Clearly what I've been writing about has very little to do with The South and more to do with me and what I've been experiencing lately, so I apologize for being misleading. Whether or not I ever have anything to say about it is yet to be known, but in the meantime, here are some more thoughts:
Road kill around these parts is a whole ‘nother ball game than what I’m used to. To date, I have laid eyes upon/added insult to injury to a hog, raccoons, possums, and I’ve even seen a blue-eyed dog bloodying his snout in the fresh carcass of what appeared to be a fox. And the squirrels, oh, the squirrels. Their remains—in various stages of decomposition---could certainly substitute for street signs around here. “Take a left at the flattened squirrel, go down a few blocks and you’ll see a squirrel on it’s stomach with his face up, and right after that you’re going to want to take another left. When you reach the one that’s still oozing, you’re real close to where you wanna be.”
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I am adjusting to the pockets of darkness that—in their vast nothingness---border my warm and well-lighted paths, and echo down into my imagination.
Stop sign.
Look left.
Look right.
Nothing but emptiness on either side.
If I turn,
Will my car sail into the atmosphere, float into another universe, thud upon the moon?
Will the handsome pines suction me up in one swift vacuuming, regurgitating my pulped flesh and the steely shreds of my car into the night, left to the bears?
Is there a lone, grisly, flannelled mountain man lurching in the void, waiting for a young woman to hit him, at which point she’ll have to stop and see how he’s doing, at which point he’ll reveal the lethal hook that replaces his left hand, at which point she’ll scream but at which point it will be too late…?
Will a two-ton tractor and its driver—who forgot to turn on the headlights---pummel over me and my little four-door sedan, leaving a dinging pancake of metal and a nest of highlighted blonde hair?
Or, will I hold my breath,
Close my eyes,
and
slip
into
the
darkness.
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Abe is from Sudan. His skin is the rich color of coffee. His smile consumes his face, and his small eyes crinkle at the edges where they meet the fine lines of skinny scars. His laugh is joyful bordering on maniacal, but it is contagious. His English, even after 10 years of living in America, often comes together in broken bits and pieces, tinkering along in the cadence of his native language, Dinka.
Abe wears the Kanuga uniform: khakis, hunter green polo, comfortable, outdoorsy shoes, a crooked nametag. But he stands out. He opens doors, looks people in the eye, starts a roaring fire with ease, can carry more weight than it looks like he should be able to, engages with every child he crosses, touches people on the back when he’s talking to them, and liked George W. Bush as a president. I’ve only spent about 12 hours with him since we first met, but he makes me feel safe.
It is natural to think of Abe as being happy. His smile comes easily and is almost always accompanied by that distinct giggle. He works efficiently and energetically and without complaint. He is very well liked. But somewhere deep beneath the surface are the shadows of a darker time. Look deeply into his face, and it is hard not to see the leaping flames of an outdoor fire, the dusty, hardened feet of the tribal people, and cords of scars laid deep in the name of tradition and of violence.
One day while we worked together I asked Abe if he would say something in DInka, and, under the sudden spotlight, he laughed a little nervously and seemed apprehensive. We crunched along the gravelly Kanuga paths beneath the Hemlocks, which drooped under the intensity of their green and wrapped us in their cool wisdom, and Abe thought about what he might say. The sun slipped into grey and, for the first time at Kanuga, I spotted an obtrusive black crow weighing down the branch of a pine tree. The large bird seemed out of place, and he stared at us as we passed, cawing in warning.
Finally, with his voice soft and suddenly shy, Abe said “This is a song we sing at church.” In a hushed voice, almost a whisper, he began. The words braided together as if from a wooden flute, reverberating in a hollow place, achingly tender and haunting. On top of his notes, we were transported somewhere raw and private, he in his memories, and I in my heart.
At the end of the path he finished his song and looked at me. I asked him what the song was about, and he said “It’s about Christ. How he was nailed to the cross and sheds his blood on us.”
Later in the day, Abe and I and another coworker killed some time in the lobby, relaxing on the couches. Two of us joked and laughed loudly while Abe leaned his head on his hands and shut his eyes. When the time came to get back to work, I said “Ready, Abe?” He didn’t respond. I called his name louder, and he startled, popping his head up and looking at me with blinking eyes.
“I was back at home for a second,” he said. “I went back home.”
