Mercy, mercy.
I have been on the road for most of this year, it seems. This morning in the wee-est of hours, I ate the remnants of a very good cobb salad, packed my duffle-bag and took the shuttle to the Pittsburgh airport. Eight hours later, I unlocked my much-loved RAV 4 in the parking lot at the Greenville airport and headed for the hills.
There is a moment as one drives up 26 towards the state line when the blue ridge of my home rises up before my eyes. My mountain homeland, the seat of my various family branches for so long.
Today I was low on gas so I pulled over at Exit 1. Landrum. One of my Ancestors bears that name as his middle one: John Landrum Westmoreland. I wondered if he had looked toward that blue ridge with a sense of fear or loss as he left South Carolina and brought his name into Haywood county, where it would become part of my mother-line.
I am settling back in for now, mindful that my peregrinations will continue in November and December, and plans are already firming up for next year. Barring incident or accident, as I often murmur to myself. A charm against the vagaries of these Tower Times of ours.
So I hope to spend more time here, considering our historic election, the nature of the Pagan community and sorting out how our roots both ground and restrain us. It may be that the restraints are feeling tighter these days than they once did, as I feel strangled by the changes that are roiling Asheville, from my old West End neighborhood outward.
It is feeling fallish, at last, and Samhaintide is upon us. Let’s hang together as we can, and learn what can be done and what, alas, cannot…in these tower times.
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