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.
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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.
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. 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.
Storm's Coming. In one of those rare moments where I am exactly where I want to be: returning to that mountain with Maggie and Jessica and the cows and horses. This is how you return to yourself. These women, just like them mountains, are your damn flesh and blood.
As Dalton said, home is this place I am perpetually heading toward and running from. Home is the place I am still searching and yearning for; I am familiar with its presence because I have found it before. I have built it before. In a month in a half I will pack all my belongings into boxes again. This time it's all roads headed west.
The weeks you work so hard your bones protest and every part of you feels heavier and your spirit is absent from the automaton that is your physical body, come these windows of presence when that automaton body of yours recalls its heart, and your muscles have missed your lightness like a front tooth, and dammit something has got to give! There is warmth in good company, there is stillness in the evening hours of spring, and there are mountains to be climbed with your best friend (because you know your spine is made from the same rocks and dirt that built those ridges)... damn, something has got to give.
Easter through the light of the window my mom gave to my dad when they first married with a note "Let's build a home around this." Easter in light of the home that was. Easter in the light of the home I continue to build.
Last week, after less than a month, I lost my job at the Women's Fund of the Blue Ridge. A reminder that sometimes things don't turn out like you would like them to. This week re-ignighted a passion for photography and the place I am from that I have not felt since I was writing my senior thesis at UNCA. I went to the Appalachian Studies Association Conference at East Tennessee State University, it was wonderful and exhausting. I met so many fantastically intelligent people. I had a chance to meet Roger May and his amazing panel of photographers; Megan King, Pat Jarrett, and Kate Fowler, (If you are not following the Looking at Appalachia Project please check it out). Hearing them speak about the project I came to a glorious and terrifying realization: I want to be in Appalachia, I want to go to grad school to study Appalachian Studies, and I want to be a part of Looking at Appalachia through my own photography. Glorious because my heart quivers and quakes with purpose. Terrifying because my worried mind shivers and shakes with the logistics of making that move. Last week, after less than a month, I lost my job at the Women's Fund of the Blue Ridge. This week I didn't care so much.
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