Reflections

Blue Ridge Holy

The Blue Ridge mountains initiate a strange, catalytic response in me. Perhaps because they're so ancient, worn down, and rolling like a woman's body, they seem feminine to me. I suspect there are other sacred sites around the world that have this feel to them, but I haven't been there. When I return to the Smokies, I'm a Hobbit in the Shire—I'm home, and there is no other home on earth where I am as deeply connected to place. I think they have that effect on many people. They bring us to ground, make us slow down, make us want to be still and quiet, and lead a simple life. We should make applesauce from apples picked by our own hands. We should wear only what suits our bodies, and moves with us as comfortably as our own skin. There is no need for pretension or egotism; no one to impress.

When wind waffles through a field of Johnson grass, humble as it is, I am mesmerized and silent. No less than ocean, this place has a human connection. It's hard to feel anxious, because there is nothing these mountains haven't seen. In some ways, they hold the same silent stillness as a vast cemetery—and the same feel of ghosts and spirits all around. Not malevolent, but deeply sad.

I am back home, back to my Liza-dog, and my urban life, but as always, part of me remains at the foot of the Blue Ridge, content to watch the clouds sail by in a Carolina blue sky. I wonder what part of the world you call sacred. How does it affect you? Do you go to a place of contemplative stillness? Is your awareness expanded, tuned to the many nuances of place? Where is it you know beyond all doubt, that you are on holy ground?

                                                                 In the Spirit,

                                                                     Jane