Whatever happened to America’s Emerson’s and Thoreau’s? We have a tradition of the sublime. I remember singing “America the Beautiful” in children’s choir, the only patriotic song I’ve ever felt authentically proud of singing, even if its lofty ideals have yet to be realized fully.

I grew up in the woods and swamps of central Mississippi. I’ve partaken of the freshly picked or hunted bounty of the land. The roots of that subtropical forest are my roots as well. I’ve witnessed firsthand the precarious balance and flow of life and death in that liminal space between the wild and domestic.

Talk about pagan roots. We may decry the rednecks for falling for populist political propaganda, but that is only one tiny part of their existence. No matter how much they may protest otherwise. Yet those who still live close to the land as many so-called “rednecks” do, are much closer to their pagan ancestors than they’d like to admit.

All of that brings me to my point. America does have traditions that can foster that magic. We have to celebrate our common roots, with each other and the land. The magic is still here. It was never lost. We just stopped paying attention.