It may come as a shock to literally no one that I, Mr. Peace-and-Quiet, love poetry. I can’t remember when I precisely started loving poems quite as much as I do, so I’ll just say that I came into the world loving poetry. And with nearly six years of investing myself academically, I’d better love it, otherwise, I’d be insane.

When you love something, you study it. You explore it. And maybe, sometimes, you even question it. Thus, the story of this. One of my favorite poems comes from a certain Englishman named Sir Edward Dyer, the poem: “My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is.” For it to have been written in the sixteenth century shouldn’t deter anyone from reading it for fear of not understanding anything it says because it is pretty simple to read and grasp.

And for anyone who enjoys reading poetry, there is always a favorite line or two. Specifically with this one: “But all the pleasure that I find / Is to maintain a quiet mind.”

Simple. Artful. Exorbitantly relevant in any application to a modern setting (especially in our age of distraction). Should it be a surprise to anyone? Me, Mr. Peace-and-Quiet, favors the line that speaks of quiet minds? What an absurd idea.

And so goes the story of trips to whatever wilderness land my car takes me to, that I always carry a pamphlet or a book of elegant verses that I may read beneath a canopy of leaves and sky. Alone and to myself. Eagerly taking in all the smells and rustling of tree limbs and the songs of birds and the blowing of winds. Even to the crashing sounds of rain at times. Especially trips to Asheville (and yet another oh-my-gosh what?! surprise).

And with that, a tale unfolds.

—

Maybe some people aren’t at first but when you work in a retail environment long enough, you suddenly become a part of “Small-talk royalty.” I have been no different. I can small talk anyone’s ear off. I don’t consider it a skill I enjoy, because I enjoy the deep conversations (go figure), but it’s a skill nonetheless.

So meeting, greeting, humoring strangers to a degree has become a relatively smooth process in the last few years. It’s been easy. Naturally, whenever someone I don’t know approaches me, I put on that face, I pull those conversational pieces to the front of my mind and smile.

Interestingly enough, the place I escape to read, write, hike, and more-or-less talk to myself became the place where my royal small-talk infantry was defeated. Beginning with the Devil’s Courthouse photographer that straight up asked about ambitions with my own camera, this gentleman sat down with me and we chatted about why we come to the woods. The deep restorative feeling of being in trees and clouds and witnessing great sunrises and sunsets. And about how that makes us feel. Basically, something I couldn’t get across to someone I just sold a prescription to.

Already, some precious alone time of mine peculiarly interrupted by a pleasant spectator who offered every best wish to me and my life’s intentions.

—

Fast forward to the same night atop Craggy Dome, just North of Asheville. The sun is setting. Sweet, chilly mountain temperatures are dropping. Me characteristically forgetting my jacket in the hotel room, making my way up with book, camera, and dinner. I’m hell-bent on being alone as the sun drops below the ridges of Appalachia.

And, yet, it simply did not happen. For what came of it was something better.

Upon setting my stuff down and unpacking my camera, an older woman with blond hair (we’ll call her Angela since I never asked for permission to use her real name) approached me and simply started chatting with me about photography. Off in the distance, a group of people is circled around each other with beers and guitars. Others are around snapping photos with phones and keeping eyes on their kids. The mountain isn’t terribly crowded but they’re honestly more people than I had hoped for.

Angela continues to talk to me: first about the camera, then about her phone, then an interlude about how her son taught her how to use her phone, then on to her family, then my family. And before I knew it, she had dragged me into the circle of people and their guitars. Someone also had a banjo. And everyone had jackets except for me and Angela. I listened to these sweet people play and smile for an hour and a half, well after the sun had descended. I wildly tapped my feet to their tunes as the woman next to me squeezed my arm every few minutes.

Hardly any conversation occurred. No one had to. The sense and feeling of community were beyond palpable. I left my hotel room bound to my book and dinner and came back down the mountain joyous that I hadn’t followed through with that plan.

