Wednesday morning. Stepping onto the front porch of my apartment in downtown Waynesville, the air was cool. A breeze wafted through town from the nearby mountain ridges cradling the community. Walking to my truck, I noticed the first of the fallen leaves on the sideyard. “Felt like fall this morning,” I commented to my publisher in passing later in the office.
Fall will forever be my favorite season. Warm sunshine and brisk air. Chopped wood and fireplaces. Jeans, boots, and a barn coat. Football on the TV. Going for trail runs in the backwoods without the intense heat and daunting humidity of summer. Sipping cold beers on the front porch and picking guitar at sunset. Not to mention the most awe-inspiring annual performance by Mother Nature, which is the foliage throughout the mountainous regions of our vast country.
As mentioned in last week’s column, my Aunt Moe recently passed away at age 64 after a long battle with muscular dystrophy. The family memorial service will be at Saint Patrick’s Cemetery in my hometown way up on the Canadian Border. Thus, I’ll be heading north and ducking back over the Mason-Dixon Line to Upstate New York to spend quality time with loved ones from the starting line of my existence. Bear hugs and teary eyes. The memories remain.
So, that puts me back in my beloved North Country during the time of the year that I cherish most, if but for a somber and sorrowful reason. And yet, it seems like most of my visits back to the ol’ stomping grounds over the past decade or so are usually for funerals, which is part of life for you and me (all of us), sadly.
And that’s OK. It’s these exact junctures of saying goodbye to beloved faces, and interacting with other familiar ones while doing so, that radiates one’s true character and personal growth amid the grand scheme of things in our universe. Besides, if you don’t open up your soul to the vulnerability of grief and acceptance, of remembering someone’s genuine presence and making sense of life itself, what’s the sense of purpose in your time on this earth?
It’s like the late Greek philosopher Socrates once said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Let those tears flow freely, I say. Sit with your thoughts for a little bit and put into order the organized chaos of your mind. It’s healthy to hurt and grieve, the key being knowing when to wipe your eyes and move forward. It’s healthy to also question the “how” and “why” of a lost loved one, the key being able to find peace and solace in that process. There’s no simple answer to the “how” and “why,” just shoulders to lean on, happily.
And I think for most of us, our hometowns remain that foundation by which to get grounded about earthshaking matters in our lives, this dot on a map that offers up a priceless perspective on things we sometimes can’t explain or figure out. By heading back to the beginning, we’re able to make sense of the present, able to view the unknowns of the future with grace and curiosity.
Within my own cross-examination of the trials and tribulations of this past year — the personal hardships and loss of important figures in my life, the nothing and everything of each day we wake up into and inhabit — my thoughts drift to those certain spots back home that clear the mind, those tangible locations that are a peaceful refuge and safe haven for my sanity.
Pictured in this column is the Bloomingdale Bog Trail, just down the road from Saranac Lake, New York, in the heart of the ancient Adirondack Mountains. That trail has been a long-time Zen zone for me, with Saranac Lake remaining my most favorite town in all of America and beyond. My home is Waynesville, but my heart will always be in Saranac Lake. In truth, the hope is to someday split time between Western North Carolina and Saranac Lake, a small cabin in each location filled with books, vinyl records, guitars, and a woodstove.
The Bloomingdale Bog is a rail-to-trail path, a former railroad line cutting through the remote depths of the Adirondacks. There’s this certain section I jump onto, and I do so every single time I find myself back home. I hop into my truck and pull out of the dirt driveway of my folks’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh, New York. Head up Route 3 into the mountains, the Champlain Valley now in the rearview mirror. And just about an hour later, put the truck into park at the trailhead. Lace up the shoes and go.
I usually end up at the trail in the late afternoon, right when the sun begins to fade behind the nearby peaks and tall pine trees surrounding me while in motion. The sunshine pierces through the branches, the smell of pine needles soothing the aches and pains within the beating muscle in my chest. After about a half-mile, the ideal rhythm is found in my arms and legs. The pace is steady and enjoyable, my restless soul soon relaxing into deep thought, my gaze shifting left and right to observe and appreciate the bogs, creeks, and birds high above.
Right now, the plan is to return to the Bloomingdale Bog Trail by this time next week: right before the memorial service, right after I swing into the farmhouse and hug my parents hello. With this past year heavy and heartfelt, there will surely be plenty to ponder quietly to myself while jogging down the trail in the fleeting sunshine of another day I’m lucky enough to wake up into and inhabit — the word “gratitude” echoing loudly throughout the ether of time and space.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.