I am sitting at a bar in Black Mountain, slightly drunk — though not the same way as yesterday. Yesterday I was completely exhausted after a red-eye flight and from sleeping badly night after night. This time, instead of turning the trip into just another conference visit, I planned ahead and gave myself an entire extra day devoted simply to exploring.
I drove the long scenic way through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and oftentimes you could see both sides of the mountains at once. It was breathtaking. Unfortunately, I arrived a little too early for the rhododendrons. Everyone says that when they bloom, the mountains turn pink and purple. I wish there were a limitless supply of money so one could simply fly back whenever the mountains changed colors and never miss a season again.
And now I finally understand why they are called the Blue Ridge Mountains. In the early mornings and evenings there really is a bluish haze hanging over them, soft and smoky in the distance. But during the day, all I can see is this overwhelming lush green — endless, saturated, alive.
The greenery here is astonishing. There are so many shades of green, bright and fresh and almost impossibly vivid, and somehow all of them feel symbolic of youth, rebirth, and renewal.
I visited Biltmore Estate, and I don’t regret spending an obscene amount of money to see it. The house is extraordinarily opulent, but that is exactly what I have been reading and watching about these past few years — the Gilded Age of America, the staggering wealth and luxury, but also the innovation and ambition that built corporate America. Compared to British estates of the same era, there is something distinctly American about it all: bigger, louder, more unapologetic.
Then there was Asheville, where music spills out onto the streets as naturally as breathing. There are parks where people sit on blankets while someone plays guitar and violin on a small stage. There are faint smells of food, incense, smoke, hot pavement, flowers, beer — all blending together into the atmosphere of a Southern evening. I treated myself to oysters and crab with baked brie and caramelized onions and listened to live music, something I almost never allow myself to do.
And that realization followed me afterward: during my prior visits, I would often simply go into a supermarket, buy guacamole and baby carrots, and eat them sitting alone in my room on the edge of the bed. I never really allowed myself to enjoy the places I traveled to.
This trip feels different. I spent money enjoyably. I wandered. I listened to local music. I drank blackberry margaritas and watched strangers and walked without rushing anywhere.
The conference itself has actually been enjoyable. I attended four lectures today and genuinely liked them, right until the point when I started falling asleep no matter how hard I tried to stay awake. By the evening, I looked at tomorrow’s schedule and decided I would attend the first lecture and skip the others. I would rather spend the rest of the day in Pisgah National Forest. I want to see the blooms, hike again, and spend more time in nature.
My mind keeps returning to the same three words: rest, replenish, revive.
That is where I feel closest to myself — in the mountains, among trees, lakes, flowers, and silence.
I realized that even though I enjoy comfort and beautiful things, and even though I genuinely love luxury when I can afford it, I also deeply love simplicity. A small room with good hot water. A scenic road. Fresh air. A quiet lake. Walking with my hands in my pockets at sunset. Eating uncomplicated food while listening to music drift through the streets.
At the end of one evening, I walked to a small lake. The sky was cloudy, so there was barely any sunset at all, but the lake was beautiful and still. And maybe that was enough by itself — the damp evening air, green everywhere, nowhere else I needed to be.
By the end of these days, I feel almost drunk on fresh air, on beauty, on greenery, on flowers and mountains and air so pure it feels drinkable. I want to breathe it in over and over again.
And I am happy. Truly happy to be back.
I remember how the first times at Blue Ridge Assembly changed me years ago. Those visits allowed me to shed some of my urban nature and become more mindful, more grounded, more connected to the earth and to myself.
Last year I could not do this. I could not get on a plane while being so immunocompromised. I could not risk infection.
But this year feels different.
This year I am ready to go again. Ready to hike, drive, wander, and explore. Ready to sit alone at dinner without feeling lonely. Ready to watch people and quietly enjoy them. Ready to be away from the office, away from the mundane repetition of daily life.
And once again I find myself drawn toward herbs, lotions, healthy foods, forests, flowers — toward the idea that healing sometimes comes not from another handful of pills, but from nature itself, from movement, from beauty, from rest, from breathing deeply enough to remember you are alive.
And for now, at least, I am happy.