Do You Love Where You Live?
I love Western North Carolina. I love that we’re Western, yet near the East coast. I love that we’re North Carolina and still — we’re Southerners. I’d say we’ve got the four directions covered.
I love this part of the world where there is no straight path to anywhere. We have curves here, plenty of them.
To get around these parts, one must wind a little this way, a little that way, and on the way, we usually notice something new. Maybe it’s a roadside waterfall of wisteria, or a group of farmers who gather on “plow day” to till soil for a local farmer. Maybe its the discovery that a couple of white squirrels moved from Brevard into your neighborhood.
As a devoted Western North Carolina-er, I feel lucky to move through such beauty daily. No matter the season, the bow from nature is quite something. This land is good for you and me.
I love this land and I love the exact spot whereupon my house sits. And because it sits where it sits, ever-evolving views present Mother Nature’s best and finest. The light plays across the valley in winter throwing patches of color. The visual of the mountains softens when weather moves in. There are never-ending variations on sunrises and sunsets. It’s a well-played symphony of sounds and colors every day without fail.
I also love walking in the spaciousness of my home on this land I love. I appreciate the way my home feels — open, airy, and full of nature.
There’s a thing my home does naturally, without any effort at all. The inside of my home welcomes the outside because the builders created light paths. They installed as many windows as legally allowed and architecturally possible (in one room in particular) to encourage nature to pour itself inside this dwelling, and all over yours truly. I am the luckiest girl.
The trees here have long and loving arms. Even at night while I sleep, I feel them breathing. The morning mist comes up the valley and (I swear) right through my windows. My house plants and I do a sun salutation every morning as we reach up, up to sun streaming in. We’re a pretty happy family, me and my leafy companions, in this room of light. We hold hands with each other and our friends outdoors. We talk. We commune.
I love the miracle of seeing for miles and miles from inside this house. The long scope reminds me there is always plenty of space, that I have room to move.
I am most assuredly my happy self in this house. I love that it supports me in doing what I do. Here, I feel the silence, where words come through the quiet. It is quite magical, the tranquility in this house. It has good steady bones.
I love that people from all over the world sign up to stay in the lower floor of this tree house on top of a mountain (through AirBnB). They tell me stories about lying in bed marveling at the twinkling night lights to the north. Or how the morning mist soothed them and how the mountains appeared, then retreated as the storm moved in.
One visitor was over the moon about watching the first flight of a nest of baby birds. Another visitor, a famous fly fisherman (known for calling fish), wished to see a bear. He called for one, and it came out of the forest, crossing directly in front of him on the deck as he and his wife enjoyed their morning coffee.
When visitors leave, they write kind thank you’s about feeling relaxed and renewed. About wishes granted. About feeling awe. I love this house for its generosity to others.
I love that I lived with Eric here. We had an interesting time, most of it good, much of it great, some of it (as his caretaker) deeply challenging. I love this house and the wisdom ring layers I’ve gained by being here.
I’ll be finding a new residence in the coming months, and gradually I’ve grown amenable (enthusiastic even) about transferring ownership of this dear place to others to love. I’m happy in advance, knowing they will love it, too, for their own reasons.
For me, the beauty of being here for nine years could be summed up in the experience of walking out the front door in early morning in Spring or Summer, surrounded by forest, hearing the soaring call of the wood thrush.
On many days, its flute-clear, three part song sailed through concerns I had collected. It dissolved reluctance or worry in my mind or heart. This tiny, cinnamon brown, speckled breasted, reclusive bird called out many times over the years. Some of those calls came when I needed them most, when I needed reassurance about my future without the man I loved.
I enjoyed the songs of the wood thrush in this forest on more mornings than I can count. It is surely the song of this house, which I’ll be taking with me in my heart wherever I go.
P.S. If you’re wondering, no, my home is not sold, but it’s on the market. And yes, I’ll be staying in this area. Western North Carolina is home.
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