The first time I moved north, it did not occur to me that I would miss anything. Twenty-five years later, as I prepare to leave the South again, I'm poignantly aware of what I will leave behind---warm autumns, tree-ripened oranges, camellias in February, casual hospitality, old and new friends.
Among the surprising things I will miss are some of the signature scents of the South. June evenings have been filled with the offerings of magnolia blossoms, opening after long, hot days. To me, they almost taste like lemon meringue pie. Several nights in a row, I lingered near them to savor their cleansing on my palate. Vividly, I remembered my grandmother bringing one into the house and setting it in a large crystal bowl. I remembered her though she were alive, standing before me in flesh and blood.
Last week on an early morning walk, I passed by a cluster of gardenias in full glory. I had to stop. I could go no further. I stood there and breathed and breathed, as though I might store their perfume in my bones.
This week, I noticed the aroma of a southern thunderstorm, pungent and distinct. I knew rain was coming for an hour before I could see or hear it. From miles away, the summer storm prophesied its coming with a sharp, musty zing. The ground was hot under the sun, then the rain hit hard, and lightning plunged ozone into wind. At last, I was enfolded by feathery freshness filling my lungs and pulling me close to the clouds.
Yesterday, at the Fresh Market, there were peaches for sale from a nearby orchard. I picked up one and inhaled deeply with closed eyes. I could smell peach trees in afternoon breeze and green grass at my feet. Suddenly, everything around me seemed timeless. For many summers, I picked peaches in Georgia orchards. Such memories are knit into the body of a child by repetition, They become inseparable from the person, like eye color, voice, and gait. For the rest of earthly life, these things remain.
Finally, I understand what has been happening. What I need to do most before I leave is to breathe, to take in the air around me. My body and the southern earth are singing together, and I have just recognized their song. Recently, I came across a poem that expresses it well:
And still, after all this time,
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe me."
Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.
- Hafiz
Creation sings a hymn of love which the Creator wove into everything he made. I need to listen and breathe.
Some of us are called to do faithful work, deep and long, on the ground where we already stand. Others are called to do faithful work in a number of places, voyaging for God to usher in changes for the future.
