Born
Lonesome
“I
think, being from East Tennessee, you're kinda born with a little
lonesome in your soul, in your blood. You know you've got that
Appalachian soul.”
Ashley
Monroe
There's something
mournful about the Appalachian mountains. They are beautiful, but
they seem to be in perpetual grief. I grew up there and have forever
been under their spell. It could be simply that they are so
ancient—one of the oldest in the known world. They've seen a lot of
human history come and go. They are accustomed to impermanence. They
know first hand, and deep as the ocean, the cycles of life and death.
There are no surprises there. Blood, too; the blood of the Cherokee
people, and of all native peoples up and down the chain of mountains
that runs from Alabama to Maine. Soldiers as well, both Confederate
and Union, Colonial, British, French, and Spanish, have perished in
that long stretch of peaks and valleys. So these mountains have
reason to be as blue as they are.
Hardy folks who hike the
Appalachian trail find solace there. Walking through forests of pine
and hardwoods, hearing water tumble over rocks, and bird-song
flitting through the trees, silence is easier. There's no need to
disturb the natural sounds with human speech, and besides you want to
listen. American businessman, John Mackey wrote, “I've been
doing long-distance hiking since 2002, when I hiked the Appalachian
Trail. You start to calm down and relax and get into the slower
rhythm of nature.” The quiet claims your attention; just the
sound of feet crunching along the trail, and the living natural world
all around.
I have always found the
Appalachians to be strongly feminine in nature—rolling and green;
from a distance smokey and blue. Nothing like the spiky, jutting
skyline of the the Rockies or Sierra Nevada mountains. The Blue Ridge
rolls along, worn down by the passage of time and weather. These
mountains are full of sad stories, and sad songs set to Irish fiddle
music. Also, dark stories of betrayal and murder. In the town where I
grew up, Frankie Silver was hanged, for killing and butchering her
husband and burning his body in her home hearth. That kind of
dark—out of which come ballads, spooky stories and folk tales.
For all of this, these
mountains hold sacred space for me. They exude an ancient energy that
draws people from around the world, and suggests a way of life that
is simpler, slower, and saner. I wonder where you find holy ground.
What part of the world connects with blood and bone in you? Where do
you find sanctuary?
In the Spirit,
Jane
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