This must be the place: ‘And that same black line, that was drawn on you, was drawn on me’

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This must be the place: ‘And that same black line, that was drawn on you, was drawn on me’

Point Au Roche State Park, New York. Garret K. Woodward

The wildest thing about being a longtime writer is that you end up compartmentalizing most of your life through your assignments, interviews, deadlines, and so forth.

For myself, it’s like this shoebox you fill up each week with words, emotions and sentiments, only to publish it on the blank page and push it out the door and into the world. Onward to the next, empty shoebox to once again fill up with words, emotions and sentiments.

Truth be told, as a writer/journalist, you’re running around trying to capture, absorb and transcribe the world swirling around you in real time on a moment-by-moment basis — the people, places and things that catch our eye, grip our heart, and soothe our soul.

And, with that undulating rhythm of the written word and of your life, you tend to forget just how many things you’ve seen, felt, heard or experienced throughout a period of time, simply due to the organized chaos of your existence, personally and professionally.

To note, it’s not lost on me in what I get to witness and jot down on the blank page. It’s just that, when your only anchor point in this universe are deadlines, everything tends to feel like (and, ultimately, is) a blur. This constant motion of self and of a modern society in flux.

Case-in-point, I’ve been going through my newspaper files today in preparation for some possible article entries in this year’s North Carolina Press Association awards. Recognition? It is what it is. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m more concerned with the work I put so much time into, to keep improving my craft and my range.

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But, it does help out our publication, The Smoky Mountain News, when we (as an editorial group) take home a bunch of honors over in Raleigh to further emphasize our value to the community at-large here in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Some 13 years at this newspaper and I still love the work now more than ever. That, and it’s always nice to see your publisher smile proudly when we take home the gold.

Anyhow, I only really enter my weekly column, “This Must Be The Place,” in the annual NCPAs. I’ve been writing this column every single week since June 2013 (when I was only 28 years old). So, at last count, that’s somewhere around 615 columns. And, since its inception, the column has become this slice-of-life, journal entry of sorts, usually hovering around whatever it is I’m going through or doing on a given week.

Normally, when I’m sitting down and constructing the column, I’ll either be holed up in some coffee shop somewhere from coast-to-coast come Sunday morning or trying to meet my word count requirement in haste in a hotel room, usually hitting submit for the column to my publisher with only a few minutes to spare before I have go downstairs and checkout. Back into the truck. Back on the road.

So, today, as I’m going through these columns from the last year (March to March is the NCPA entry calendar), a flood of memories and feelings rolled across my field-of-vision. Many of which conjured with deep gratitude for those moments, others cultivated with just as deep sadness — the gamut of the human condition on full display to our readers across Southern Appalachia and beyond.

All of those endless miles on the interstates, highways and backcountry roads of America. All of those sunrises and sunsets. All of those good times that eventually morph into hard times and back again, just like the universe intends for humanity. All of those delicious, unexpected meals at roadside establishments and new friends made by happenstance along the way, more so serendipitously.

And those familiar, beloved faces you had alongside. This go-round for March 2024-March 2025, a slight grin emerged on my face peeling back the columns of adventures I once had with my former partner. She’s an incredible soul, and I count myself truly lucky to have had those moments together, images only she and I could recreate in memory. No ill will, only peace found within.

Jumping into that freezing cold river in Montana on a hot, dry afternoon last July. Toes in the sand on the Carolina coast in September. Or that unforgettable dinner in Maine with a slew of new faces met just the night before. Attending that film festival in Toronto, only to find that incredible Thai restaurant. And those hikes in whatever mountain range we found ourselves in. Etcetera.

Don’t forget those days and night with your friends and family. Laugh until it hurts. Eat with gusto. Share hard truths and embrace your true value as a human being. Ears ringing from once-in-a-lifetime concerts. Late night heart-to-hearts, singular spaces where you say out loud, “You know, I’m supposed to know you in this life.” Bear hugs goodbye until next time. Walk away with a kick in your step.

Don’t forget those days and nights where you were just by yourself. Solo and left alone with your thoughts, for good or ill (hopefully, mostly good). And even if the thoughts are heavy and sorrowful, to know enough within yourself to not only acknowledge those emotions, but also evaluate, process, and move forward from them with a better sense of who you are, what you want, and what you have to offer another kindred spirit in matters of the heart.

Those days and nights where you were just by yourself, whether it be typing away wildly in some café in Waynesville or Whitefish, St. Augustine or Saranac Lake, Park City or Portland. Those days you were solo and jogging down some dirt trail and happily into the woods (my favorite disappearing act). Those nights you were solo and enjoying a scrumptious meal, your only company being a favorite dog-eared paperback from Kerouac or McMurtry, whose own words, sentiments and memories throw a few more logs onto the fire of your intent.

There’s no glorification in those moments previously mentioned. Just genuine appreciation. And I think of how much has changed in the last year, how much more may change in this coming year, and every year thereafter. It’s just the way it goes, I suppose, eh? Nothing you can do about the pace of time, only to remain eternally curious, purposely vulnerable to the unknown, and completely open to all of the beauty that you come across each day you awaken into endless possibility.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.

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