Are You Ready?

I've seen a man in Charleston, always walking, with a wooden cross over his shoulder, a wheel fixed to the bottom end. Taking up your cross, denying oneself of all ungodliness. The brave notion of performing it literally. Our conversation:

Me: Howdy! A lot of people don't understand what you are doing, but I do
Man: Thanks. You ready to go home?
Me: You know it. How many miles a day do you usually walk that cross?
Man: On weekdays, usually six to seven miles. On the weekends, as much as thirteen.
Me: (noticing his shirt) Faithbook, I've heard of that. I heard lately that getting saved is just like adding Jesus as a Facebook friend. Its only the beginning.
Man: You ready to meet Him?
Me: Oh yeah. I love what you do, keep doing it. The name's John.
Man: Me too.
Me: Gift from God. I'll see you around, driving.
John: If not, I'll see you at home.

This man was a holy man. A legend in the thin fabric of lore in Charleston. That one question: are you ready to meet Him. I'll never forget it. All you can do is put up a front to that question.

Ghostly Journey through Nantahalla National Forest

I worked so hard on this trip. I called tons of people that were interested in a river-rafting trip in Bryson City, so that I could make it. I did everything within my power to be with so many of the people I've grown to love in Asheville over the past two years (and many others, all together all at once, a grand happy reunion down the river) before I leave for a foreign land in service of my Lord and God. Me and two friends from Magic City travel to Bryson City, that El Dorado behind the waterfall. As we get there, I get the sure impression that I will not to unite my soul with everyone, this one last opportunity. My since of urgency turns to apprehension. And I remember the mountains along the Great Smokey Mountains Expressway, where the car broke down. The mountains, towering high overhead under a near-overcast grey, were almost threatening. At that moment in time, I could almost empathize with people that find themselves terrified on a mountain at night. I turned on the bluegrass radio. It didn't help.
Just east of downtown Asheville, separating it from the strip mall, is a mountain. Beaucatcher mountain. There is a road that goes behind the Greyhound Station, sliding up the mountain, under a bridge, and into Windswept community, where you can see the dawn and dusk. A girl once walked up that mountain road, past a now-abandoned mental hospital, up on that bridge, and jumped off, so depressed was she over the loss of her boyfriend. It is said that her sad soul still creeps that mountain.
Needless to say, we were late and were not able to find the rafting company where everyone was. We did go on the river, just by ourselves. It was delightful and cold, but a pit had developed in my stomach. I felt sick. It subsided, no not subsided, merely receded into the shadows of my mind. The greatest thing we did was jumping from a big rock, dropping eight feet in the air into forty-five-degree water. Each muscle fiber felt like steel in my skin as we swam to the riverbank. As we got back into the car. I mused, "this subtropical forest mountainside has an ominous feel to is. There is something freaky about it. It doesn't feel like home at all". Even when the girls dropped me off in downtown Asheville, it didn't feel like the town I've loved and fantasized over. Didn't feel like the sweet town I looked down at from Beaucatcher Mountain. It felt alien and empty. But what was empty was me. I did not belong here. As I catch a bus through Beaucatcher tunnel, and get into the heart of Riceville, farm valley nestled in the mountains, a feeling of home returns, that satisfaction of returning. But it swiftly evaporates. I walk to the house on the mountainside, the highest house in the little town of Riceville, just below the Blue Ridge Parkway, where great joy had always blossomed and where freedom had always been felt. At least I would get to go to church the next morning and see some of the people I wanted to see. I was planning on staying until Tuesday. I left Sunday afternoon. I was done. I will not return to the mountains until I complete my two-year mission. The time for hill-tramping is over for now.

Sweet Summer and Charlotte

I think of my floating down the Edisto River, my soul buoyed up on the sweetness of life. The trees were gently swaying, whispering sweet comforting words that can't be heard. The simple goodness of sunshine and flowing water was the majority of what I remembered about last summer. My hair is getting lighter again, and my skin is peeling. All of the music I've listened to lately is happy and has that banjo ever-present. A banjo is a slow cool river in the sunshine. Listening to that banjo reminds me of last summer, all of the good times by the Toe River in Asheville, by Lake Norman in Charlotte, listening to an amazing christian songwriter, the love of God flowing forth from his mouth.

