OPINION: MY MEDITATIONS: My Appalachian Home

Janie Slaven, The Sentinel Echo, London, Ky.
·3 min read

Jun. 19—Are we, as Appalachians, drawn together in our love of the wild, feral places of the world? Is this ceaseless yearning for roaming the beauty of our hollers and hills ingrained in the very essence of our culture?

It has always been so for me. As children, my siblings and I did not fly in airplanes to far off places. Instead, our parents brought us to all the wild places of Kentucky. Our weekends were filled with thundering waterfalls and crystal clear natural springs. Wondrous caverns and mountainous natural arches. I had no idea how much of the world truly existed outside the scope of southeastern Kentucky as a young child. And what a beautiful piece of the world it is.

I've had the privilege to travel a great deal in my adult life. I met my husband at an airport in London, England. He himself a Kentuckian, we had to travel across an ocean to find common ground. But nothing, no splash of ocean spray or white capped mountain, no ancient cathedral or urban streetscape, can compare to my love of the foothills of Appalachia. Nature has always been my chapel and never do I feel more at peace than when I trod Mother Nature's well-worn paths. To me, Spring Peepers play like the hymns of the church choir. The night sky carries the same glisten as the baptismal water. Serenity and tranquility come hand in hand when traipsing in the wildlands of Appalachia.

It comes with a deep feeling of reverence to me, being a part of such a vast heritage of Appalachians who cherished the land as I have done. Sometimes I imagine that the Appalachian people were carved right from the mountains they cultivated — formed of grit and determination, yet embracing family and duty the way the midnight dew clings to the grass beneath our often bare feet.

I would like to share with you a poem I wrote upon reflection of my love of all the wild places. I hope you enjoy it.

MY APPALACHIAN HOME

Let me walk where the cow trails meander

Where the creeks babble and the squirrels banter

No asphalt, no street lights, not a speck of concrete

Just soft, moss-covered earth and calloused bare feet

Let me wander through the hollers and hills as they climb

As rain softened clay silences steps heavy with grime

Where the chickadee chatters, the crow calls his caw

While time slows in Appalachia, like the slow southern drawl

Let me bath in orange sunset skies dipping low overhead

And listen as the hoot owl calls from high above tumbling creek beds

Ears prickling to the pulse of the spring peeper's song beating at night

Unearthing the ancient cadence of the woods at twilight

Let me smell the crisp rolling fog off old Cumberland Gap

A gift. A bounty. Mother Nature's nightcap

I'll take my dew tickled skin and dusk lit paths as I roam

All leading back to my Appalachian home

Sarah Wilson Gregory is a Laurel County native and 9th generation Kentuckian. She can be reached at sarahwilsongregory@gmail.com.