Days 12-15: strong roots

I'm embarrassed this single post is covering the span of four entire days. My initial goal was to blog every day of this #30DaysOnFire journey/experiment/exploration/hiatus-from-the-real-world, but here we are lumping an entire holiday weekend into one aggregated (aggrevating?) entry. But I have a good excuse. And you can't be penalized - or even judged - when you have a good excuse, right?

I've been in the mountains of Sugar Grove, North Carolina with my family since Friday. And with hikes up in the holler (or would it be down in the holler...?), boys v. girls wiffle ball games, and bb shooting tournaments (we're not hicks, I promise. I mean, we were shooting Perrier cans! We're #classy!), there's not much time for blogging and tweeting. Although I did post a couple of sporadic tweets just so my loyal 12 followers wouldn't be too concerned. Phew, not easy keepin' these multitudes of fans happy!

Getting away from the hubbub (not to be confused with Grubhub, something you'd never want distance from) of the big city and escaping to a town with less people than my high school was the perfect way to not only get off the grid, but to reconnect with family - those of us who are still here, and those whose memories live on through the old black and white photos hanging on the walls.

I haven't always appreciated the importance of embracing the family heritage. In fact, for a long time I actively hated anything having to do with reminiscing about the past. I distinctly remember when I was growing up, leaving the room whenever my dad would play old home videos. I absolutely hated the way watching them made me feel: like life was passing me by. Like I was growing up at a speed I couldn't catch up with, all the while getting closer and closer to death. And everyone I loved was headed there, too.

I've always had a really tough time with the whole death thing, and learning about my ancestry hit on all the things that made me most uncomfortable. For some, hearing about their great-great-grandfather's life on the farm would provide insight and intrigue, a way to more deeply understand the family and all its various members. For me, it provided a deep sense of unease and anxiety. Knowing these people, who lived full, rich lives, were now nothing more than a memory - a character in a story told 'round the dinner table - depressed me.

But as I got older, something changed. I saw how important - and therapeutic - it was for the people I loved, the ones still here with me, alive and well, to talk about the people who had come before them. To better connect with my grandfather, I could ask about his childhood growing up with Granddaddy Dave. To show love to my parents, I could ask about their parents, and their parents' parents. To understand why I'm the way I am, I have to know about those who came before me. To grow up strong, I have to appreciate the sturdy roots from generations before.

One of the most powerful parts of our time in the mountains was taking time to notice the things that haven't changed in a hundred years. Sure, the old farmhouse is creakier and dustier. The trails are overgrown and the vegetable garden bare. But the mountains - the beautiful mountains that surround us with their majesty - stay steadfast. The same peaks my ancestors gazed up at generations ago still stand strong and proud. And that doesn't depress me. It invigorates me.