—

The next night.

Atop Mount Mitchell, one of my favorite places on the East Coast. A sun, again, setting, and magnificently if I do say so. The sky is on fire. Of the nine or so people on the summit, eight of them were wrapped in blankets braving the Canadian-like climate of a mountain at sunset. I, the ninth, am without such aggressive attire even though I remembered my jacket this time.

And just like before, I conversated (it is a word, at least in my family) with people whose only connection to me were the cameras in our hands and the look of awe in our eyes. I learned so much from this one man about how to photograph the sun. I ate my dinner with him (shivering, but giddy with excitement). I chatted about music with a lady. Even her little kids were invested in our conversation.

Community just surrounded us and I left with such satisfaction despite the likelihood that I would not see any of those eight people again.

—

Another jump in time.

I had done very little research into just how rocky and hairy Grandfather mountain actually is save for the gorgeous pictures I see of it all the time. I’m not talking about that famous swinging bridge. Oh no; I’m talking about climbing the ladders up those craggy, windy peaks. You know, ones that scream with possible death if engaged incorrectly or unfocused.

And once again, a group of people simply enveloped me. This time, we really did talk about everything, from my home back in Atlanta, to their home back in Colorado, and other stuff in between. The subject of my hair naturally came up as it is one of the first things people notice about me along with my height. The subject of my camera was also in the mix.

There’s just something about climbing a mountain with other people that brings you together, even if no one knows each other (companies should go mountain climbing). Collective fear, even just a little bit, acts like a kind of glue I guess. But my cohesion with this group was immersive and wonderful and I loved it. Just our short-lived time of community. No time for small talk. The weather never crossed my mind.

—

I meant to make this post shorter, but I, also, am trying to make sense of what I was witness to this past trip. I try to be introspective when I go out alone and emerge with something new that I’ve discovered about myself or the world around me. It isn’t always so simple and easy; what is, however, is to be still, quiet, and reverent of what’s occurring at the moment. Nature is restorative like that, and it’s difficult to pinpoint what it is exactly about trees and mountains and beaches and those kinds of spaces that gives it that quality.

Yet, I was pulled out of that introspection briefly where I was focused on the world around me and instead put into the world around me, if that makes any sense whatsoever. Complete strangers opened my eyes wider to another delightful environment that consists of appreciative, maybe tree-hugging characters. People who offered me something without physically giving me anything. They gave me their time and attention and, in some cases, their life’s wisdom. It was very humbling.

While the ability to pull conversations out of an easy-to-reach stockpile is useful, it’s nice to be reminded that the world isn’t really like that once you pull it out of its everyday parameters. It’s intriguing and captivating despite whatever discomfort or fear there is in those experiences.

And it isn’t like I didn’t have my usual time of introspection and quiet, without the company of other humans. I still read my poetry and scribbled my passing thoughts down surrounded by wildflowers on Mount Mitchell and to the sounds of Glassmine Falls. “Content with what my mind doth bring,” yes, yet my content came also from what other minds doth brought this trip. I’m sure they didn’t think much of it, however, it certainly left an impression on me. I, Mr. Peace-and-Quiet, am grateful for that.

I’m grateful for their not-small talk.

.—.

I’m researching for the next few posts. It involves the Blue Ridge Parkway and thoughts about its future. So I ask for patience, if you please.

Very little of this post was written on this trip, but where most of my scribbling came from was a viewpoint looking at the Black Mountains, waiting for the blood moon to rise.

Field Division—River in Reverse, Hollow Body Weather

The Bones of J.R. Jones—The Drop

Goodnight, Texas—Cassie, Come on Over

Green River Ordinance—Fool for You

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit—If We Were Vampires

Bon Iver—Beth/Rest

Monica Heldal—The Road Not Taken

Run River North—Foxbeard

Sarah McLachlan—Possession

The Tin Man—Too Many Lines