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By Josh Lanier

 

Driving the backroads around home, I see constant reminders of the catastrophe that has been seared into our collective consciousness. It’s hard not to notice the dried brown tangles of oak and hickories downed along the roadside, Detour or Road Closed signs, and mud-stained river bottoms and agricultural fields that were all but swept away. 

But if you look past all of that—beyond the washed-out roads and hillsides littered with timber snapped like matchsticks—you can see that the leaves are changing and the sky has taken on a beautiful azure hue that it always does this time of year in the mountains. The seasonal shift has taken place. 

You can feel it in the breeze and smell it as you breathe in the musky aroma of fall in the mountains and foothills. From this perspective, the view is spectacular. 

For the past week, I have been recovering from a hernia operation. I experienced some pain the first few days, but I was finally able to get out of the house and take a walk in the woods. Down in the creek bottom, I had to weave my way around piles of debris and log jams left over after the flood waters subsided. I decided to head to higher ground where I wouldn’t have to step over or go around so many obstacles. My main priority was to protect what I consider to be a large incision site on my stomach. The last thing I needed was to poke it with a limb or stumble and fall.

 I tried not to push myself too far, not just yet, so when I reached a large poplar that had blown down, I propped up against it to take a rest. I pulled my shirt up just to take a look at my surgery site, which I admit has become a new habit. From my vantage point on the side of the hill below the house, I noticed how the sourwoods had all turned bright red, and the sweetgum leaves had changed, as well. 

I leaned back against the trunk of the tree for a while, just taking it all in. 

For the first time since my procedure, I wasn’t thinking about my limitations, or how long it would be until I fully recovered. All I could think of was how nice of a day it was, how later I wanted to bring my camp chair out to that very spot and just sit a spell in the evening.

To be honest with you, I worried for weeks that something bad would happen and I wouldn’t make it through surgery. That might sound crazy, but it happens. Thankfully, the only difficulty I’ve had to face is some soreness and discomfort whenever I move in a way that I shouldn’t. I’ve had to make some adjustments, but I am beginning to see some progress toward recovery. I am able to drive, and tomorrow I’ll make a trip to the high mountains of East Tennessee to spend some time with family. 

Heading back home this afternoon, I can’t help but notice how things around here are returning to normal. Sure, there are still remnants and scars left over from the storm all over, but the land has a tendency to heal itself. 

I look out across the hills, now brushed with hues of russet brown, deep scarlet, and autumn gold, realizing how fortunate I am to see this healing take place, and to know there is hope for the future.