This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, / Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, / Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, / Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.”

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline

The Blue Ridge is my Arcadia, the place I feel most at one with the Earth and my soul. This view is my privilege, my inspiration, my castle keep.

I come to our little cabin alone when I need to hear the beat of my own heart with greater clarity. This view of the mountains reminds me of the ocean; the azure peaks in the distance are like some great wave that is holding its breath before crashing down onto the valley below. I hear the voices of the trees and marvel at the multicolored mushrooms, proof of the great underground fungus nation, phantoms that pop up overnight in the moist loam of the forest floor. I look closely at the ground. I gaze far off into the distance. Switching my focus from near to far, I find I can look inside with greater ease.

And then? Then, I can write.