Welcome to the desert. The between spaces are thinner here, open up your ribcage, be present, and give thanks.
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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. Last Saturday I had the real privilege of photographing the wedding of these two incredible women, Allie and Lynn. Here is a tiny preview of the wedding photographs. Do not speak: fold all the unknowns onto the tip of your tongue and press your lips to the corners of their mouth; pray they speak in tongues. Make two piles: label one work worth looking at and the other chaos, leave the first pile empty and dismember yourself; place all the parts of yourself in the pile called chaos. Return to your hollows: forget how to say your own name and curse at the sky for not showing you the stars; it is so much harder to find North without them.
Here in my grandparents house is the light from two of my most beloved windows. In the morning there is the window in Margaret and Cary's bedroom. Behind the white cotton curtains is that Eastern light rising over the road home, back to the place that built me, back to my beginnings, back to the comfort of knowing how the light falls in the corners of a room. Don't you know I feel that firelight in my bones? I'll come back... but not yet. In the evening there is the big window in the stairway. Over the farm is that Western light falling through the arches and over all the roads I say I will travel, onward to make the work I want to be making, onward to adventure, onward into the utter discomfort of the unknown. Don't I know that you are tired hearing me talk about this? I know the road is dark, I am going... I have to go. In the afternoon is the quiet moment between the rise and fall of these two lights, between the "this is what you could be doing" and the "this what you should be doing", between the "this what you told everyone you would do" and the "this is what you have actually done". Don't you know I have nearly learned to tell the time of day by the sun's position in the sky? I've got time, I am here... I am fine.
Welcome home, how does that feel? to be socked straight in the heart? Turns out welcome home ain't all welcome. Still every time there is warmth of this; the view of the sorghum molasses boil from the hill above Julie's garden, the sound of fiddle tunes, and knowing that so many people I love are under that tin roof. Welcome home.
To see pictures of the process of making sorghum molasses click here Southeast Kentucky: Knock-kneed and bug-bit, since I arrived at Musick Mountain Farm I've been asking myself what the hell did you get yourself into? And didn't you know farming was fucking hard?! I jumped feet first into long days of 90 degree heat and dry dirt. I still haven't finished weeding that damn sweet potato patch. Right into late night coyotes coming a little too close and a copperhead even closer. I am not as alone out here as I believed. Right into family histories at the dinner table with Janice and helping her bury her cat when the dishes were cleared. I was really never much for small talk anyway. Feet first into southeast Kentucky knock-kneed and my neck crooked back from staring too long at the stars. I am stronger than I've ever been. Below I have included a slideshow of images from life on the farm. |
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