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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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.
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.
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. I should have been packing up all of my belongings to move out of my apartment, instead I was remembering the chemistry for time travel. An old roll of film in the bottom of a box; I have waited two years knowing that in its silver awaits thirty-s ix frames of "this is how your heart was broken" and 35mm of "see how much has changed". Time travel can be tricky that way; revisiting all my hollow places, for a moment when I hold the negatives up to the light I remember the sharpness of all my arrows: "Oh yes, I remember now, how could I have forgotten? I loved you once..." But that is just a moment and arrows dull and crumble. On a dare I let a psychic run her fingers across my palm and declare that I will have happiness and success in a few years as long as I don't get too distracted, and oh yeah that I should fall in love with a gemini... And all these things can be mine if I come back for more sessions... So I guess there is always that. Time travel is an unreliable method of transportation. Good things come from remembering that "forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past" and my arms only reach so far ahead of me.
Last week was three pairs of hands. Caroline's hands lead me back to the dirt when I go out to her farm in Valle Crucis on Friday and help her harvest and prepare for the Watauga County Farmers' Market. With our hands in the dirt Caroline and I talk about and life and love and how both seem utterly unnavigable at this moment and how everything is in flux and how ultimately that's all okay, we're doing just fine. ...we're fine, right? Yes I think so, because the movement of my body is purposeful and strong when I pull bright red beets from the ground and I take great delight in the dirt under my fingernails.
Yes, everything remains fine when I stop moving long enough for my Joybird and my Longbird to hold my heart in their sleepy fingers. A few weeks back Heron was overheard calling my brother Eli on his play-phone he said "Hi Eli, this is Heron. I just want you in the world and I want to hold you." Yes, don't you see? Everything is just fine because there is so much purpose in those four little hands, they want you in this world and they will hold you here. Friday June 26th, 2015; "It is so ordered" hardly in my life have four words bubbled such joy into my heart. Marriage equality has been long over-due and was a huge win for the LGBTQI community. I was euphoric to celebrate the landmark court ruling on the side of love with some of the people I love most.
However, as we celebrate love it is important for us to remember that the 5-4 Supreme Court ruling in favor of marriage equality was grounded in the 14th Amendment which forbids states from denying any person "life, liberty or property, without due process of law" or to "deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.” Y'all we still have so much to fight for... Only 18 of 50 states have employment non-discrimination laws that cover sexual orientation and gender identity. None of these states are near the place I love and call home. Only 19 of 50 states have laws that protect students from harassment and bullying based on gender identity and sexual orientation. Two states (Missouri and South Dakota) actually have laws that prevent schools from specifically protecting LGBTQI students. In Justice Kennedy's beautifully written majority opinion, he proclaimed "marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death..." So while we celebrate this ruling we must also challenge ourselves to embody a love that endures, exists, grows, and strengthens beyond the bonds of marriage and fights to protect the lives and rights of everyone. Justice Kennedy ended his statement with a profound truth: "They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right." Yes that is it, equal dignity... Equal dignity means no more murdered transgender men and women, it means no more losing your job based on who you love or how you express your identity, it means no child is allowed to be bullied for so long that their ache becomes too heavy and they take their own lives, and it also means no more unarmed black men killed by police (because these fights are united by the request for equal dignity in the eyes of the law). The fight is not over y'all. We've got work to do. It is so ordered. In the interest of having more LGBTQI voices heard, if you haven't submitted to and are interested in submitting to the Queer in Appalachia Project please do! I am getting some fantastic submissions and meeting incredible people that are helping to shape my vision for the project. I will have a submission page up soon. Resources: http://www.glaad.org/transgender/resources http://transequality.org http://transadvocacynetwork.org http://www.hrc.org http://blacklivesmatter.com http://www.naacp.org https://www.girlscouts.org Last week my dear friend Riko came back to Boone and helped me start a project that is very dear to me and that I have been thinking about for a long time: Portraits of Queer Appalachia. I met Riko when I was fifteen and all the time I've known him he has been a damn mountain builder, he had to be, it ain't easy to be one of the only openly gay people at Watauga High School. Riko is one of the bravest, most intelligent, and kind humans I have ever known and loved, and I am so happy that he came to visit and gave me that nudge to begin this project. Soon I will be adding his story, in his own words, to go along with the photograph. That is how I would like to format this whole project.
So this is an open call to anyone who identifies as LGBTQIA and lives/has lived/grew up/ passed through Appalachia, I want to hear your stories. Submissions can include a story (fiction/non-fiction), poetry, a sentence, a drawing... anything that has to do with the queer experience in Appalachia, I am especially interested in themes of home. Submissions can be anonymous, but if you are willing to have your photo taken please tell me. Submissions can be made to lnmurrey@gmail.com with the subject line "queer appalachia". Last week I finished the project I have been working on for the past year. I have had the incredible privilege of working with Blue Ridge Women in Agriculture to interview and photograph the farmers in this book. Through working with Suzanne I learned about the determination, knowledge and patience it takes to have a farm in this region, and additionally, what the area gains from having a strong local farming community. Documenting the participating farmers, I bore witness to a love of for the land and the Blue Ridge Mountains that inspires me and gives me confidence in a sustainable future for our community and region. Join us to celebrate the book launch on May 17th at the Blowing Rock Art and History Museum. To view the online portion of the handbook for farming resources please visit http://handbook.brwia.org.
Photographs I took during the sixteenth week of this year when there were few roads I did not travel after dark and I longed for the night to hold a little longer.
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