Artifacts.

After standing up all day, sitting down is a relief. However, the true joy comes when finally stretching out on a bed-somehow it feels as if all of your internal organs that have been pumping and boiling throughout the day settle down and nestle into your back. It's surreal. 

From the Vault: July 27, 2008

It was a Saturday- a rainy hot Saturday when I climbed up the side of the Indian mound. I had been driving the Natchez Trace all morning, and my knees were in ill-repair from my car’s sad lack of cruise control. As I passed the “Welcome to Alabama” sign, I looked to my left to see a historical site on the side of the road. Turning my car around, I drove back and stood quietly in front of the site for a long while.

“These Indians were nomadic” the worn, brown sign read, “with little agricultural skills. They mostly hunted, and when they came to rest here, built this mound and constructed a crude temple on top of it.” I don’t know how long I stood in front of the sign, reading it over and over again. It felt like days. Finally, I started towards the mound itself. It didn’t look like much, actually it kind of looked like someone had just cut a chunk out of a levy from the delta and plopped it into a grassy field surrounded by trees. If a pile of dirt could look lonely, then this mound was the loneliest of them all. Covered in sparse, green grass and yellow flowers, it stood alone on the side of the Natchez Trace, a subtle yet blatantly obvious reminder of the past.

Climbing up the side was difficult. It had rained only a few hours before, and keeping my balance on the muddy wet grass took an effort. When I reached the top, I saw that the mound wasn’t like a piece of levy at all, but instead was a square, just the right size for the “crude temple” the sign had told me about. I picked my way around, avoiding muddy holes and stood in the very middle, looking into the dark woods in front of me.

Standing there alone on the top of the muddy Indian mound, I scoured the dustiest corners of my imagination, wondering what the men who had built the mound were like. How long were their hands caked with mud until the finally had a perfect square raised above the rest of the land? What mysterious treasures were left in the aged soil, placed there by a mischievous child, or dropped by a distracted passer by? All of the sudden I was possessed by a strong desire to dig it all up.

What sorts of gods did they worship? Unfair, unjust, flighty gods? Surely they couldn’t have felt that their meaningless, empty worship did anything. But then, they really believed what they believed. Faith, if you will. I prayed on top of the mound and asked that I might be a better example. Then the moment was lost in the trees. I climbed down, got into my car, turned up Bjork’s Greatest Hits, and kept driving.