Geographically-Inspired Musical Location of the Day
I've listened to a song by Lou Reid & Carolina over and over, until it is one with me. It is called Amanda Lynn, which is amazing, because that mandolin -- that mandolin I've been dreaming of strumming down that river. "can't him wait for be playin' that mandee-lin down Shady River" -- has now become a banjo because of that song. The story of this song is so marvelous. A classic Romeo and Juliet, but with a warm bluegrass ending. A baby was born, and they named her by the sound of her cry. From her birth, the love of old string music is passed down through her parents and swirls in her heart, filling her with a holy longing to be united -- a child, night after night on the mountainside, listening through foggy mountain air -- with those making happy music in the valley. She just doesn't just wish for, nay, she prays for it. When she gets older, her dreams come true as she's opening for a sold out show in Charlotte. The most wonderful part of all this is that it all happens in the hills of Carolina. It is a direct linking of souls via the land.

Trains and Virginia

I've been doing much more reflecting than doing lately. Riding the bicycle has lost its appeal to me. I think after forty miles to Walterboro, I am just sick of it. Even though the north wind has sent its gift one last great time before summer comes with its heat and humidity, I am content to sit in the hammock and dream. The temperature has dropped some fifteen degrees. Not only that, but it feels a tad drier. Yesterday, as I set out of the house, brave and happy, the weather brought me back to October, and the thirty-pound hiking pack on my back brought Asheville back. That nameless sense of wonderment and adventure, the undeniable feeling that as strange and new as the land is, it is entirely yours, 'ere you may go. I wandered the urban wasteplaces of North Charleston, in the areas where the green meets the grey. I'm always amazed at how green always conquers. As I hopped on the bus to venture to a likely hopping point, I saw my train dash right by, where Hannahan (harboring the ever-so-beautiful Goose Creek Reservoir) and North Charleston meet. If I had only begun my hunt half an hour earlier!!
After the bus dropped me off, I did what any transient in a town would do first. I hit up the community thrift store and got some great cords pants. Close by was the mighty interstate, where homelessness and the travel-weary are sheltered underneath, the psychological equivalent of a cave. I began my travel underneath it, taking walking trails. I felt so honored. I walked along Filbin Creek, under the looming I-526, keeping my feet within running distance of those train tracks that head on up through Strawberry and Moncks Corner, bordering US Fifty Two. I was about to run along to the other side of the tracks, tucked away in the woods, until my keen eye spotted a dormant police car. Walking. I forgot how much I disliked walking. I remembered so fondly the soreness the pack gave to my shoulders. As I heard the second train blowing, I ran up the end of Gaynor Street to Rivers Avenue. The train was on the track along the Cooper River. There are many, many train routes in Charleston. The green-eyed girl with the fifty-pound backpack was certainly right about train routes here being confusing. I've lived here my entire life, and I still can't visualize it all. The multitudinous routes finally began making sense in my mind. That night, after a long tiring walk back home, the combination of the north wind and a train dashing by, filling the air with great rushing sounds, gave me great chills. I need to hop at least one train before I leave in two weeks.

Geographically-Inspired Musical Location of the Day
I have been reflecting a lot on Virginia. It wasn't the mountain heights that really got me, it was all of that great valley at night, when time slowed down for just a little while. The air was fresh. Life-giving mist poured down from the mountains miles away. Lightning peacefully glowed in the far-away sky. I think the valley is what everybody ultimately comes up the mountain to see. They watched others die in that valley, they cried there, they strove in that valley, under the hot sun, all the days of their life. Up in the mountain, it is cool, quiet, often silent. They can get a bird's-eye view of their life. Rising above it makes it all easier to enjoy, but its so welcoming and peaceful, looking down from above. Everything makes sense. And when they come back down to earth, and put their bare feet in the warm, moist soil. I made sure to bare my feet on the wet grasses by Marby Mill. How perfect was it all! I think the same allure that the mountains has for me, the dry west has for those that call the mountaintops their home. 
I have spiritually connected to My Own Set Of Rules lately. It is a great album by Lou Reid and Carolina that I recently bought. It is called Blue Ridge Girl. He hops a train westward-bound. He finds love out west, but the cool, sweet mountain calls to him, the east wind carries the scent of the mountainside to him, and he longs for his Blue Ridge girl, softly calling. Always softly, silently. When you go back to that land, the loves of that land come along with it. The love-nature metaphors, they always come back. They are such a part of the land. And there is always room in these hills for another memory. I'm going on one more hajj to Asheville, taking my journey west (because hey, not everyone travels east to the holy land), to make more memories, and going further west from there.