Reset—from the Smoky Mountains—About WAITING

March 8, 2019
It’s been a little over 8 years since I last posted,  Just reread the old post—sounded pretty pretentious. Who am I trying to impress???

Since then, we’ve moved to Brasstown, NC in the Blue Ridge of the Great Smokies. At first, it was great—beautiful, peaceful, four even-handed seasons, great church, lots of new things to learn.  Nothing about here has changed, but I think I have.

I feel like I’ve arrived at a huge clearing in the road of life. Everywhere I look, It is beautiful and perfect all around, a place where the birds sing, the wild turkeys are aamazingly funny, somewhere there is a bear who has left its mark on our rat bait box, T’s health is stable.

So,why do I feel like I’m just waiting. Waiting. Waiting for what—I wish I knew.  I’m busy: doing good works, I’m making new friends, there’s lots to explore, but I’m just waiting.  Why?

Perhaps it is the recurrence of winter this week. Perhaps it’s the constant rain for the past 4 months. Probably I’m just feeling sorry for myself here in my stagnant little personal puddle.

The Path to the Mountains

Last week I was truly "along the path," driving to the Great Smoky Mountains and back in the space of 10 days.  Alone with my thoughts, Enlighten channel on XMRadio, and God, I decided that I would begin this blog.  I thought about friends past and present, the way that God always seems to send exactly what we need precisely when it is needed, and about growing older.

There was so much possibility for tragedy and dismay along that path...Dad with advanced Alzheimers, Mom overwhelmed with her new realization that this was, undeniably, Dad's unrelenting state, and me, the one who was always the family trouble-maker and opinion-giver traveling to be a comfort and aide.  So many possibilities for it to all go wrong.

But, in the mountains, it was just beginning to be fall, a time that has always offered me comfort and solace.   The sumacs had just turned their brilliant scarlet when I arrived, and after a couple of days the sycamores began turning yellow, and nature progressed according to its well-designed pattern. 

Mom, Auntie, and I had time to visit, to reminisce, to reach out to each other, to share horrible and terrible family secrets in a way that defied the total lack of intimacy previously found within our family circle.  And, we came to realize that our lives, too, were following a well-designed pattern, from birth through triumph and tragedy, to new life.  So much to take in, so much emotion released in a quiet and thoughtful manner, we avoided our well-worn family paths of blame, recrimination, anger and denial for once, and forged new strengths among ourselves.