Moving Mountains

When we moved to Spruce Pine from Chapel Hill in 2007, I had to put all my cute sandals aside and wear sneakers 24/7. On top of that blow to my inner Barbie, I developed really bad plantar fasciitis (the doc called it plan-tar fash- itis) in my right foot, which because I had no time to rest during the frenzy of moving, became so inflamed I could barely walk. When my husband Pat and I would go for evening strolls by the Toe River, I felt like I was using a new, unruly set of feet; they behaved unpredictably. I had to think about each footfall.

Hadn’t I asked to learn to live in the present; wasn’t this the goal of my most earnest prayers and meditations? Yes, but I had forgotten that most life lessons are orchestrated by that wise teacher, pain. What happened to me? I slowed down, because I had to. I started looking around. Where was I? In the Blue Ridge Mountains. Surprise, Surprise, as Gomer Pyle used to say. Not an Old Navy or a Starbucks in sight. The only chain store in our sleepy town is a Walmart, and it is a hub of homey activity: bake sales outside the doors on Friday nights and Saturday afternoons, kind senior citizens who serve as greeters at the doors.

While my foot was healing I ducked into a store to look for some sensible supportive sandals. I’d been suffering from plantar fasciitis, I told the salesgirl, who furrowed her forehead. “I had somethin’ like that,” she said. “But it was called Planetary Faskee-eyeteez.” We stared at each other. She laughed. “I guess that’s the mountain way of callin’ it,” she said.

I have loads more to learn about the mountain way. It means dropping the notion that a Masters Degree from Chapel Hill is anything more than a certificate proving I have experience in only one domain of life. There are mountain schools of mystery about which I know nothing: like the names of the early and late spring cycles, the signs of a cold winter, the unlikelihood that plants will grow under a black walnut tree, the dangers of eating a mushroom that’s grown on a hemlock.