We talked for a few minutes, and I took a brief walk. I soon met a nun dressed in a simple brown “habit”, layered in winter attire. She invited me into the dining hall for hot tea. Inside, there were a few dozen potted plants, some clearly from Asia and warmer climates. The air carried the faint smell of a delicious lunch that must have been shared just an hour earlier, hints of lemongrass, jasmine, green onion, and Asian spices still clinging to the atmosphere. Two nuns were playing ping pong in their cute brown outfits, laughing and jesting to each other in Vietnamese. Their sweet faces and innocence reminded me of playing ping pong with my boys when they were younger. Another nun quietly read a book at a nearby table. My friendly guide directed me to the hot tea, and we sat down to talk.

We spoke about the monastery, the monks and nuns who lived onsite, the available retreats for visitors, the possibility of my wife and I coming to visit in the future. We also spoke about grief and loss, and my beautiful son who had recently passed away. She listened with such quiet understanding. She somehow communicated through her presence that she truly cared for me and my family. She offered to bring me some lunch, and although I declined twice, she continued to press and calmly stated, “You are just being polite. You need something to eat.” She was right. I finally accepted, and she disappeared to bring me a warm bowl of rice, vegetables, and tofu. It was delicious. She left me to eat my meal in mindfulness. 

The rhythmic patter of ping pong, friendly background banter of Vietnamese, and the smell of jasmine was therapeutic. I felt safe and welcome and warm in this place. I ate each bite with mindfulness, thanking the earth, the plants, and people who helped bring this meal to my body. It was a beautiful experience, and I lost track of any sense of urgency or agenda as I sat in that humble dining hall. 

After some time, my guide reappeared and handed me a small book by Thich Nhat Hahn regarding grief. “Can I pay for this online somehow?” “No need. I compiled this book several years ago with Thich Nhat Hahn, and the publisher sent me boxes of these books. This one is for you.” Her generous spirit was tangibly felt with every action and gesture. We spoke a bit longer. She quoted Jean-Paul Sartre, as well as her own understanding of connectedness, human life, and our sense of identity. It was such an extraordinary and unexpected moment here in the forests of Mississippi. 

My guide looked me in the eyes and said in a calm and measured way, “I think you should stay tonight at the monastery with the brothers. It will be good for you.” I smiled. Her Jedi-mind-trick powers were strong, but I knew I needed to get back on the road to Tennessee. “I think you are right,” I told her, “But I must get home tonight. My wife and I will visit here soon. We both need to take a personal retreat, and she would love to meet you and see this place.”

It was a magical place in every way, and even now it feels slightly like a dream. As I walked back to my car, the clouds began to part and the sun shone through the trees and bamboo groves. There were no Shaolin monks to be seen, but there was healing to be found in the place. “Peace in every step” is a core tenant that the founder of this place taught and lived out, and I felt it on this day. I look forward to another visit soon.

I’m not sure what to expect in the days ahead – whether in this grieving process or regarding life in general. None of us can be sure of anything, really. We can hope and pray and plan, but every day brings its own challenges and opportunities and sense of wonder and beauty. Although Isaac was not physically with me on this Saturday exploration through Mississippi, in a sense, he was with me along every mile. This was the type of “curious adventure” that we had come to enjoy, unsure of where the next bend in the road (or flavor in the air) would lead. It was a good day, sometimes cold and lonely, somber and sad, but also warm and welcoming, with soulful blues and spicy tofu. What a life this is: full, rich, magical.