“Risk is the measure of closeness.”

— Mark Nepo

Being in the Appalachian Mountains is an ongoing sensory celebration—a tribute to light, water, air, and earth.

The higher you go, the faster the clouds move. The water and air become clearer, and the soil is richer beneath your feet.

Over the past few years—especially in the last two months—I’ve spent a great deal of time in Appalachia, specifically in and around Black Mountain in western North Carolina.

From a distance, an ever-changing drama unfolds across the landscape—a constant flux that mirrors the unseen movements beneath the surface, beneath what appears as a skin of trees.

Even my brain, with all its processing power, can’t fully contain what it’s experiencing. There’s a constant zooming in and out—an oscillation between the abstracted beauty from afar and the complex, sometimes difficult beauty that only comes with closeness.

“A thing is not seen because it is visible, but conversely, visible because it is seen.”

— James P. Carse

Whether I’m standing at an overlook, driving a winding scenic road, or running or riding to a mountaintop clearing, I often find myself captivated by the shifting atmosphere—fast-moving, unpredictable, alive.

This distant, zoomed-out view is undeniably stunning, but it can also become objectifying. It’s easy to get swept up in the tidy, picturesque beauty and miss the deeper, fuller story unfolding beneath the surface—a story I can actually feel in my body.

To truly know a place—and to be known by it—I have to risk a more intimate vantage point. The kind of knowing that only comes through immersion: stepping off the highway, getting below the surface, and taking risks.

And to be clear, risk doesn’t mean chasing danger for its own sake. The world already holds enough of danger without going looking for it. But avoiding all risk isn’t really living either. I’m talking about risk in the older, deeper sense—rhizikón, as the Greeks called it—a “root” or “radical” hazard. Intimacy means getting to the root, the radical core—the heart of what a place truly is. And that’s often a messy, complicated, and yes, risky process.

“There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

There’s sudden, sometimes brutal weather. Swarming gnats. Aggressive bees. Hidden snakes. There’s mud, blood, and decay. There are the unrelenting cycles of birth and death unfolding all around me—above and below the ground, seen and unseen.

With intimacy, I risk shattering my expectations. I risk confirming my fears. I risk injury—both physical and emotional. I risk seeing things I can’t unsee. I risk a reordering of my self-image and my relationship to the land.

And yet, the more time I spend here, the more grateful I am for that risk—for getting dirty, sweaty, uncomfortable, and sometimes hurt—in a direct, tactile conversation with the mountains.

I find it hard to pass a mountain stream without stepping into it, splashing the cold water on my face, or drinking from it, even while feeling the silent gaze of a nearby snake. I find it hard to resist a steep mountain trail, whether on bike or on foot, even after watching a friend crash on a descent, shaken and bleeding. I continue to seek connection, even while grieving the loss of relationships that made this place feel like home in the first place.

Humans—for better and worse—are a part of this landscape, shaping it physically while also reshaping my relationship to it. This human presence adds layers I couldn’t see before—layers that have changed how I perceive the land.

“We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are.”

— Anaïs Nin

Now, when I look out over these vistas, I see more than trees and ridgelines. I see the baristas, bartenders, servers, and locals I greet at my regular spots. I see the people I hike, run, and ride with. Closer still, I see the friends I’ve shared deep conversations and honest connection with—the ones who make me feel like I fit-in here. And at the innermost level, I feel the presence of my chosen family—the people who care for me, appreciate me, love me. Real belonging.

"True belonging is the spiritual practice of believing in and belonging to yourself so deeply that you can share your most authentic self with the world and find sacredness in both being a part of something and standing alone in the wilderness."

— Bréne Brown

All of this—the intimacy, the layers of relationship—makes for a more complex, messy, and ultimately real understanding of place. Relationships add depth and richness, but they also bring complications.

Sometimes, I catch myself longing for the days when I was just a visitor—idealistic and blissfully unaware. That distant, romantic view was simpler, unburdened by the dramas that come with deeper connection.

Back then, I couldn’t see the pain of losing friends. The fractures between people I care about. The splintering of communities. Intimacy reveals not only beauty, but also brokenness. It brings into focus systemic wounds—pollution, inequity, corruption, exploitation—woven through the very communities I love.

But this drama, these imperfections, this messiness—they’re part of knowing a place in its fullness. And I can’t have that fullness without the risk.

“To know fully even one field or one land is a lifetime’s experience.”

— Patrick Kavanagh

Now, when I look at these mountains from a distance, I see what was once invisible. Not just the beauty of the physical terrain, the sky, and the shifting atmosphere—but everything embedded in it.

I see birth.

I see death.

I see relationship.

I see a story.

I see the fullness of life.

There is still so much more to see.

And I risk not seeing it all.

But for me, that risk is worth it.

With Love + Vision

Matt

Journal Prompts:

What beautiful thinks in your life have come through risk?

What risks have you taken in your life to pursue something important, even if you couldn’t guarantee the outcome?

In what ways do you balance your desire to "know" with accepting that some things may remain unseen or unfinished?