While teaching on the eastern shore of Maryland, I attended a single-artist art showing in the quaint little Eastern Shore town of Berlin. At a small, square, cloth covered table away from all the wine glass toting art aficionados, sat I an elderly woman. I felt a compelling need to approach and acknowledge her. Her face was kind, and her eye contact was powerful. I asked if she was related to the artist, to which she smiled and replied, "Aren't we all related in some way?"
"What brings you to the art show?" I asked her. She produced a deck of cards from beneath the table and spread them out skillfully over the rough tablecloth. "I read cards," was her response. "Would you care to have me read them for you?" I was taken aback by this unexpected twist. They are Tarot cards, I realized. Whether there was anything to it, or not, the idea of them had always fascinated me. How could I pass up such an opportunity? "How much? I asked. "Thirty dollars," she said nonchalantly. I agreed, and she motioned for me to take a seat beside her.
Moving the cards aside, she asked for both of my hands. I obediently presented them. She turned them upward, then asked me to grip her arms above her wrists, and she did likewise to mine. We sat quietly and motionless for what seemed like a long time, but I am sure it was no more than a minute. "Mountains," she said, breaking the silence. And then shaking her head in the affirmative, repeated, "Mountains."
"Mountains?" I replied. "Yes, mountains," she confidently assured. "It seems that you want to go to the mountains but now is not the right time for you."
"Oh?" I asked. "Yes," she replied. "Now is not the time for you. Your finances are not currently what they need to be for such a move. You must wait for two years. Yes, that will be the right time." After a brief pause, she added, "It is meant for you to go to the mountains. It is there that you will receive your crowning glory."
My what? I just sat there speechlessly, stunned by her words. You see, for a while prior to that night I have had a growing desire to do just that - go to the mountains - the Smoky Mountains, specifically, Asheville, North Carolina. How could the old woman have known?
A year earlier, I was still living in Key West, when a total stranger had asked me if I was from Asheville. The first time it happened; I simply brushed it off. But when it occurred a second time, at a different place involving different people, I could no longer simply let it slide. When asked this for a second time, I asked the person to elaborate. Their response was simple: "Because you look and act like someone who might come from Ashville." At home that night, I Googled Asheville, curious to discover what might make people think that of me. Surprisingly, I found it easy to understand.
A month or so before the night of the art show, I had attended Happy Hour at a local sports bar. I joined a fun group of folks who insisted on buying me a drink. Soon into our conversation, a woman in the group asked if I had ever been to Asheville. What? The Florida Keys, and now the Eastern Shore of Maryland? It was beginning to look like there was going to be no escaping Asheville. Third time is the charm, they say, so with Spring Break coming up, I decided I ought to spend it in Asheville and finally experience it for myself. In no strange way at all, I took it as a mandate from the Universe. So, I obediently drove down and spent three glorious days there being a sponge and soaking it all in. It was me, all right. It was love at first visit.
Waiting on 2010 to arrive, I decided I might at least inch my way closer to the mountains. I moved to Shepherdstown, West Virginia, and began teaching part-time at Shepherd University. It was in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I believed it would further whet my appetite for what lay ahead for me.
While at Shepherdstown, I felt driven to pursue other interests. I have always credited that old woman back in Berlin, Maryland, for placing some kind of spell over me during our encounter. I was suddenly craving new knowledge of a physical, as well as metaphysical, nature. I began to study Nature, to collect and study stones and minerals, filled my pantry with herbs and spices, and explored their uses in cooking, as well as holistic healing.
Concurrently, I grew a hunger for knowledge of American Indian customs and lore. I bought myself a cedar, Native American flute, and began teaching myself to play. For nothing more that its spiritual benefit, I added a Native American deer skin drum to my collection. At times, I would drum to meditate. Playing both instruments was very spiritually uplifting and soothing to the soul.
I spent more time outdoors amid the trees than I did indoors. One favorite tree I dubbed my "Thinking Tree." I would sit beneath it for hours, and when inspired, write. When I was not under that tree, I would be stretched out in the hammock between two apple trees or tending a fire at my seven-foot diameter fire pit, wooden staff in hand. There was something so very natural, so wonderfully primitive, communicating daily with Nature.
It was during this period of natural discovery that I encountered a work of student-created art on display at the University Bookstore that caught my interest. Being all about students and all about art, I was quite vulnerable. I visited daily when on campus and spent long moments studying it. The more time I spent with it, the more I had to have it. Then, on one subsequent visit, I noticed that the works had been priced for sale. After two more weeks of tormenting myself over the cost, I caved in and purchased it.
It was an intricate, detailed pencil sketch of Hansel and Gretel, drawn by a former student of mine. It wreaked of Nature! How could I resist? The student had so cleverly inscribed the entire story into the bark of the trees on the second piece of the work. And that is wat sold me on making the purchase.
The two-piece drawings spoke to me. They reminded me of my own deep desire to live out my life somewhere deep within the forest (Somewhere in the mountains, perhaps?). In the story there was a witch, a very misunderstood old witch, if you were to ask me. Curiously, once again, I related the story witch with the old card reading woman. She continued to haunt my thoughts. Whether or not I would ever admit it to myself, or anyone else, I was slowly transforming into a shaman... a wizard... a warlock, of sorts.
My new and vigorous study of Nature, herbs, minerals, the forces of Nature, American Indian lore, were teaching me to "walk in the ways of the wise," as it were, along the path of hedonistic pagans throughout history, who sought to understand, and use Nature for health and for the good of mankind. All who were, and are, called “witch,” are not bad, or evil. They were different, and society has always seemed to discriminate against those who are different. Ignorance has traditionally bred fear, and often those who studied and practiced alchemy had been put to death, solely for being different.
Getting back to Nature, and adopting a simple lifestyle, is epitomized, and has been immortalized in Henry David Thoreau's Waldon. I have been a fan of Thoreau's writing, but more so with his life. It is my wish, my fantasy, to live just as simply as he did for his two years on Waldon pond. I would love to build myself a small, austere dwelling somewhere in the woods, preferably – you guessed it - in the mountains.
Just like Thoreau, I would continue my study of Nature, and of those things that really matter in life, away from the madness of the modern world, away from the artificially imposed distractions that blind our senses and prevent us from experiencing the kind of purity and simplicity of the life that Nature intends for us to live. And so, I diligently continued with my studies, while patiently waiting on 2010 to arrive.
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." - Henry David Thoreau