Spring in West Virginia Moves Slowly

And so do I.

I hear tell from friends and family that the Blue Ridge is in full bloom, but out beyond the Allegheny Front upper elevation forests are just beginning to soften. It’s all so tentative and delicate, a suggestion of spring before the actual thing. Long-barren tree tips become suddenly dusted with buds, clouding the forest with a wispy palette of ivory serviceberry (locally, “sarvis,”), vermilion maple, and chartreuse oak. The transition is so gradual, faint, and fragile, it’s hard to believe late spring and summer, with their raucous bloom-chorus, are right around the corner.

Down on the forest floor though, the season hums along more fervently as spring ephemerals unfurl. There’s something surefire and bodacious occurring in the understory—it vibrates with the insistent, saturated color of crimson trillium, lemon-yellow trout lilies, creamy white Dutchman’s breeches, and a low-lying canopy of lime-green mayapple dappled in shimmering sunlight. And in the surrounding Tygart River valley where we live, the streets of Elkins are laced and frilled in bold magenta hues from the trifecta of redbud, crabapple, and dogwood.

Trillium, Spring Beauty, Dutchman's breeches

Sure enough, spring has arrived. Every year it takes me by surprise but perhaps especially so this year, as I experience the season’s emergence at higher elevations in West Virginia. My timing is a little off kilter; admittedly, I’ve been antsy for reliably warm weather and sunny days to just be here already. Like any temperate creature, I’ve long tired of winter doldrums and crave the revivifying energy of spring. Moving through a forest pulsing with life quickens my blood, too. I referenced Dylan Thomas at the end of my last newsletter, and I’ll do it again here, as the sentiment only deepens as spring proceeds:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks

I feel that force of enlivening emergence and burgeoning bloom all the more lately as I’m finding my feet more steadily under me in my new home. The thrill of sighting a first, favorite blossom mimics the thrill I feel at simply feeling more like myself again.

To put it plainly, I straight up underestimated the impact of moving. Of course, I expected new challenges and dynamics coming to Elkins. But I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants for awhile now—the entirety of my twenties, more or less—and figured that I’d just take it all in stride. One step at a time. Figure things out as I went along, you know? Plus, a two-hour move west is small potatoes compared to say, a year abroad in Kenya or relocation to New York City (both recent experiences of my closet friends,) or even a five-month stint on the Appalachian Trail (my own, most recent experience with uprooting and upheaval.)

Truly, relocating to Elkins, WV is well within the realm of completely reasonable transitions. My family and friends are all a phone call or brief-ish drive away; there is a ton of Shenandoah/Canaan Valley crossover (both mountainous areas with active, outdoorsy cultures); and the overall feel of Elkins reminds me in certain ways of Harrisonburg—quirky, charming, somewhat off the beaten path.

And. It’s still a transition! I still knew exactly one person when I moved here (hi, Mike!) I’m still in a prolonged period of unraveling my identity with my work, and figuring out where/how to devote my time/attention. And I’m still myself, this nonsensical ambivert who thrives off solitude but also, you know, needs people! All this to say, while it’s so good and so right, this transition has still taken tiiiime. It has been messy in ways I could not have expected. I haven’t felt quite like myself, and I’m not too sure the “self” I’m seeking would even fit anymore.

At turns I have been fearful, excited, lonely, overwhelmed, sad, joyful, angry, and every other colorful feeling on the emotional wheel during this transition. And as it turns out, I can be one impatient, perfectionist, critical son of gun when I’m going through it. I almost wonder if I am eternally getting myself into situations that require me to let myself off the hook already. Of course it’s been emotional and messy—everything is new! Even something as fundamental as orienting myself on a map or recognizing mountain ridges in the distance is dubious right now. I am literally and figuratively still getting my bearings. Again—that shit takes tiiime.

Let myself off the hook. This simple phrase came up in a recent therapy session and I can’t get it off my mind/heart. It whispers of that sound byte of wisdom, no one is judging you as harshly as you judge yourself (and if they are, they are probably jerks whose opinion you shouldn’t value anyway.) And in general, it’s a pithy way to take the pressure off and reorient to what actually matters. Especially when everything is New and Big and Scary, and when you have the emotional capacity of a five year-old for New and Big and Scary.

To me, being let off the hook largely means setting aside ambitions, agendas and anxieties, in favor of tending to the simple, humble heart of each moment. I am soothed by the mere writing of that sentence. There will come a time for the hustle and the grind, when I’ll feel rooted well enough to strive. But right now I am focusing on getting my bearings. I’m nurturing small, tender shoots of growth in the form of establishing new routines; spending an evening tending our garden or baking some bread; or simply working my barista gig without checking over my shoulder to see if I’m doing enough (who is judging? No one.)

“I think the main thing is to let go of the idea of greatness. Wanting to be great is really limiting. Wanting to be great, wanting to be perfect, wanting to wow and to stun and to dazzle—letting go of that is the most important thing.

Everyone is constantly trying to articulate the secret language in their head to the outside world. If your language is too secret, then no one can understand; if your language is completely public, then there’s no mystery. There’s no longer the pleasure of decoding.”

-Jenny Zhang

Everyday I’m pacing myself and practicing patience. I’m lowering the bar I automatically set so goddamn high and trying to smell the goddamn roses (cursing correlates to how difficult this can be for me.) Conveniently, these practices coincide with the themes of spring. Simple pleasures are emerging gradually and with increasing abundance: the caress of a warm breeze over bare skin for the first time; the heady perfumes of lilac and autumn olive when I’m biking home from work; the tiny miracle of starting seeds for our garden, green tendrils bursting unexpectedly from their densely compact hulls; and even the back-breaking efforts to till our massive new garden. This continual practice of savoring and appreciation is unfurling my spirit, gently and slowly at first but soon, I know, it will burst into bloom.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live. Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat.

Perfection is static, and I am in full progress.

-Anais Nin

P.S.

April was absolutely jam-packed, and I think the trend is only going to continue as we careen into late spring (although who knows when that will actually happen—as of this writing those upper elevations dusted in blossoms are getting dusted, no, hammered with a heavy, wet, late-season snow. I’m dying inside, just a little.) I want to tell you about everything and I really, simply cannot.

So, two things: first, I’m gonna give myself some grace and let these longer essays occur monthly as opposed to weekly or biweekly. Hopefully I can incorporate smaller, bite-sized newsletters (newslettes? lol,) in between. And second, I’m including stream-of-consciousness highlight reels at the end, impressionistic smudges of memory and feeling because wow, there’s been a lot of beauty and it bears mentioning. Without further ado, the first installment below…

a motorcycle ride to Shaver’s Fork on the first warm evening, everything new and sweet. giddy from the freedom: riding fluid on serpentine backroads, like a dance as I cling to Mike and follow his lean on every turn. beers on the graffiti bridge and bluebells in the holler. lavender sunset like stained glass through the trees. exhilarated from no jackets and twilight’s drenching cool dip.

tilling our garden, row upon ambitious row, learning our dirt (a true, loose, perfect brown stained dark with burn-pile-ash in the middle .) breaking our backs on the ground with devoted love. rake-meditations, rolling the rumpled grass clumps from the soil endlessly. cartwheels in the surrounding fields. Michelob Ultra going down like water. gilded light melting down Bickle’s Knob in the distance—casual awe—first gold then mauve then low, dark purple.