There are places in the world that don't immediately recommend themselves to wonder. Their beauty is subtler, quieter, hidden in plain sight. These aren't the first places one envisions when dreaming about ideal locales for travel or even fantasy settings for a home. True, some of Earth's most arresting landscapes have a sort of self-evident boldness and beauty. There is no question that the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, the Appalachian Trail, Banff National Park or the Alaskan wilderness are marvelous in their immensity. I have no quarrel with anyone who describes the beauty and serenity of the Caribbean, the Carolina coastline or the temperate rain forests of the Pacific Northwest. And even if you're not a lover of the city, no one can help but be astonished by the organized chaos of the likes of New York City, New Orleans, Rio, London, Tokyo, or Paris. These high and low places offer conspicuous pleasures and are thick with fascinations.
But what of the world's middle places? What of those spaces where the land neither rises high into mountains nor falls deep into canyons or valleys? What of the land that doesn't turn into vast shore and meet vast coastline but simply remains vast prairie? Where no skyscrapers have been built. No theater districts. No restaurants. No amusements. Nothing "to do". Where no physical peculiarity exists to tempt visitors or beget full-page pictures on a scenic calendar. Only uniformity, consistency as far as the eye can see, broken by the occasional creek that bears a remarkable resemblance to every other or the tree that closely corresponds to its kin and neighbor.
I grew up in such a place. Like a lot of people, I wasted quite a bit of time supposing that the only beautiful, desirable places were those where from your front porch you could see cliff-face or salt-sea. So I left. I traded the pastures of Nowhere, Oklahoma, for the corporate cathedrals of Los Angeles, California. The smell of cut hay had long sense lost its allure, so I happily embraced palm trees and movie stars and lights that hid away the night sky. I traveled to Belfast pubs where the brogue and the folk music were hypnotizing, thrilled to have evaded any further exposure to the bumpkin accent and yokel bluegrass of my home in the middle. I entered worlds of novelty, activity, eight-lane traffic, charisma, and defiant irreverence. Everyone seemed to have an intuitive awareness of cool, a commitment to impulse, an achieved appreciation for their rank as those who live in the best of all places. Everyone was appropriately sympathetic when they learned of my tragic upbringing in a middle place. They rejoiced with me that I was able to escape the land of high school football, 4-H, and tent revivals. They complimented me on my ability to drop my inherited accent and adopt their eminent pronunciation and cadence. They were charmed by my homespun stories of the backwards ways of the people in the middle, and they were relieved on my behalf that I had been able to transcend such a regretful personal history.
I too was relieved. But I was heartbroken to be relieved. I didn’t fully understand why I ought to be relieved that I left the Ozarks and the Ouachitas and the Arbuckles behind. I just knew that I was indeed supposed to be relieved.
I knew that I was obliged to abandon whatever vestigial affection remained for my home in the middle and to affirm a second, secret, but no less inspired Beatitudes.
Blessed are the coast dwellers, for they shall see waves - breakers and rollers. Blessed are the mountain hikers, for they shall walk among the clouds. Blessed are the sun soakers, for they shall be saturnine and seductive. Blessed are the city abiders, for they shall never be without movement - bustle and happenings.
But woe to the rednecks, the farmers, and small-town sons and daughters, for they shall have to settle for green pastures, open fields of wild flowers, hoed rows, starry nights, two-lane highways, dirt roads, roots music, amateur musicians, early mornings and long days, hard work, comfort food, changing seasons, harvest schedules, farm animals, old men who know how to be neighbors, old women who know how to tell stories, poems that rhyme, traditions that are only digestible once they've become a part of you, community rituals that aren't easily noticed nor formally designated but are nevertheless widely agreed upon and vital, folk foolishness, and folk wisdom.
Woe to these for they live in the middle. Woe to these for they shall have to make due with Oklahoma grasslands, West Texas ranches, Kansas prairies, Nebraska farms, and Dakota expanses. Woe to these for they shall have to create their own entertainment, write their own songs, spin their own yarns, and dream their own dreams. Woe to these for they have no summits nor ranges nor massifs, no oceans nor seas nor gulfs, but only pastures and herds, prairies and wildflowers, grasslands and open sky. Woe to these for if they blink they won't miss anything at all, but will have infinitely more blinks and infinitely more chances to notice the depth and breadth and mystery and beauty that surrounds them if they'll look with their eyes and hear with their ears, like millions of hurried reincarnations within a single lifetime.
What a well written piece, a delight to read. I lived and pastored in South Dakota for several years. I came to appreciate the stark spareness of the prairie landscape and to find a beauty there.... Also, one cannot truly understand the people and culture of such a place, without understanding the link to the land.... That is my opinion on the matter anyway.
Peace to you, LRK
What a wonderful look at the middle and often forgotten spaces. Thanks for reminding me to see the whole picture of place.
Your writing is very good. Over the top. Bravo
I am wowed beyond wow. Stunning piece, the words crafted lovingly by someone from the middle places.
I shall remember this piece, a picture painted with words that describes the magic of the ordinary.
Thank you.
Hi- I arrived here via your comment on my blog. Wow. Beautiful writing! I spent some time in South Dakota when I was in graduate school and your words brought me back there.
Mmm, makes me want to go to LG all of a sudden. ;) Loved the spin on the Beatitudes. You, my bro, can write.
Thanks, man. I needed to be reminded of that.