Deeper Than the Holler

I went to visit my college roommate a few weeks ago and we were chatting about all of the things that we don't chat about via text message or email. One of them was my current search of understanding why I cannot really bond with people. That because now that I am not worried about my constant survival, I can think about things that were, "nice-to-haves." Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, she commented.

When I googled this pyramid image, I laughed to myself about the realities of my journey. About how long I have been on the road to the mid-point of a triangle whose pinnacle is touted and boasted by every selfie-loving yogi Instagram can hold. I guess, maybe, I have this level of gratitude that I can think about this at all. I feel that there is this sense of having the luxury to be self-reflective and only a truly privileged turd would lament about being able to be so safe to be so utterly self-aware. And yet...here I am (this is the part where I would bow deeply and swish my velvet cape).

My friend's first baby will be turning one soon. A friend's baby's birthday is not about me, but the ideas of diverged paths, differing choices and futures always come 'round when years are comemorated. I enjoy seeing babies learn stuff -  and there is a part of me that tries to glean that sense of wide-eyed acceptance...or whatever. Maybe I just want a do-over. Everyone in my life has heard this story before, but when I born I started to descend the birth canal, stopped and then tried to go back. And I kind of never stop wondering why I did that. Maybe I knew I was a little early (I'm still always early to everything) or I caught a glimpse of the world and just needed a minute to rethink my decision. My mother's doctor had other plans and I'm here in all of my disgruntled glory. When I went to a retreat a few years ago, I had the opportunity to participate in a re-birthing activity. I didn't. The empathic piece of me felt what those women were feeling when each participated, but much of my thought centered around the idea that I wasn't really into it the first time. That there are no backsies. That, much like everything else, my role in being a self-aware and active participant in my own life is that it is my responsibility to do the best that I can with what I have. Is this what it means when it is said, "that you can never go home again?"

I can try, I think.

When I left my friend's house, I knew I was traveling deep into the Appalachians. I went north and north and north from sunny North Carolina to a gray and misty West Virginia. I went into what felt so deep. I read that the settlers of these areas were willing to reside in this secluded terrain because it reminded them of their own homeland and I remarked to myself that the low pasture reminded me of the moors depicted in television and films. It was so murky as I dove deeper into a secluded and fuzzy holler. I lost cell phone reception and desperately hoped that I remembered the directions that I glanced at when I entered Marlinton, West Virginia's city center as my final destination.

When I pulled in, I was lost-ish and weary.

I don't know what I expected to see when I arrived into the (ancestral?) home of my Maternal Grandmother. It was already late and Saturday hours had closed up much of the town. I went to the local theater (because the lights were on) and no one found it that charming that I made the trip to find my roots. I got directions to the cemetery and the proprietress asked, "Did you want to buy a ticket to the Baluga Brothers old time washboard stomp?" (or whatever the fuck)...ummmm, no. 

I had no coordinates to find my great uncle's or great-great grandmother's graves. After wandering, I did manage to find his grave and no trumpets played, no profound sense of belonging suddenly flooded into my awareness. I still don't know a goddamned thing about intimacy, belonging or bonding. It was so cold that day. Moss covered the stones in the cemetery. I wonder if light sees so much of Pocahontas County.

I got a far-too-sweet pastry at the hipster coffeeshop/bar next door to the theater that catered to the outdoorsy, wealthy granola tourists and residents that now flooded this town that, I learned, is positioned next to a popular ski resort. You can get a veggie quesadilla where my great-great grandmother beat clothes against a rock or whatever - so there's that. I used the directions that the woman at the theater gave to get me to the place where the GPS started working again. Her words echoed a bit, "Do you want to use our phone to call family you were going to meet?" I said there was none. 

It was dark and I was scared to trust those vague directions but I had no choice. I drove and drove with about five songs that I had downloaded and saved on Spotify. One of them is, "Anxiety's Door," by Merchandise.

...wear the dust from the earth 

back in my bones.

I know by body's from here,

I feel my blood run cold.

Somewhere there's a perfect country,

that sits right by the sea.

When the sun comes out,

shines to talk to me.

When I got back to the interstate, I was relieved and proud. I started on an unknown road down and down and down into the holler and right in the middle of that, "journey of self-discovery," - everything kind of went wrong. The first time that happened I couldn't turn back, either.

Wherever you go, there you are. Whatever you wind up doing, that's what you've wound up doing. Whatever you are thinking right now, that's what's on your mind. Whatever has happened to you, it has already happened. The important question is, "how are you going to handle it?" 

.... Like it or not, this moment is all we really have to work with.

Jon Kabat-Zinn