While I Breathe, I Hope
The Old Lee Street Plantation House—a heart of pine two-story edifice, originally whitewashed with gypsum—was long vacant by the time I first walked by it in my home town. Warped from use, wind, sun, and rain, the wrap-round porch had signs of its age and neglect in the stifling, southern heat. Broken windows tore at the hanging drapes, now as much cobweb as silk and lace.
Upon a knoll it sat, commanding over the whole hamlet, casting its shadows in its haughty antebellum pride. When the evening sun hung low upon the humidity that rested on the land like a hot, moist towel, the Old Lee Street House gloomed over the general store and courthouse square. Folks in town said the original family fled during Sherman’s March to the sea and never returned.
It had been a Master’s plantation, an aid station for the Union, a hotel, and eventually abandoned. Every venture it contained: a failure. Town folk spoke of a curse and Spectre of the Old Lee Street House. I’d always wondered what that ghost was protecting. What it needed to be released.
I’d recently found myself venturing into that Old House. No fence, no marking prevented my approach up its drive through pecan trees that hung low over its old gravel drive, now marked by long, willowy stalks of crab grass and poke salad. The building stood, proud yet neglected, its foundations long-settled its bones into a rickety slant. The air hung heavy with the sounds of cicadas and the oppression of memory—long-held and firmly believed. Over the threshold, scrawled by a firm chisel into a plaque: “Dum spiro, spero.” Upon the door hung a second, just below a shadow of a cross that once hung upon the firm oak—the only portion of the door unworn and unbleached by sun or storm, a second plaque marked by whittling, recalled that old verse from King James: “We shall all be changed.”
Thus hung those two axioms. One in the tongue of Empire, built—like the house—to outlast history itself. The second, in the tongue of Salvation by Grace—an invitation to trust in Higher Power to find yourself transformed by experience and love. With a laden step and bated breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The Old Lee House moans its greeting under my feet, and the tattered drapes wave their welcome softly in a breeze. Every step I take leaves a print in dust and detritus on the floor. Everything that once held value—the cupboards, the chairs and couches, the bureaus, even the carpets, all had been taken over the years. Where pewter candelabra sconces had been, only holes and exposed wires remained. Where there were once glassed-in French doors and ceiling fans, only artifacts of their presence remained.The old bones of tradition and silent conformity—bare of the trapping of wealth and luxury—revealed an empty existence. Without means or reason to celebrate or relax, the boards and plaster of this old house wore, neglected but obstinate.
I continued up the stairs and into the bedrooms. In spite of the weight of foreboding and fatigue in that humid air, heavy with regret and light on levity the Old Lee Street House placed upon me, I pressed on. Every room—empty. I alone was the sign of life here in a century, marked only by the dust I disturbed in this home from its slumber. Every wall, every sill, even the ceiling joists were open to my eye, asking for testament of its existence. Every door—save one.
One closet, in a house full of bedrooms, remained closed. Locked and barred, as though from the inside, denied me access. Whatever was in that closet refused to be revealed until it was good and ready. As though its door was a fortress for whatever lie inside as proof against the rest of the building, neither time, nor force would pry it from its securing mandate.
Unprepared but undeterred, I vowed to return the next night. Knowing that more than mere crowbar would be required—to discover the truth hidden in the closet, I needed care and intention provided best by ritual.
Armed with candles, chalk, and music, I returned to the bedroom and its locked closet. Upon the Witching Hour, sun disappearing behind an old Sassy Tree, I began my work. Within a ritual circle, I drew a heart and light 7 colored candles. Within my seance, I spoke words of truth, of acceptance, and of release. My music danced around the melody like a new born deer, but played with the heartfelt emotion of a first love.
The closet door creaked open. From it emerged a spirit, long forgotten and never fully understood. They came out laughing and playing, dressed in sequins with heels that struck the worn wood of the room with abandon and joy. As it did so, the dust it kicked up fell back down, glitter in the candlelight. The drapes flowed, streaming in and out in festive celebration from an unseen crowd. For itself more than for me, the ghost danced and celebrated its recognition for the first time. We laughed in joy, cried tears of mutual recognition in truth beyond words, and celebrated each other in the moonlit night, our hearts shining brighter than any daylight sun could provide.
When dawn brings the end to our time together, we parted ways. I went back to my own home, my own spirit leavened as a loaf in the hearth. The spirit didn’t return to the closet, but joined the host of others, now having found her true home from that old, oppressive house, bound by traditions and its silent judgements. Now freed to be who it was meant to be all along.
And so, for this Month of Pride, I invite you to dance your own dance, explore your truest self, letting joy and pleasure be your guide. Whether cross-dressing, wishing to experience same gender play, or finding your own voice as your true gender, I’d be honored for you to have me be a companion
