2015, the year of being in motion, the year that was on fast forward, the year of solitude, the year of discovery, the year that actually had fifty-three calendar weeks (one more week to be late writing a blog post about). The heart-tugging thing about having a home that transcends geographical coordinates is that the boundaries of home are always shifting, shrinking, stretching. 2015, the year I packed away all my belongings, the year I lived in a tent under the stars of Southeast Kentucky, the year I haggled and bought a car on my own, the year I drove that car across the country. Turns out that even when the boundaries of your home are variable some points are constant. 2015, the year of missing everyone always, the year I spent mostly on my own, the year I made more photographs, the year I wrote, the year I was not afraid of my own voice.
2015, the year whose end coincided with the end of my time in the Pacific Northwest and I went to bed at 11:00pm on New Year's Eve so I wouldn't get sick. 2016, the year that didn't start out with me being sick, the year I left Bellingham, the year I am returning to the mountains. The amazing thing about the human heart is the distance it's strings can be tugged between two points without tearing. There are something like 3000 miles between Jon and Jessica's home and the Blue Ridge Mountains. 2016, the year I will actively focus on my physical health, the year I will not be in constant pain, the year I will continue to find strength in my voice, the year I will continue to write this blog (but not weekly more like monthly). Thank's y'all.
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Funny how life comes 'round sometimes. Twenty-one years ago I was a weird little four year-old wearing a wedding dress, my shoes on the wrong feet, and squirting mustard into my mouth in Jon Durham's first 3-6 class at Mountain Pathways Montessori School. Twenty-one years later I am a weird twenty-five year old thinking about how problematic it is to make child-size wedding dresses, I don't even really like mustard that much anymore, and I am talking to a group of smart, inquisitive young people about cameras and making pictures in Jon's 9-12 class at Samish Woods Montessori School. Funny how life comes 'round like it's supposed to on account of every thing that fell between that classroom on Howards Creek road where Jon taught me how to read and to fly-fish and this classroom in Bellingham where I am teaching Jon's students about how a polaroid works.
You can take me out of the mountains, but you can't take the mountains out of me... Yeah, so it turns out that is an inoperable thing. Turns out those ranges can't be carved out of me without removing my lungs, then my liver, then my heart in that order. Turns out knowing the direction of home so deeply I don't need a map is mostly a good thing, but some days the ache for those hills fills me up so steadily that it spills out of me and I almost cry when my dad tells me over the phone how many stars he can see from his porch. Turns out you can't die from homesickness, or even get that sick from it and despite all the mountains in me there is still space for moments that feel like home here. Home here fits like friends that are more like family, like breakfast with Jonah, like snapping green beans and singing loudly when nobody is home, like late night baked macaroni and cheese and beer and sitting on the kitchen table instead of at the table. Home here pulls like early mornings with Ashlon before anyone wakes up, like the history we carry, like all the words that won't pass between us, yes home here pulls like a trip to Powells in Portland where I plan my future library. Home here sounds like records in the morning with Anis, like community square dances, and like late night radio between Everett and Bellingham when the sky finally clears enough for me to the stars.
Snapshots of stillness in a week when the world seemed to agitate and ache on the edge. I made photographs that do not reflect my anxious heart, only the convenient comfort of quiet. But right now, when women cannot receive healthcare without fear for their lives, when right wing politics is normalizing bigoted and hateful speech that makes room for violent behavior, when people of color actually have to convince their fellow citizens that their lives matter, when no one in congress will do a goddamn thing about gun control even though there have been more mass shootings in the US than days in the year, when politicians continue to value short term capital gains over longterm livability on this planet... That is all the quiet is... convenient. My friend Sarah Kellogg who feels the ache of the world with her entire heart, she said it most eloquently and compassionately after last week's shooting at planned parenthood, "IT IS NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU PERSONALLY TO "NOT BE RACIST" OR "NOT BE SEXIST". That does not make you an ally. YOU NEED TO SPEAK UP. All the time, never stop."
