The Art of Unhurried Miles: Finding the Real Stories of Appalachia

The late poet Mary Oliver once gave us a perfect compass for moving through the world: “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” As someone who was raised on my mother’s vivid stories of West Virginia, and who has had the immense joy of both performing and studying in Appalachia, I thought I knew how to pay attention to this terrain. I even have kin in the mountains. But usually, I traveled with a destination and a deadline—a workshop to lead, or a performance to give.

This trip was entirely different. My wife designed a journey with a rare purpose: to sit completely still. She invited me to stop chasing the next milestone and simply discover the mountains, the music, the people, and the terrain. In doing so, I realized something vital. We rarely hit pause anymore. Instead, we rush through life to reach places both meaningful and meaningless, filling our blank spaces by scrolling for synthetic adventure, tracking other people's political remarks, or looking at photos of food they ate miles away. This trip was our practice in resisting that urge, choosing instead to slow down and see what is real.

Our practice began in Virginia. We intentionally arrived two hours early to the Floyd Country Store. Before the strings even started moving, we immersed ourselves not just in the bluegrass jam, but in the rich, unhurried pre-show conversations of music and mayhem around us. It was a beautiful reminder of a simple fact: our lives are not inherently boring. Each day holds immense promise and an opportunity for a story to unfold—and honestly, the moments where life doesn't neatly fit together are usually the ones most worth telling.

Later, at the Berea Craft Festival in Kentucky, the modern world blurred into the traditional. Standing in line, there was a stark, revealing economic contrast between the short queue of people using credit cards and the long line of those waiting to use cash. Yet, despite those differences, the music united the space. Together, we all laughed at the old reels the band played and marveled at the way raw clay spun into form on the potter's wheel. I found myself standing before a handmade wooden box. It seemed simple at first glance, but it wasn't simple at all; it holds secrets of design that the artisan graciously stepped forward to show me.

But perhaps the truest gift of our slow journey came in the voice of an eleven-year-old girl with long, sweeping hair. We had the absolute privilege of listening as she explained how she had dyed yarns just the night before, her face lighting up with the pure joy of the colors. She tried her best to stay on script, but her excitement broke through, and her telling became beautifully real. She fascinated us with a story of how the “yarn didn’t like her” (She actually said us which made this story connect even more.).

because it was supposed to turn bright yellow, but stubbornly remained a dingy grey. My joy doubled when I spoke with her mother, who smiled warmly and said, “It is her show, we are just here to support.” Watching the mother beam as her daughter spoke was a story in itself.

Later, we drove to Asheville, North Carolina, stepping into a local bookstore, I caught the opening line of a poem that anchored everything we were experiencing: “The land is story.”

Driven by that sentiment, we proceeded to the library, where the atmosphere shifted from the lighthearted joy of the festival to something heavy, sacred, and deeply raw. We sat in the quiet room to hear both noted and soon-to-be-discovered poets share the devastating, emotional roller coaster of surviving Hurricane Helene. The lines they read weren’t just art; they were testimonies of survival, carrying the weight of a landscape and a people profoundly altered by the storm.

The grief in the room was palpable. Afterward, I stayed behind, drawn to speak with one of the poets who had shared his ache with us. He offered me a second poem, a tender, heartbreaking piece describing his care for an alpaca named Moses that hadn’t survived the disaster. He looked at me and confessed that even though she was gone, he still believes he can hear her breathing through the very words on the page. In that heavy silence, the poetry became a monument to what was lost.

The land truly tells a story, bearing both our deepest sorrows and our quietest wonders. From the young girl literally spinning yarn to the poets anchoring their grief in verse, my wife and I took the time to hear the precious tales that live between the notes. We uncovered stories of struggle, loss, joy, and even a few eccentric histories, like a tale about the oldest pinball machine on record.

Along the way, my wife and I told these stories, plus our own. They reminded us that we are all deeply connected. Our lives are not dull; rather, we simply need to slow down to find a better way to share them. We don't need to perform our lives as we scroll. A glowing screen will never replace the personal, intimate magic of tales shared face-to-face. Instead of rushing for the next fleeting TikTok recall, I invite you to slow down. Step away. Perhaps even travel. The finest tales are out there waiting for you—not because you went searching for them, but because you finally built the quiet space within yourself to let them find you.

Now, I want to hear from you:

Think back to a time when you weren’t looking for adventure, a headline, or a distraction. When was the last time a profound story found you simply because you stepped off the clock and stood still? Let me know in the comments below—let's share some real stories together.

Tell us your story, we are listening.

Be sure to join our blog to keep up with the tales and the travel.

PS. I encourage you to buy the book "Had I a Dove: Appalachian Poets on the Helene Flood." The proceeds support the recovery reforts. Plus, the poetry is another way to travel.

*You can also click on the book to order.

Link: https://redhawkpublications.com/Had-I-a-Dove-Appalachian-Poets-on-the-Helene-Floods-p768343590