I wrote a book once.
In fact, that book was born
out of this very same blog, which I’m now resurrecting.
(I believe that it’s
time for the blog art form to make a return. Time to slow down and read more
than a few blistering characters at a time.)
In that book, I wrote about
the closets in my childhood bedroom, in a cabin by the river way back in the
mountains:
My room had two closets on
either side of the window seat, and I pretended they were elevators. After shoving
the junk to the side (I was not an organized child) I got in, sliding the door
behind me. After a brief pause—one, two, three, four—I slide the door back open
and voila! I was in a whole different
place!
My life at this moment feels
a lot like those sliding doors. I’m ending a nearly ten-year chapter at WNC Nonprofit Pathways, where I’ve been a confidant for community leaders all
across these mountains I love so much.
After tomorrow, I’ll step
through the sliding doors and emerge into a place that looks just the same (since I’ve
been working from home all this time) and yet is transformed.
Into what? I’m
figuring that out.
It looks like I’ll going back
in time. Venturing to South Carolina and the “faraway land of Alabama,” as I
called it in my book. Learning about my ancestors who displaced native people,
enslaved other people, deeded their plantations to future generations, and handed
down their genes and privilege to me.
I’ll be back on the quest to
learn what it all means.
