Home
“I grew
up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river,
it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped
itself in the forests.”
Pablo
Neruda
As you know if you've
been reading this blog for a while, about this time of year I
experience mountain yearning. The place where I was born lies in a
river valley deep in the crux of the Great Smoky Mountains. At the
time of my birth, it was a tiny hamlet without so much as a hospital.
It occupied land that had once been Cherokee territory, and for a
time, both Cherokee and white settlers lived there together in peace.
My own family, Irish settlers who arrived in the early 1800's, were
farmers and later, merchants and school teachers. The family divided
loyalties in the Civil War, with some leaving to head north. My
branch stayed, and fought, and lost. I was about four years old when
we left, but my bones and my cells recognize it as home.
Almost all of us have a
sense of place—one spot on the planet that no matter how far we
wander, remains our true north star. We migrate back to it like wild birds
at significant moments in our lives, and sometimes, just to touch the
ground of home. In my mind's eye, I see the Hiwassee River, running
shallow and fast over rocks worn smooth with time. And the blue-green
ridges of mountains, clouds hanging in the gorges between them. I
don't have to go there to see them, because they live in me. I'll bet you have
that kind of place etched deep in your heart, too.
It makes sense when you
think about it. If you grew up eating and breathing from the soil and
the air of one particular place, then you are made of it. But it's
more than that; it's the lilt of the speech, the cadence and rhythm
of life, the sounds and the tastes. The way people drop their r's and
roll their a's sing a lullaby to your ears. We crave to hear, to feel,
to see the sounds and shapes of home.
Returning home is as
spiritually necessary as a pilgrimage to a holy shrine. I heard an
interview with Dion DiMucci yesterday—born and bred in the Bronx,
he still has the deep New York accent. His music, which has played on
since 1957, started on dirty streets, with musicians so poor they had
to beat boxes for drums, and make horn sounds with their mouths. His
newly released album sounds just the same as the music he made in the
1960's. The Bronx is where his poetry lies—between the tenements
and the bodegas. It's the sound of home.
Returning home is like fitting the very last piece into a jigsaw puzzle you've been working
on for years. It's satisfying to the soul. I hope you make your
pilgrimage this summer. I know I will.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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