Teach Me How to Live

Once upon a pre-pandemic, I spent my Monday evenings at a quaint late-night coffee shop with a wooden tavern door and a flickering lantern; they’re no longer open late thanks to COVID-19. I’ve readjusted by going to Panera Bread every Monday evening for these weekly getaway blogs, this sacred and necessary rhythm, and while it’s not as eclectic of a place to ruminate as that dimly lit tavern down the road, I’ve claimed my own little outdoor table for a few weeks in a row now, and this view of the Blue Ridge ain’t bad at all.

In all the ways, I’m adapting.

I recently posted a medical update to my GoFundMe page if you missed it or are interested in keeping up with my condition. In short, I start remission treatment next week, and I’m beyond eager to get on with it already. To get fully healthy again. To be well, truly well.

On the one hand, returning to hospital life and getting rewired by IV’s for hours at a time doesn’t sound like the funnest thing ever. But on the other, I’m actually looking forward to it. The chance to catch up on Netflix shows or knock out some of my digitally dusty and piling collection of Kindle books. To rest.

I’ll continue updating the GoFundMe page as my remission journey kicks off next week and then for these next few months to come. Again, I’m thankful for all who have given and can give right now. It’s definitely needed as the bills pile up and I’m left with little other options for work right now.

God’s taking care of me. Physically, financially, all of it, He is, and I’m literally counting my blessings.

I’m returning to some semblance of a flow back home in Asheville — gosh I love living here. Despite so many expectations subverted and burned over the last four years, I feel something blooming from a vanishing ash.

Despite being such a restless person, I’ve a connection to this place like no other. More than anywhere else I’ve lived, save my original stomping grounds of Langhorne, Pennsylvania.

I honestly couldn’t imagine living anywhere else right now. The sights I get to see on the daily. The fog creeping down the mountains from the Parkway, the vibrant murals sprouting along city walls and streets.

The people, too. I’ve been reconnecting with long lost friends here, some of whom I hadn’t seen in literally four months, two seasons ago, due to the pandemic and my disease. What a joy it’s been to reconnect.

Reconnect. What a phenomenal word. Like a long exhale for the soul.

It’s been good to be back. Because of my disease and this immunosuppressant treatment to come, I’m not planning on any travels for the foreseeable future. No plane trips, certainly, but also road trips. With a significantly weakened and wonky immune system to come, it just makes no sense to wander right now. Stresses me out, actually.

Staying home for months at a time is, perhaps, more for my mental health than my physical. Which is really quite shocking for me, you must understand. When have I ever wanted to stay home?

Me? The guy with a monthly newsletter called “The Wanderers’ Way,” the one who stares at Google Maps in his free time just looking for new (and familiar) places I can wander?

Of course, I want to travel again one day, set loose to wander once more. I want it badly.

But for now, I do have this strange desire to be settled. To stay home and enjoy safety and solitude. And I don’t necessarily feel relegated to this reality, forced into it against my wandering will.

Honestly, part of me really wants to stay home uninterrupted for a while. I’ve never done that for six months at a time. Not since moving out of my parents’ house a decade ago.

For all this restless angst I’ve had since childhood, perhaps I’m finally stumbling onto the cure?

And so, with the prospect of my not going anywhere anytime soon, I’ve found myself with a rekindled desire to make my apartment a home with every turn of each room: the hanging (and rehanging) of art on walls, a potted plant here and there, a rustic bookshelf I found for cheap on Facebook Marketplace.

It took a few days of hard negotiations and missed connections, but we finally agreed on a time and place and price for this precious, weathered, little thing. The location was over thirty minutes away from me, a bit of a winding drive, tucked deeply into this Blue Ridge wonder — oh, the drive alone was worth the price of the bookshelf.

I had no idea the address given would take me down a dirt road, over a gushing creek, and onto a homestead frolicked by dogs and sheep and goats. There were signs for parking and a massive garage full of antiques where I met this woman from Facebook Marketplace: complete with hoops and flowy pants and a flowier voice — if ever a “hippie” there was.

“So, what do y’all do here?” I asked her.

“We teach people how to live,” she said, because of course she did; of course they do. A place to homestead and a place to learn the art of it, too.

Our exchange completed, she invited me to walk around her property as long as I’d like, and I took her up on the opportunity. Took some photos and followed the dogs to the creek and pet the goats with their goofy grins. Basked in the wonder of this place.

The Blue Ridge.

Those words mean something. They spark something in me. Something both restless and settled all at once.

I returned to my Juke and drove back to the city with an old but also new little bookshelf from the middle of nowhere, Blue Ridge, USA. And I’ll think of the hills and the goats and learning how to live every time I glance or stare at it in my apartment. My home.

Now homier than ever.