“I’ve
traveled widely in Concord.” I first heard this canonized phrase from the mouth
of one of my white, middle-aged English teachers at Mountain Heritage High
School. She pronounced it “CON-chord,” like the town with the NASCAR speedway
down near Charlotte. Thoreau likely pronounced it “CAHN-cerd.” It stuck with
me. It fit, in that tiny town.
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| The Sibling Tree |
The phrase
comes back to me often on my morning pilgrimage up to the ridge above my
valley. The path is so familiar—I even have names for individual trees and pieces
of the trail. My challenge is always to notice something new: a change in the light,
a new mushroom, a smell. Just once it was a bear. Sometimes the noticing is on
the inside: an insight or awareness of sadness that wouldn’t rise to the
surface in the course of my busy day. Sometimes it’s my own silliness.
A year ago,
I was preparing to launch myself across the world on a solo trip to Ecuador to
learn a new language. This morning the forest reminded me that in the time of
COVID we can only travel in Concord. Though my research has led me to
find places and libraries that I desperately want to visit, right now I can
only travel through books, the internet, and inside myself.
I must
travel widely right here. I have to have the courage that it took to land alone
in the middle of the night in a city where I didn’t speak the language. I must
challenge my limitations and question the dead ends. I need to find ways to
keep going when it seems like there’s no place to go.
This is me,
challenging myself to pack my bags and get moving again.
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