Though the South is well-known for its traditional, church-centered Christian beliefs, there are also places off the beaten path where the same spiritual power seems to exist. Since much of the South is rural, and since Southerners have long been a rural people, religion and spirituality often transcend the mythic white-clapboard church. In this essay about one such spot in South Carolina, the writer explores the healing power of waters as both a participant and as a witness.

Healing Springs on God’s Acre
by Pilar DiPietro

This is a reflective place. Serenity embodies the slow-rippling waters that pool around the well-weathered stones; colored in soft beiges and pinks and tans, the tones of sensible cashmere sweaters. The silt that lay on the fallen leaves beneath the shallow waters puffs up as I step, then settles down easy. So, I try to tread lightly, slowly. The water is crystalline, so much so that gazing down I can see the fine green veins, the arch and instep indelibly solid. I want to immerse myself, submerge.

—

It takes quite a long time to drive south to Blackville from York. I don’t really know what to expect, although I have read snippets about the Healing Springs. Sequestered behind Healing Springs Baptist Church, the Springs has its own small cul-de-sac and a handful of parking spots for believers.

Although I hadn’t counted on (and quite resent) the two-and-a-half-hour drive, there is an immediate sense of peace here, a stillness, that melts my annoyance. The location is unpretentious, common, hidden. As I unfold myself from the car, somehow both my muscles and attitude unclench. I ease over to a big blue sign and read aloud:

According to tradition, the Indians reverenced the water for its healing properties as a gift from the great spirit. They led the British wounded to their secret waters during the American Revolution and the wounded were healed. This historical property has been deeded to God for public use, please revere God by keeping it clean.

As I turn the shadowed corner, three four-way spigots become visible. One is not operational, but the other two perpetually gush clear waters onto thick, notched wooden planks placed for footing and purchase. A smattering of folk amble towards or away from their vehicles carrying bottles, jugs, and pitchers. One woman is perched near a spigot, her back propped against a tree that is marred with a large, ear-shaped defect. Below the ear, a capital J has been spray-painted, and I wonder who it is that is listening here. While she masters the four splashing pipes before her, the woman chatters incessantly, to no one and to everyone, as her partner makes trips to their rusted Toyota carrying industrial-sized plastic totes filled with bottled waters.

To the left of the faucets are the Springs. The water trickles and meanders through a forest of tall trees, resembling the tines of a comb: upright and stalwart. The shallow spring beckons silently, there is no gurgling. The only sounds, apart from the visitors’ hushed voices, are the bird songs and frog calls that reverberate in the dense forest extending a cheery invitation. The stream seems to stem from nowhere, from a source just beyond the fray of low-lying branches or from a place you can’t quite divine, located just beyond sight.

I kick off my sandals and enter the pool with a certain veneration. The water is cool, but not cold, and only ankle-deep in most places, calf-deep in very few. I am thinking about my two big toenails now, about how they fell off more than a year ago and are still black, and I begin to hope that the merciful waters may heal them. I wish to venture further into the forest to follow the stream but some elusive sense of decorum dictates that boundaries be respected and silently whispers that what lies beyond the curve is not my business.

I spend a long while wending to and fro in the accessible wading area. Small fish dart away from my light steps yet pause unafraid just inches from me, hovering lazily, in sandy, shallow pools. Above them, water bugs skim the surface forming X-shapes with circular shadows at their ends, looking like old-timey jacks. There is no aroma here: no rotting leaves, no decaying frogs. Just a specific lack of scent, a crispness perhaps, but nothing more.

After the passing of some incalculable minutes, I work my sandals onto my wet feet and approach the spigots across from the woman, who is still leaning under the J and proselytizing and filling every empty container she owns. I kneel before the galvanized pipe, balance myself, and lower my mouth to drink. The running water is turbulent, its splash impressive: whatever pump lies beneath churns the water heartily. I slurp, drawing in as much water as possible while allowing the faucet to splash my upper lip where a spider had bitten me. I scoot myself forward so that my knees are positioned under the faucet, hoping that the joints cease their crackling and crunching. I fill a large bottle and a pitcher then rise to head back to the car, juggling both with my notebook. On the long drive home, I keep the sports bottle close and squirt the Spring’s water into my mouth repeatedly, incessantly. Are my insides rejoicing?

—

Looking back at my photos while typing this, my wading image is pensive, yet curiously mild. My face is a mellow moon, my eyes cloaked, my forehead smooth. My mouth is softly set in a solemn line, neither smiling nor frowning, yet my lips look velvety. My left arm hangs loosely while the right cups the notebook to my body, nestled in the hollow under my breast. In all of the photos, my gaze is cast downward, unaware of the camera’s eye, and as I kneel by the spigot my expression is dreamy, my hands clasped. While sipping, my back is arched gracefully. Now, as I lean back in a chair here in the kitchen, then pour myself a refill from the water pitcher, one question stirs within me. Do the Healing Springs provide cleansing and succor to all who bathe in and drink from her? As I glance down to my toenails, lightly touching my levelling upper lip, I draw faith that they do.

Pilar DiPietro is a freelance travel writer living in York, South Carolina. Since earning her MA in Rhetoric and Composition from Winthrop University, Pilar spends her time discovering and writing about place, working as a substitute teacher, and running a small vintage resale business.

Lesson Plan: NH-MSF Lesson Plan Personal Narrative