-------------------------------------------
I just came from a walk around the lake. No Jason, no Riley, just me. I tried to capture the colors of the leaves, and although I probably didn’t get any shots truly worth sharing, I experienced their radiance in new ways. As I approached our little turn-off, I smelled Larry’s outdoor fire going and, from somewhere, a spicy thread of cinnamon. Trees and shrubs shaded the path from both sides, and the air was cool and dank and encompassing. My mind was quiet and I gave in to my surroundings, joining the stillness and for a moment—was—right where I was.
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There is so much space here, so much darkness and quietude. I’m mad at myself for feeling spooked by it, and for constantly wanting to find the light or the voices or the ticking of a clock to keep me company. What am I so afraid of? Ghosts? Mass murderers? Or what I might hear if I fully listened to the clattering in my head?
What will I find if I open up to the emptiness, still my thoughts, and breathe in. And out. And in again?
Is that what scares me?
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leaning over the gnarled, wooden railing of the little bridge, I stared into the rushing water and was caught in its current, swept backward into memories of other swiftly moving streams, forward through flickering visions of the future, children laughing, splashing, thrilling in the cold, wrinkled hands held tight, a breeze rustling, catching hearts, feet dangling, a forever romance, coming and going, a glimpse of eternity, spotted from a slatted forest bridge
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One of my favorite things that some of the people around her say is “hain’t.” For example: “I hain’t seen her in a coon’s age.”
I’m going to practice and see if I can pull it off.
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The other night I waited in my car to pick Jason up from work, and as I watched the world around me I felt at the heart of a small-town vignette, softened by the pastel hues of dusk: an aproned young woman sweeping up at the end of her shift at the bakery; an elderly couple in wooly coats and each other’s arms, trudging slowly up hill; storefronts glowing warmly. It was cozy, slow, simple. I saw some of the local characters I was coming to recognize, including the town crazy on his bumper-stickered bicycle, waving to everybody. There was the owner of the coffee shop, in his trademark black beret and sagging expression, ambling along. A gentleman in suspenders dropped several envelopes into the big blue mailbox, and a teenaged boy pulled the red and white striped umbrellas from the outdoor tables at Mike’s Diner.
No one noticed me or saw me see them, and I reveled in my position at the center of the universe.
A car whisked by, and in its wake left a dancing collection of crunchy fall leaves, twirling up into the evening and celebrating the joy found in such simplicity.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Some thoughts thus far....
Here are a collection of things I've written down since we got here. Some of the writing I love, some annoys me, but it's what was written nonetheless:
9/10/09
A sliver of emptiness wedged between us as we moved around each other in the kitchen, making dinner. It wasn’t an obtrusive sadness or loneliness, but more an allusive cloud of grey threatening to grow darker. The sentiment--in that moment—dug into our sides and put distance between us, and at the same time drew us closer in our mutual awareness of the expanding quietude.
In an almost shameful haste, I turned on the TV and some more lights, warming the big room and taking the edge off all that empty space. A brief explanation was offered, and with relief and understanding, Jason nodded and smiled. From then on, neither of us could stop talking and plans for all that we would do while we here blossomed into a series of deeply contented conversations.
If my perceptions are accurate, Fall seems to be unloading her bags here in Hendersonville—in grocery store displays, around the curling edges of leaves and on top of a chilly breeze—with intentions of sticking around. Kip says we can expect a week or two of warmth in a few days, but that steadily cool weather will follow. I’m not knocking the seasonal changes I’ve come to know and love in Florida, but this mountaintop welcome to autumn is natural and reasonable, unlike the farce we put on further south.
9/11/09
Today as we were walking around the lake, I asked Jason if there were parts of the walk that he liked better than others. He said, “Yes, I like this part a lot,” referring to the quieter, less lived-around stretch of the walk where open space, trees and shrubberies dominate. It was the part that gave me a mild case of the creeps. I like the part where there are more houses, cars and signs of life. I thought it was interesting that we were perfectly opposite in our lake-walk nuances, and began to pay a little more homage to the quiet parts.
9/12/09
I’m trying to make friends with the gray. At home, in Florida, I know what an overcast sky means, how it will affect me, and usually even how long it will last. Here, I don’t know what to expect from gloomy skies and during this time of transition I’m finding that ever so slightly unsettling.
The crickets lull us into night, providing a quilt of comfort that wraps us close to the Earth and yet—at once-- elicits a dream that we are not on Earth at all, but that we are actually dancing on the stars.
