the way up and the way back

 

an ancient path

the mountains do not love a trail:

rain rivers down it,

and, like a sculptor, 

reveals the rock structure beneath,

not the most fun obstacle course,

within which to find a way through

without a slip or a twist,

the bushes, flowers, trees along the trail

view its openness as opportunity,

without regular beating back

they decide to reclaim trail for forest,

today we left the well-maintained trail

and climbed up toward where 

the Appalachian Trail crests the mountains,

Indigenous peoples have stepped over the mountains 

on this path for thousands of years,

we reach to feel their wisdom of intention

in where to walk most easily near Road Prong,

as it drops boisterously toward the valley,

the trail seeks to gain elevation along the dropping,

guided by what works better for the human

than what rock, water, and gravity make the stream do,

some sections of this trail feel close 

to the feel of the original Indigenous path,

particularly as the trail goes higher toward the crest,

we stop at a waterfall, with its enticing pool,

we call it "Nimrodel" for a pool in The Lord of the Rings,

we are sure the Cherokee and their ancestors 

had a better name for it,

and that they, too, dipped in it,

to remember and celebrate being fully alive

and how glorious effort, water, and just beauty, can be.

by Henry H. Walker

July 29, ‘23

the past informs my present

 

where the bodies are buried

who I am is also who I was,

the past informs my present,

those who have died continue to be

real and almost present to me,

today is of the grave,

I devote the hours of the morning

in pursuit of where the bodies are buried,

a way to pull the spirit of those gone

back to where I can again feel the "I. . . Thou. . ."

of who I was, who they were, 

and how we were and are connected,

1st, I find Bob Sweeney's grave,

and I appreciate its unique headstone, 

like the mountains themselves,

naming him, his wife, his children,

though the fullness of Bob flees from me

and yet cannot retreat far or fast enough

for me to not feel the glory within him

that ached to release itself, and often did,

2nd, I am daunted by Sam Hurst's grave,

I get to within maybe a half mile of it

but I do not have a guide to the road, the path,

up the rising mountain to where his body rests,

Sam was of the mountains, and, like the mountains,

always somewhat beyond what I can hold,

3rd, I stand by Jimmy Tipton's grave,

so near where he grew up, 

close by where he liked to sit by a pond, 

and think, and study,

it's just four months since death claimed him,

though it did not quiet him,

for the efforts of his life

ripple in the goodness he gave so freely,

for us, he set up a trust for my mother,

without which, Jean's Dream of a gateway open to nature wild,

would have closed and been lost to Mammon,

I cry in our loss, and in how hard it is,

we can hope to honor Jimmy with our own lives,

I drive further north into South Knoxville,

4th, I stand at the foot of the graves of my mother and father,

whose lives were a triumph of the best possible

within the limits of the tools available to them,

Mother paid for a metal cup at the graves,

so I add water and boxwood cuttings 

from our cabin in the Smokies,

a small tribute I often leave when I visit here,

every time I stand at  a grove of someone important tome,

I pray that they are at peace,

and that I can honor them with the substance of my own life,

the past continues to be with us,

who I am now remembers,

my final stop is in Pigeon Forge, on a hilltop, 

with the Smokies towering triumphant above the flat plain of this valley,

5th, there Lucinda Oakley Ogle rests and calls softly to me,

twenty years since she breathed her last breath,

yet her smile, her laugh, her stories, abide in me,

her appreciation of the glory

in slope, in leaf, in flower, in the bear,

in the tales of the Scotch-Irish who replaced the Cherokee here,

they who knew this land better than they knew themselves,

when I wander the valleys, the hollows

below Mt. LeConte's dominant upthrust,

Lucinda continues to be with me,

and reminds me to embrace every moment,

here where very moment deserves wonder,

today was of rekindling that fire of remembrance,

how better to build a goodness in the future

than by remembering the past

and keeping it alive within us while we can.

by Henry H. Walker

July 26, ‘23

summer, for a teacher

 

mid-summer in the Smokies

my year is circumscribed

by the days I commit to being a teacher,

that schedule remembers the demands of the farm,

the need to beat back the competition 

for the use of the land with hoe and sweat,

so I vacate when it's the hottest,

the forest here i the Smokies is still, expectant,

dimly remembering the hope of the spring,

the passion of the storm,

dimly anticipating diminution

when the green will flee the leaves

and color will suffuse the view,

when bears will harvest the acorns,

gorge upon this year so that they a make it to the next,

my ticket currently allows me to be, to notice, to appreciate,

the creek flows, and rearranges its bed 

with enthusiasm, with aplomb,

when it roars high, as it did last week,

how much should I keep doing?

how fully can I be?

though my ticket works for now,

I do not know how long it is good for.

by Henry H. Walker

July 25, ‘23

end-of-year experiences

 

learning complexities

what can be the value of end-of-year high school trips?

I visit with a CFS high school teacher and two of our alums:

each of whom share revelations of truth

they found within their late year experiences,

stories they can imagine sharing

as foundational as to who they are,

maybe in a revisit to the school,

maybe around a campfire with friends from the time,

I hear of empowerment as each is challenged,

whether emotionally, physically, or culturally, 

a move from being daunted to rising to the occasion,

maybe sharing with a community 

not of my native language,

or that I can hike, canoe, cook, clean, 

do what needs to be done,

and I can also be humbled in that I need another for help,

for how to deal with "hitting the wall,"

with expanding my sense of who I am,

I loved one insight, that such trips are of 

"learning complexities of ourselves, and of our peers,"

of making connections with others not already friends,

of finding ways forward that had not already revealed themselves,

of embracing the friction with the unfamiliar,

of taking agency of self and world, not just receiving

but finding ways to act within and upon the world for the better.

by Henry H. Walker, 

built upon the insights of 

Dave Worden, Aliza Bridge, and Matt Gouchoe-Hanas,

shared July 20, ‘23