“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

–W. B. Yeats (1865-1939; renowned Irish poet, playwright; awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923; celebrated for his lyrical and evocative poetry, often exploring themes of mysticism, mythology, and the intersection of the ordinary and the magical.)

“Iris, go get Great-Grandma’s dress so that Brent can see.”

Off she went, her smile bright enough to nearly lighten the darkened hallway. In a few minutes, she returned and dutifully handed the crumpled brown bag to her mother.

Clara leaned forward, cautiously using her walker to steady herself as she rose, stooped but standing tall for the big reveal. She opened the bag and pulled out a dress. She handed it to me with all the pomp and circumstance that a milliner might have mustered up in presenting the work of her loom to her most valued customer.

“Now, Brent, that’s the dress that your Great-Great-Grandma Slaughter wore to her infare when she got married, right over thar in Elamsville, not too far from here, six miles or so I reckon.”

I knew that Clara was talking about Mary “Polly” Conner who married Martin Slaughter on August 11, 1825. Mary was eighteen, just a week shy of nineteen. Martin was twenty-three, just a few weeks shy of twenty-four.

I would not know until much later that, historically, an infare was a celebration held in rural Virginia areas after a wedding, often on the same day or a few days later. Friends and family gathered together to share a meal, extend their support and well-wishes to the newly married couple, and have a good time eating,  dancing, and making music. It was a community affair that folks remembered.

But I didn’t know those details then. All that I knew at that moment was that I was standing there, holding my Great-Great-Grandmother’s dress. I clasped it gently in my hands. I let my fingers feel their way across the muslin. I admired the autumnal pattern of small red and yellow and orange leaves floating on a field of dark brown. I rubbed each and every button, polishing their smoothness.

It was then, in that moment, that it happened without my even knowing that it was happening. Suddenly, I was no longer in Clara’s kitchen. Suddenly, I was embarking on a picturesque drive through the heart of Patrick County, motoring from Stuart to Elamsville along well-maintained roads, framed by lush greenery and rolling hills, all providing a serene backdrop to my 6-mile journey.

I went past pristine farms and meandering streams and caught glimpses of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance as I soaked in the tranquil beauty surrounding me.

I went past time as I galloped into Elamsville, a small, close-knit, timeless community. I went past the setting sun and dismounted at a farmstead nestled amidst rolling hills and sprawling fields. I went past lanterns and candles illuminating the rustic barn, filled with laughter, lively fiddle tunes, and the fragrant scents of freshly harvested crops. I went past long wooden tables covered with homespun white linens and wildflowers, laden with roasted meats, cornbread, seasonal vegetables, preserves, and jugs of cider and homebrew.

I went past guests, dressed in their finest, dancing reels and jigs, as children chased fireflies and elders told tales passed down through generations. I went past John Conner, an elder in the Primitive Baptist Church, who officiated his daughter’s marriage to Martin Slaughter earlier in the day.

I went past everything except Polly. I walked right up to her, standing there majestically slim in her infare dress that had prompted my reverie. I took her hand—her eyes level with mine at 5’ 8”—and gracefully twirled her across the worn wooden floor, the lively strains of the Virginia Reel filling the air as our laughter–hers and mine–echoed the joyous spirit of the celebration, equal to what it had been when she had danced with Martin and many of the guests at their infare feast.

As quickly as I had journeyed back to 1825, Iris’s voice jettisoned me back to the present:

“I wore that dress once to a Sadie Hawkins dance when I was in high school. Mama had to do a tuck here and a tuck there, but it fit me just fine.”

There I stood in the kitchen once more as I handed the dress back to Clara and watched her return it to its cumpled brown bag with all the solemnity of a flag-folding ceremony.

I had been transported magically, even if for a fleeting second, to a familar land, a familiar place, and a familiar face that I knew not at all yet now knew all so well because my imagination had allowed me to break away.

I wasn’t too surprised. As an avid reader, I have lots of similar breakaways. For me, they’re momentary, never lasting long but lasting long enough to make me lose myself. If I’m reading a compelling literary work–whether it’s a poem, a short story, a play, or a novel–I always lose track of time and find myself immersed in the writer’s world. For example, whenever I read Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s short story “On the Walpole Road,” I always find myself inside a chaise with Almiry as she drives her friend Mis’ Green along the dusty road from Brattleboro (VT) to Walpole (NH). I watch with them as a storm comes up. I listen as Mis’ Green recalls her Aunt Rebecca’s funeral and proceeds to tell the story for the next 18 miles. And, at the very end, I sigh in relief with Almiry, who confesses: “… it’s kind of come to me, as I’ve been listening that I had heard it before. The last time I took you to Walpole, I guess, you told it.” 

As a writer, I have similar break-away moments. When I’m sharing my thoughts and emotions in my blog posts, I lose track of my immediate world because I’m so immersed in creating a world for my readers to discover. Take, for example, my post, “Just Like Mama Made.” When the idea occurred to me, I was so swept away that I worked on the first draft until midnight, and I swear to you that lying there in bed I could smell from far, far away the essence of apples seducing me back to the kitchen. Lifting the lid, I could see by their near translucency that the apple slices–including their skins–were perfectly tender and ready to be sugared and spiced.

Whether writing or reading or engaging in other endeavors, we all know the power of the break away. That’s especially the beauty of the arts. That’s why they pull us in, time and time again.

When we look at a painting or sculpture–whether a classic masterpiece or contemporary art–the act of truly looking at and contemplating the piece of art transports us into the artist’s world, giving us a sense of connection and engagement. We have a momentary breakaway from our surroundings.

The same thing happens when we’re creating art or crafting. Whether it’s painting, drawing, sculpting, knitting, beading or engaging in other creative activities, we lose ourselves in the process of making art, and we break away.

Or what about listening to music and losing ourselves in the nuances of the composition? The rhythm, melody, and lyrics evoke emotions, allowing us to break away to another mental space. It happens, too, I am sure, with musicians. When playing challenging pieces or improvising, they enter a state of flow where they are entirely absorbed in the music. They break away.

I could go on and on and on. Cooking. Baking. Hiking. Jogging. Exploring new places. Gardening. Meditating. Holding hands. Kissing. Having sex. Cuddling. Praying. Worshiping.

In each of these activities, the boundaries of self seem to blur, and we find ourselves immersed in the present moment. Whether it’s the rhythmic chopping of vegetables in the kitchen, the crunch of gravel beneath hiking boots, or the serene stillness of meditation, these endeavors transform us as we surrender to the experience, allowing our minds to temporarily float away from the demands and stresses of daily life. They give us an escape from the relentless chatter of our minds, creating an opportunity for introspection and a deeper connection with the immediate surroundings. Then, we can break away from our routines and lose ourselves in sheer joy or tranquility.

Our journeys often carry us back to ourselves, richer and fuller for having embarked on these break-away moments. Whether we travel the dusty roads of history through a beloved family heirloom, ride through the pages of a captivating story, or immerse ourselves in the strokes of an artist’s brush, we experience the human capacity to leave ourselves behind.

As we reflect on the many ways that our lives allow us to momentarily break away, let’s remember the power of those experiences. They’re more than mere moments of escape. They are transformative journeys that mold the very fabric of our being. So, Dear Reader, cherish your break-away moments, hold them close to your heart, and celebrate the richness they bring to your life. Let them serve as reminders of the vast reservoir of joy, wonder, and connection that resides within the human spirit. In a world that often pulls us in different directions, these break-away moments are the compass that steers us back to ourselves, to our shared humanity, and to the magical power that transports us to places unseen and emotions unfelt.