Making an egg salad sandwich and thinking about Carol Judy, the time I made her an egg salad sandwich and she didn't believe I had never made one before because it was that good. Thinking about how my most meaningful relationships are nurtured by the growing, harvesting, preparing, cooking, eating, and sharing of food and in that way how food is a vessel for cultural memory. Thinking about how when a member of the community is sick or grieving, food can translate the words that won't find their shape into 'You belong to this community and we love you'. Thinking about Emeran and Abby and women who save the seasons and the stories they hold. Thinking about when I got out of college and moved home with a broken heart and no job and how signing up to deliver meals to folks on the first and third fridays of every month was a routine that felt like purpose, how it made me feel a part of my community again. Remembering visiting my friend Margaret of Todd, NC who lives in the house her father built on the same road her grandmother sowed seeds according to the signs and how she would give me treats even though I was the one bringing her food, but that's just what you do when someone comes to visit. Thinking about 45's budget cuts and how they're doing their damnedest to cut the humanity right out of us in that cutting food & agricultural & art programs & access to healthcare is a tactic to remove the means by which we can connect, organize, gather, sustain and resist. Remembering sitting on the bed with Carol Judy eating egg salad sandwiches and listening to her talk about how we need our 'communities of care' to be able to survive in our 'communities of place' and how only a few weeks later how beautifully her community of care made it possible for her to die in her community in place. Thinking about how caring for one another has a long history of being a radical act and about Gabby and Annie Jane and all the mamas who carry that tradition in their marrow. Thinking about how nobody's gonna take that from us.
P.S. I said I was gonna update this every week, well I ain't but I will update it sometimes.
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Here I come unto these hills again to consider my heart after all the roads headed west landed me home. Just in time for me to hurry-up and wait for the job, the home, the relationship I had unrealistically envisioned would come to me all at the moment I returned from my trip. No matter how hard I've tried, I am unable expand and collapse time in such a manner as to actualize these inevitabilities into a single turn of events. I reckon holding the balance between patience and actively building the life you want to live is difficult, as difficult as realizing that the two are actually the same thing.
Here I came unto these hills again to linger in the rhythm of their ridges after all the roads headed west landed me home. Just in time to field a slew job rejections but be ok with them because I was living in the same place as my best friends for the first time since high school. Recognizing that I am capable of maintaining the friendships that are dearest to my heart, it is a skill and it certainly makes writing yet another cover letter less dreadful. I reckon that practicing patience and actively building the life you want to live is a hell of a lot easier when you understand that you are a part of a group of friends that uplifts and supports one another. Here I come unto these hills again to bare my temerarious heart to the reach of their wintered bones before all the roads headed home land me west. Just in time to accept an Americorp Position with Appalachian Voices, to move to Knoxville in April, to hang my photos on the wall of a gallery and remember that it feels good to make art and to make it tangible. As obvious and banal as it may seem, it is worth repeating to yourself that time is as time does and the events of your life will always occur when they do and there ain't much you can do to make it otherwise. I reckon that having the patience to actively build the life you want to live is always difficult, always takes vulnerability, and is always worth the wait. 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. 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. Thoughts on visiting Margaret Miller in Meat Camp every First and Third Friday for the past Two Years.
This is the House your Father built. On the same road where your grandmother sowed seeds to the pattern of the stars; this is the land where your father planted in the Earth, not on the Moon. Those are the hooks in the fireplace where your mother hung her cast iron cooking pot, this is the kitchen where she fed eleven little mouths. There is the photograph of your oldest brother Marvin. In the hallway where your mother was told her eldest son would not be coming home from that hospital in Statesville; these are the walls that heard her heart break. Here are the stories you give me. On the first and third Friday of every month; these are the rooms where you show me the quilts your mother made, the smooth rocks you carried back from that beach in Canada, and that picture of you with your best boyfriend. This is the House your Father built. On the same road where your grandmother planted hens and chicks; these are the floors that remember your footsteps when your eyes don't see too well anymore. Here is the porch where I tell you goodbye and you tell me you love me; this is the promise I make to myself to comeback to see you again. "Forever taking pictures of mountains" will be carved into the rock above my head when I am laid to rest. I can't help that I am always remembering the structure of my backbone...
Last weekend in Harlan, Kentucky I gathered with folks whose backbone has the same structure as mine at the It's Good to be Young in the Mountains conference to discuss how to stay in Appalachia, and not only how to stay, but to thrive in Appalachia. Last weekend I had the energy of leaving Boone, the energy of being around other passionate young people. Last weekend it felt good to be young in the mountains. Surrounded by so many different kinds of mountain builders it was hard not to hold a vision of tomorrow. However, as a young black man attending the conference pointed out during the closing of the conference, that vision is not complete and we still have a great deal of work to do before we see tomorrow. Tomorrow cannot continue to be a vision of predominately white people, no matter how well-intentioned we are. Because tomorrow looks like understanding that Appalachia is not just in the hills and the hollars, Appalachia is Charleston, Knoxville, Huntsville, and Pittsburgh. And tomorrow? tomorrow looks like momentum... Momentum looks like the drive home from Harlan and a 20 minute conversation with Sam at a gas pump in Virginia about how we can love Appalachia actively and how not to just accept the parts that need to change. But momentum feels like your heart in your throat when a girl says that now she is going to write a poem about how the fire is not dead here. The first week of January I wrote "July my lease will end. Come August all roads are moonlit and unknown..." Well last week come August like six planets turned backwards; a steam engine behind a blue moon carbon arc headlight. As if to ask You weren't comfortable were you?
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