I'm Not Going Anywhere
...And Lord knows, I have tried.
By Lisa Hayes-Minney
Even though I most often work West Coast hours (pretty much the same as closing bartender shifts I worked in my younger days), I try to arise in the mornings early enough to get some porch-sittin’ time in before the heat of the day comes on. With this schedule, I miss the song of the early birds, so most often the sounds around me are insect-based - crickets, locusts, grasshoppers, etc. There is some bird song, but mostly chitters and chatters from shady spaces among tree branches.
Our home is surrounded by natural space. Hayfields on two sides, an eastern garden plot that runs to the edge of the forest on another side, and a small, 3-acre lake in the backyard. The open space is receptive to breezes, and more than once working in the sun I have turned and lifted my head to enjoy the air brushing across my face and neck.
That brushing of comfort, in my mind, is a gentle invisible touch from God telling my body and spirit that all is well and as it should be. I have trust issues, so my brain isn’t receptive to such a message, but a comforting breeze can make me believe it in an instant, my body’s instinct pulling that fresh air deep into my lungs, followed by a long, sighing exhale that lets so much silent tension just slip away.
Multiple studies and scientific examinations show that time in a natural outdoor setting alters our bodies for the better. Just by being here, outdoors on my porch, I’m lowering my blood pressure, my anxiety levels, and the number of worries and concerns bouncing around in my brain. The sun, sounds, breezes, and ground beneath my bare feet are naturally lifting my mood, clearing brain fog, and reminding me that we’re silly little specs in one Universe.
There’s a reason some people refer to rural, back-road regions as “God’s Country.” No matter what your faith, beliefs, or religion, these hills and valleys minister our bodies, spirits, and souls. I watched an American Eagle fishing yesterday, a swarm of dragonflies feeding on flies and gnats hovering over piles of Canadian Goose poop. At one point in the day, our blind (but fearless) dog began frantically barking, calling me out to acknowledge his conquest — a box turtle hunkered in its shell.
How blessed am I that such awe surrounds me, and simply appears in my landscape when I work or sit outside? I gasped last evening at the sight of a beautiful 8-point buck strutting through the hayfield. Stopped in my tracks when I came across an 8-foot-long black snake. I figured he had the right-of-way, so I just waited until he crossed over and passed out of sight.
Have you ever seen a Wolf spider female, her entire body covered with thousands of tiny eggs and/or babies? It is simultaneously the most beautiful and horrifying thing I have ever seen.
That’s the problem with these hills. If you’re here too long, you grow roots, especially if you’re rural. There’s a tie no one can see that forms between your soul and the land. An invisible, tenacious connection to your spirit that you cannot articulate or define. So many rural Appalachians face the “should I stay or should I go” decision, when all rational considerations of jobs, amenities, clean water, clean air, success, and achievement are somewhere “out there” past these ridgelines.
These roots are what make that decision to leave so difficult. This connection is why so many who do leave cannot wait to come back home.
Our hearts live here with God, in this “Almost Heaven” state. Here, we are connected to the entire Universe, although this connection cannot be witnessed, defined, or even explained well to those who don’t experience it.
I’m not from here. In fact, when Frank and I moved here in 1999, we planned to stay one year to regroup and move on. My family isn’t here, and I completely and fully now understand the concept that I will never be “from here.” My mother doesn’t see much value in land that “just sits there.” Go back and read the beginning of this paragraph. I am not from here. There’s no changing that fact. But daggone it anyway, I now have these roots.
So many (many, many, many) times in the last 24 years, I have seriously considered leaving central West Virginia. For one thing, there’s an innate attitude towards women in this culture that I will always interpret as a lack of respect. Another concern is the ongoing disappointments dished out by local and state leadership. Earthquakes when they fracked the nearby well, the frustrations of keeping up with (or more so not keeping up with) all it takes to prevent a farm from going feral, so few steps forward with an immeasurable number of steps back.
Even now, just in the last week, I have worked on plans for years coming down the road, researching and preparing for possibly living and lodging elsewhere, knowing that when/if I ever do leave, I’ll have to leave my heart behind. I don’t think people fully comprehend what we mean when we say, “I love this land.” You come to know, care for, and love land the way (I can only imagine) a parent does with an independent and somewhat unruly adult child.
