Reading Road Trip 2020
Current location: North Carolina
. . . he held to the idea of another world, a better place, and he figured he might as well consider Cold Mountain to be the location of it as anywhere.
Like Inman, I have been trying to get to Cold Mountain for years now. My original inspiration came from a family of beloved Tar Heel next-door neighbors who introduced me to sweet tea, red velvet cake and unhurried speech. They made homemade ice cream in the summers while standing on the patio in bare feet and they produced vegetables from soil the color of coffee grounds while the rest of us stared down at the Florida sand, knowing that nothing would grow there.
The Tar Heel husband of this family would alternately love on his wife in a demonstrative way I had never witnessed before, then occasionally produce a gun after too much moonshine and wave it menacingly in the air, terrifying his wife and all three daughters. Somehow, order would always be restored the next day.
I have always known that these were my people.
I have flirted with a move to North Carolina at several different junctures of my adult life, but the closest I have come to making that move is now. Now, or more accurately, this summer. And now. . . well, you know. The damned pandemic. The thing that is upsetting the natural course of our daily lives, our dreams, our plans, our equilibrium, too.
But, though it is true that every age considers the world to be in a precarious state, at the very edge of dark, we are being threatened with something that so many others who have walked before us have faced: pandemics, wars, depressions, recessions, tyrannical leaders, natural disasters.
So, my plans are on hold. Like Inman's. Like Ada's. Like Ruby's. Like Stobrod's.
But, we keep on planning and we keep on dreaming, even if we do look up, as Inman does, and think sometimes, God, if I could sprout wings and fly. . . I would be gone from this place, my great wings bearing me up and out, long feathers hissing in the wind.
One foot after the other foot after the other foot after the other foot.
It hurts. So much of it hurts, and you'd be hard pressed to say which hurts more, the physical or emotional pain, but pain goes eventually, and when it's gone, there's no lasting memory. Not the worst of it anyway. It fades. Our minds aren't made to hold on to the particulars of pain the way we do bliss.
And so, we continue walking, because, like Inman, most of us can see that there [is] little usefulness in speculating much on what a day will bring.
We walk and we rejoice that we are readers and we know that a book may provide a holiness. . . of such richness that one might dip into it at random and read only one sentence and yet be sure of finding instruction and delight.
And it is good, so very good, to be reminded of how much others have suffered here, and how much solace holy words (wherever we find them) may provide us and how often we can delight in natural beauty.
And it is so good, so very good, to have reminders to look around us at what is precious to us and conjure the poetry of our lives, the words of spells and incantations to ward off the things one fears most.
For, just as Odysseus was pushed by a great gale as soon as he was within sight of home, so will you be pushed away from goals and dreams and loved ones.
For, just as Inman is captured and tied and dragged back over all the terrain he has already traveled, so will you be waylaid and rerouted and broken.
But, you've got to keep on walking, straight as the crow flies, regardless of what happens to you on your journey.
You've got to keep crawling toward your Cold Mountain, keep it always in front of you.