9/16/09
I’m not sure if we just haven’t realized that our time here will stretch beyond a little vacation or what, but there are no feelings, almost entirely, of sadness or longing for home. Everything here’s falling into place so comfortably and with such ease that we haven’t even noticed how easily it’s all falling into place. New friends, jobs, a routine. Not a ruffled feather in sight. This, more than most anything else I’ve experienced, seems to be in the hands of God, and He smiles as He watches us be tickled and moved by the unfurling petals of this new blossoming life we’re living. I am open and waiting, confident that we will understand when the wind blows us in another direction, whatever that might be.
Although I have a long way in identifying the trees and plants and flowers around us here, I noticed today that by simply having that consistent curiosity and desire to familiarize myself with my surroundings, I am becoming more in tune with nature, and can sense the beginning of a lovely conversation between it and myself.
I’m trying to keep tabs on the changing of the leaves. I think that there has already been a shift in the landscape’s color since we got here. Mostly we’re still padded on all sides by lush green, but tangy yellows are bursting forth here and there, and a dignified burgundy is settling in sporadically. A sultry vine twists up an electric pole beside the lake, and her leaves are proud and showy, rich with auburns and shades of cranberry. She’s so pretty. I wonder what will become of her as the seasons revolve through.
I was caught off guard and left slightly disoriented upon discovering Kanuga has a bustling underbelly , festering beneath the grounds we have come to find such comfort in. It is a den of constant movement and noise, with washing machines and dryers spinning and spinning, burping their steam into the faces of older women, worn women, women with premature wrinkling and stained teeth. The break tables of common laborers line one wall, littered with Marlboro boxes, empty Cheeto bags and Styrofoam Cups-O-Noodles. Mexican women speak to each other in Spanish and young black men make jokes and talk above the rumble of the dryers. Kanuga has, to me, always been a sweet tonic of fresh air, God and seersucker. Where will I store this new information? This sweaty, uncomfortable information that seems to be chafing at my monogrammed Laura Ashley dress???
9/10/09
A sliver of emptiness wedged between us as we moved around each other in the kitchen, making dinner. It wasn’t an obtrusive sadness or loneliness, but more an allusive cloud of grey threatening to grow darker. The sentiment--in that moment—dug into our sides and put distance between us, and at the same time drew us closer in our mutual awareness of the expanding quietude.
In an almost shameful haste, I turned on the TV and some more lights, warming the big room and taking the edge off all that empty space. A brief explanation was offered, and with relief and understanding, Jason nodded and smiled. From then on, neither of us could stop talking and plans for all that we would do while we here blossomed into a series of deeply contented conversations.
If my perceptions are accurate, Fall seems to be unloading her bags here in Hendersonville—in grocery store displays, around the curling edges of leaves and on top of a chilly breeze—with intentions of sticking around. Kip says we can expect a week or two of warmth in a few days, but that steadily cool weather will follow. I’m not knocking the seasonal changes I’ve come to know and love in Florida, but this mountaintop welcome to autumn is natural and reasonable, unlike the farce we put on further south.
9/11/09
Today as we were walking around the lake, I asked Jason if there were parts of the walk that he liked better than others. He said, “Yes, I like this part a lot,” referring to the quieter, less lived-around stretch of the walk where open space, trees and shrubberies dominate. It was the part that gave me a mild case of the creeps. I like the part where there are more houses, cars and signs of life. I thought it was interesting that we were perfectly opposite in our lake-walk nuances, and began to pay a little more homage to the quiet parts.
9/12/09
I’m trying to make friends with the gray. At home, in Florida, I know what an overcast sky means, how it will affect me, and usually even how long it will last. Here, I don’t know what to expect from gloomy skies and during this time of transition I’m finding that ever so slightly unsettling.
The crickets lull us into night, providing a quilt of comfort that wraps us close to the Earth and yet—at once-- elicits a dream that we are not on Earth at all, but that we are actually dancing on the stars.
9/16/09
I’m not sure if we just haven’t realized that our time here will stretch beyond a little vacation or what, but there are no feelings, almost entirely, of sadness or longing for home. Everything here’s falling into place so comfortably and with such ease that we haven’t even noticed how easily it’s all falling into place. New friends, jobs, a routine. Not a ruffled feather in sight. This, more than most anything else I’ve experienced, seems to be in the hands of God, and He smiles as He watches us be tickled and moved by the unfurling petals of this new blossoming life we’re living. I am open and waiting, confident that we will understand when the wind blows us in another direction, whatever that might be.