I knew, in 1996, that I didn’t belong here. That’s one reason we left, one reason we didn’t plan to stay when we returned. I knew again in 2001, in 2017, and again, and again, and again. I’ve tried to leave, fit in, get involved, get employed, connect, serve, empower, lead, teach. (I admit, it’s hard to get to know me, and I am blunt, controlling, weird, and intense.) And as many times as I have planned to leave, the Universe has not cooperated with those efforts.
So, after two decades of this inner wrestling, I realize I may never quite fit here, and will never be from here, but alas, my roots have grown too deep, and apparently, the Universe wants me here.
People may not miss me if I were to up and go, but doing so would rip and inflict a wound from which I would never recover.
I’m reminded of a scene in the movie The Stand when Mother Abigail begins sharing what God has told her about upcoming developments and days. Nick, who is deaf (played by Rob Lowe), scratches something on his notepad and hands it to a side character to read out loud to Abigail. The man reads it with disappointment and shame. “He says he doesn’t believe in God.”
Mother Abigail looks sternly at Nick and then busts out laughing. “Nick!” She says, “That don’t matter! God believes in YOU!”
Nick, understandably, looks deeply concerned by this. Even as a non-believer, he is part of God’s plan.
God and I don’t talk much. He certainly isn’t as loud and clear with me as he was with Mother Abigail. A solid relationship with a Higher Power requires full trust, full surrender, and serious demotion of the ego. These are not my strong points, but He and I are working on them. Neither am I very good at asking for help. In fact, I really, really hate asking for help. Most often my prayers are for some protective force to help a box turtle get across the road before getting smashed. Even when broken and lost, the best I’ve been able to muster on my own behalf is “Thy Will Be Done.”
That may have, in retrospect, been a mistake.
When interest rates and mortgage rates hit an all-time low during the pandemic and folks were fleeing big cities to “run for the hills,” you bet I was scouring houses here and “there,” wondering if central West Virginia was worth financial investment after so many failed (or under-supported) investments of time and energy. (Lack of advertising support, for example, was one of the greatest strains of maintaining Two-Lane Livin’ Magazine for ten years, even though our readership percentages were some of the highest in the nation.)
Twenty-four years after arriving, and never really fully intending to stay, I’m still here. < Occasionally, this thought is followed by a very heavy sigh.>
But I’m starting to see what my ego hasn’t allowed me to see. I’ve always thought the choice, for the most part, was to be myself somewhere else or to constrain myself here. To be communally appreciated somewhere out there, or remain the local pariah, not necessarily an outcast, but someone never really locally accepted or understood, much less appreciated.
(I’ve been told I scare people. I think it’s my intensity and ability to see through bullshit.)
Why, until recently, have I not yet considered that I’m meant to be unapologetically me, HERE? That the Universe/God wants me here because no one else will, for example, head straight to the newspaper office to chew out a county editor whose front-page coverage of a female-on-female rape bordered on pornography? (And then quite gladly plead “no contest” in magistrate court and pay the fines and fees for the charges filed.)
Perhaps my non-native perspective, lack of self-preservation, and inability to heed the message when my brain says, “Don’t do this,” “Don’t say anything,” or “Don’t ask about that elephant in the room.” (Most often, I don’t even realize it’s an elephant. Most often it’s more like, “So what about this thing?”)
Maybe I’m meant to embrace and chase the innate curiosity that prevents me from safely keeping my head down.
Maybe it’s because, with remote work, I don’t have to worry about being locally employable. Maybe it’s because I’m good with my small network of quality friends and associates and no longer subscribe to “the more the merrier.”
Maybe it’s menopause, another mid-life crisis, or I’ve reached a level of enlightenment that understands that life is struggle no matter where you are. Or maybe, my recent experiences showed me that there are people who have come to know me as a person through my writing, trust me as a life witness, and appreciate my specific characteristics and set of skills.
Perhaps I realize, after 24 years, that I have not fooled anyone into believing that I am normal according to local standards. I do know that once I hit menopause, I quickly lost the patience for even trying.
But maybe it’s the breeze, telling me all is as it should be, or the pair of grey herons squawking out their message as they fly above. Maybe it’s the sod beneath my feet and the grass scritching between my toes. Maybe it’s the acceptance that these roots may never let me leave, and for the first time realizing, I may not be meant to leave after all.
Of course, it remains to be seen. I feel the Universe wants me here now, and I just recently found a need in the community I can fill — for now. I’m in the shade, writing, and feeling the touch of God in his creation — blossoms, bees, blue skies, and breezes.
In this moment, on the porch in the present, what more could one ask for?