Welcome to the desert. The between spaces are thinner here, open up your ribcage, be present, and give thanks. Then there is that moment; after heading west out of Hicks Cut and south down the Old Natchez Trace trading route through lowlands and burial grounds, after crossing the Mississippi River and feeling her pull (there is something otherworldly about the longing in her stretch), after Austin and Dalton and laughing until my sides hurt (my brother Dalton, made of light), after miles of sunbathed West Texas highway and playing the Dixie Chick's Wide Open Spaces on repeat there is that moment... The oh damn, I am really alone right now moment. It is a sharp intake of breath in a canyon in northern Texas because I haven't seen this many stars since I was in Kentucky and I am almost certain I left a piece of my heart on Jellico Creek. It is a slow exhale under a waxing moon because I am entirely present in being alone and I am almost certain there is strength in solitude. It is weary tears along Route 66 into New Mexico because I am tired and my heart is remembering all its aches and I am almost certain that the desert is for healing because there is so much room to grieve. It is a warm sip of hot chocolate at a motel in Tucumcari because the kindness of strangers and a good night's rest and I am entirely certain I am not really alone because I carry everyone I have ever loved with me and also cellphones.
For the past few months everything I write and feel revolves around the push and pull of belonging to a place and longing to experience new places. There is the pull of Heron and Alder's little arms around my neck when they hug me and tell me they love me, of waving to my Dad in his office parking lot, of kissing my Grandma Nancy on the forehead and wishing I could take her heartache with me, of Mama, Jane, Luke and Ginna waving in my rearview mirror... Then there is the push of All Roads Headed West and of all the unknowns this journey contains.
The first stop after leaving home for the foreseeable future, was to attend the first meeting for the STAY Steering Committee at the Highlander Center in New Market Tennessee. The contradiction of leaving my home to be a part of a group of young people that are making a commitment to stay and help others stay and thrive in Appalachia is not lost on me. But in that space at Highlander with all those amazing and inspiring humans I felt more comfortable inhabiting the push and the pull. Turns out it is possible to concurrently hold two opposing truths in my heart. I suppose the structure of my anatomy functions best between the dichotomy of stay and go. Stay because this is my home, because I want Eli, Heron and Alder to know their home, because Appalachian Love Stories, because I am committed to social and environmental justice in Appalachia. Go because I have to, because I told myself I would, because I'm curious, because by experiencing different geographies I will have a better understanding of the work that needs to be done in Appalachia, because I won't be able to stay if I don't leave first, because nothing is final, because there is opportunity waiting. Go because I know all the way down in my bones that I will always return here, I am of this geography, these mountains, they are my home. Stay because I want to. *follow me on my travels on Instagram lnmurrey #allroadsheadedwest Johnson City Tennessee, 2:00 AM, November 1st 2015:
Fall back into the longest night of the year: drink bourbon out of a plastic boot from the Dixie Stampede, laugh until my sides hurt, play music till the upstairs neighbors stomp on the floor... Fall back into long evenings after being caught in the fall back of letting a reckless summer hold my face in his hands when he kissed me. Johnson City Tennessee, 2:00 AM (again), November 1st 2015: Fall back into the longest night of the year: finish the last of the bourbon, feel it in my finger tips, sit next to Joy and be overcome with gratitude (the world is a brighter place because of her), sing a little louder, let "Loretta guide us forward and Jesus get our back..." Fall back into the warmth of this room and keep playing Dolly Parton songs because the upstairs neighbors ain't home. Early October morning at the top of Snake Mountain I am twenty-five, I am between state lines, and I am happening right now. Below there are photos to edit, there are papers to write, there are road trips to plan, there are logistics to figure out (despite how much I would like to ignore them), there is the west to explore, there are people to see, there are jobs and graduate schools to apply for... Stop. Return to yourself, unwind the knot in your gut, you are of this geography; even with your eyes closed you can see clearer from the top of mountains.
Early October evening at the Flat Spot in Bethel I am twenty-five, I am gathered here with my dearest friends, and I am the only place I want to be. Tonight there are goats to feed, fires to build to an irresponsibly large size, there are coals to throw, there are adventures to be had, there are handshakes to remember, there are shoulders to lean on... Put your damn phone away. Return to the people you love most, you are your best self when you are with these women, they too are of this geography; don't forget to take the time to design a really good monster truck. |
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