Ancestral Memory

The mud has been unusually deep this year: does that seem a bit metaphoric? It is, but it is also the truth. Vermont, statistically, has more dirt roads than paved. My hand always goes up to keep my dirt road, but it is a long season. At some point, perhaps when we are all so tired of it we’ll do anything to entertain ourselves, we get competitive about it all. Photographs of people’s vehicles stuck in mud up to their wheel-wells fly over the Internet. When someone calls about their lessons or a visit to our shop, the first question is,“How are your roads?” If we have someone new (especially if they are not from here) coming, the first thing we will ask is not, “What is wrong with your instrument?” but, “How high is your vehicle?” So the opportunity for a little side trip to North Carolina at the end of March seemed to be just what the doctor ordered.

The last time I was on a plane was at the very start of Covid. Paul and I were in London and made it back just as everything broke open. We had no idea that it would be over three years before we would fly again. This trip I was traveling solo. As it was going to be a short adventure we made the mutual decision that one of us would stay home and man (or woman) the farm. Two Border Collies and a puppy, seventeen chickens and seven ewes mean either one of us stays or we hire a farm sitter who will also sit the house. Paul drew the short straw and I began planning.

I found the tickets relatively quickly. Although almost twice as expensive, the non-stop option was the only way to go. After reading page after page of Covid restrictions still in place at the airports (with the caveat that these could change within seconds at any time, day or night) the last thing I wanted was to find myself masked and stranded in Philly. So I pushed that button and closed the deal. All I had to do then was to wait for time to pass.

What I found was that, as the time drew closer, the more fragile and vulnerable I began to feel. Normally those feelings make me become more determined to not feel them, but I wasn’t able to get there. I was a bit shaky about going into the airport, so much time had passed since my last flight that it seemed like I had lost my jet legs and was a virgin flier once again. There were thoughts about a security nightmare, which is pretty much true of every flight, but in my mind it could be even worse. I wanted to go, but I wanted to stay where I felt safe.

I spoke aloud those feelings of insecurity to Paul one evening in front of our fireplace with a glass of wine under my belt. I looked away while talking about the discomfort of leaving home: slightly embarrassed by my fears. We spoke about the isolation we had all been under for the past three years. For a while just going to the grocery store had struck fear in our hearts. Adventures became more about taking a long car journey with a picnic lunch of take-out sandwiches between us in the car, each time returning to the safety of our home in the woods. It became the only place we would be unmasked, free to enter spaces without caution. I found myself going into the barn each evening and sitting on the steps watching the ewes mill about, looking to the small for the bigger picture. Our life becoming more and more of a microcosm. Paul looked and me and quietly spoke, “Maybe it isn’t as much fear as it is that you are simply out of practice.”

I took off on Thursday afternoon and, having secured myself a window seat for each flight, I watched us lift further and further away from solid ground. As always, that vantage allowed me to see the vast woodlands, the Green Mountains and the large open fields still separated into various geometric grazing shapes. Nine generations of my ancestors are in that farmland.

My trip, though brief, was beautiful and worth every moment of trepidation. When our son dropped me off at the Charlotte airport for the return flight a few days later my tears were now for missing him, and I strode into the airport, confidence reborn. As I untied my hiking boots I realized that security would always be painful, regardless of the situation. I sat waiting for my flight, and did what I love to do, observe. In that moment I realized how important it was for me to be right there in that very moment. I didn’t have animals to feed, or a schedule to keep, I had quiet and time for myself. A gift that appeared without excavation.

Settling into my second window seat in less than a week’s time, I again watched us lift up over the landscape, this time looking down at row upon row of houses like stitches across the face of the ground, and long stretches of highway with tiny dots moving quickly over it. Then into the clouds. I sat back, opened my book, breathed and waited for the Bischoff cookies.

The engines pulled back as we began to descend. I leaned my face into the window and below me were my mountains again. Gone was the lush green of the North Carolina springtime: I had been transported back to the basic brown of the Vermont mud. Lake Champlain spread out across the valley and in the afternoon sunshine it appeared brilliantly blue, like someone had spilled a glass of water into the crevices of the land. Everywhere I looked felt familiar, my ancestral memories framed by an airplane window.

I realized that it was OK that it had been challenging to go, and it was OK that it felt good to come home.

It seemed as if it is only in our returning that we are able to fully see the importance and meaning of the journey we have been on.

Melissa