Although I have a long way in identifying the trees and plants and flowers around us here, I noticed today that by simply having that consistent curiosity and desire to familiarize myself with my surroundings, I am becoming more in tune with nature, and can sense the beginning of a lovely conversation between it and myself.
I’m trying to keep tabs on the changing of the leaves. I think that there has already been a shift in the landscape’s color since we got here. Mostly we’re still padded on all sides by lush green, but tangy yellows are bursting forth here and there, and a dignified burgundy is settling in sporadically. A sultry vine twists up an electric pole beside the lake, and her leaves are proud and showy, rich with auburns and shades of cranberry. She’s so pretty. I wonder what will become of her as the seasons revolve through.
I was caught off guard and left slightly disoriented upon discovering Kanuga has a bustling underbelly , festering beneath the grounds we have come to find such comfort in. It is a den of constant movement and noise, with washing machines and dryers spinning and spinning, burping their steam into the faces of older women, worn women, women with premature wrinkling and stained teeth. The break tables of common laborers line one wall, littered with Marlboro boxes, empty Cheeto bags and Styrofoam Cups-O-Noodles. Mexican women speak to each other in Spanish and young black men make jokes and talk above the rumble of the dryers. Kanuga has, to me, always been a sweet tonic of fresh air, God and seersucker. Where will I store this new information? This sweaty, uncomfortable information that seems to be chafing at my monogrammed Laura Ashley dress???
Welcome!
Hi, all!
I've created this blog in order to stretch out my writing wings just a little bit. Instead of keeping my musings personal---where laziness prevails and words mingle but rarely seem to find themselves on paper---I'll post here, and hope that it encourages some discipline and helps strengthen my skill. My time here in NC has already proven to be intensely thoughtful, reflective and enlightening. It is joyous to be feeling like the people I'm meeting, the conversations I'm having and the experiences I'm living are significant and meaningful, and are unfolding with intentions rooted somewhere beneath me and above me and just beyond my absolute control.
Outside of the soul-searching, sentimental junk, there's plenty to report on about my surroundings. From seersucker, cast-iron skillets, yes ma'mns and y'alls, I am constantly pursuing a deeper connection with The South. What makes a place Southern, outside of its geography? Why isn't Florida part of The South? Or is it? Why, I ask, are seersucker shorts allowed on grown men? How do you successfully cook eggs in a cast iron skillet? And how do heavier topics like race, religion and history relate to one another and come to make sense in a modern world?
I will not attempt to analyze on an intellectual level, change any opinions or make significant declarations. Instead, I will regurgitate unedited thoughts and discoveries as I have them. Sometimes they'll be funny, sometimes they'll be important to me emotionally, sometimes they'll be dumb. And sometimes, they might be offensive.
In any case, I hope you'll join me.
Here goes,
Katie
I've created this blog in order to stretch out my writing wings just a little bit. Instead of keeping my musings personal---where laziness prevails and words mingle but rarely seem to find themselves on paper---I'll post here, and hope that it encourages some discipline and helps strengthen my skill. My time here in NC has already proven to be intensely thoughtful, reflective and enlightening. It is joyous to be feeling like the people I'm meeting, the conversations I'm having and the experiences I'm living are significant and meaningful, and are unfolding with intentions rooted somewhere beneath me and above me and just beyond my absolute control.
Outside of the soul-searching, sentimental junk, there's plenty to report on about my surroundings. From seersucker, cast-iron skillets, yes ma'mns and y'alls, I am constantly pursuing a deeper connection with The South. What makes a place Southern, outside of its geography? Why isn't Florida part of The South? Or is it? Why, I ask, are seersucker shorts allowed on grown men? How do you successfully cook eggs in a cast iron skillet? And how do heavier topics like race, religion and history relate to one another and come to make sense in a modern world?
I will not attempt to analyze on an intellectual level, change any opinions or make significant declarations. Instead, I will regurgitate unedited thoughts and discoveries as I have them. Sometimes they'll be funny, sometimes they'll be important to me emotionally, sometimes they'll be dumb. And sometimes, they might be offensive.
In any case, I hope you'll join me.
Here goes,
Katie
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