Morning arrives gently in Wilmington, as though the Cape Fear River itself breathes the day into being. In dawn's first moments, the sunrise seems to pause, holding the city in suspense before the first stirrings of downtown activity.
The early dawn stretches a ribbon of rose and amber along the eastern edge, painting the Memorial Bridge in its nascent light. The sun rises over the Intracoastal Waterway, gilding the moss-draped live oaks and drawing long, cool shadows across the river.
As morning deepens, clouds drift in from the ocean, filtering the early morning light. Where the river meets the ocean, and the land touches the boundless sky, the day does not rush. It simply unfolds with the timeless rhythm of the Earth's deep, patient breath.
The Way it Resembles Perfection
It's all very much like those mythical places the poets write about. Eden, Avalon, and Shangri-La were enchanting, but they weren't real. Wilmington offers something genuine, something I've searched for without quite knowing how to describe it, simply because I'd never experienced it before.
This morning opened with a spectacle so grand and so majestic that I finally had to abandon Mr. Priddy's sixth-grade lesson about the Earth's rotation, causing the sunrise. It seems impossible that anything but a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could put on such a display.
We arrived at Luna Cafe in the Castle Street Arts District, hoping to claim the best vantage point to watch the day unfold. When I say we, I mean Island Irv and the regulars. Buddy was out front at a cafe table near the door, and Bijou was dancing around the room with her dad, looking like a pint-sized Flamenco artist. Lilly was there behind the counter to welcome us all; she always opens the shop on Sunday mornings.
Home is Community
These are my people now, or at least, I want them to be. This is what paradise has always meant to me, not just a beautiful, magical place, but a place of community. It's much like the mythical Round Table of Camelot, where everyone has a seat.
While many visitors hope to see film stars downtown—Wilmington being a popular location for movies and television—the Luna Cafe group comes for that calmer, quieter background. The slow pace of a Sunday morning in the heights of downtown is rewarding on its own. Not even a movie production can compete for attention with a scene like that.
The Eternal Search
Humanity has always searched for that perfect, original garden ever since we lost it. The Greeks called it the Hesperides. The Celts called it Avalon. Medieval knights sought Camelot. The Puritans believed they'd found it when they glimpsed America's shores and called it their "city upon a hill."
We are a species of seekers, forever romanticizing places, projecting our longing for perfection onto real locations. And here I am, doing the same thing with Wilmington. I've found my spot for happily-ever-aftering.
Growing up in Chattanooga, I found my first paradise in Nashville; not a bad choice for an 18-year-old. Music City worked for me over the course of the next six years. I attended my first rock concert there: Bette Midler headlined, with Barry Manilow playing piano, and Jim Croce provided the opening act.
Late one Saturday evening, at Ireland's Tavern in the West End, I met Kris Kristopherson and Rita Coolidge. Just before leaving Nashville for good, on October 12, 1973, I saw Elton John perform during his Goodbye Yellow Brick Road tour. Nashville was not a bad understudy for paradise at all.
After touring Germany, I ventured into parts of Switzerland and France, and finally ended up in Rome, Italy: another fine stand-in for paradise. Back in the states, I lived for extended lengths of time in Chicago, Houston, Washington, D.C., and then the Research Triangle in North Carolina.
All these places were expected to be my Shangri-La, but each of them seemed to lack something I couldn't quite identify. Of course, it's entirely possible, and maybe even more accurate to say that what was missing was within me, more a matter of timing rather than location.
From all that accrual of time and memories, I've learned something about romanticizing places: you have to allow room for the imperfect, the ordinary, the slightly disappointing. But imperfection doesn't mean failure. Finding paradise isn't about finding perfection; it's about finding that place where you can become the person you imagine yourself to be.
Finding My Avalon
After another Sunday morning in the heart of Castle Street Arts District, we gathered our things and began to drift out of the cafe. Lilly mentioned the weather forecast predicted an afternoon rain shower, but I only nodded and smiled, knowing full well that in Camelot, it never rains till after sundown.
In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for me than here in Wilmington. Not because it's Camelot; as enchanting as that legendary realm seems, it fell long ago, if it ever stood at all. Not because it's Eden; that primordial garden was perfect, but perfection doesn't exist in reality.
Wilmington is my forever home, not because it's perfect but because it's my Avalon, a place of healing and restoration. King Arthur was taken to that golden isle to recover from his wounds, and like Arthur, I too need recovery, restoration, and renewal.
When I watch the sunrise over the Cape Fear River, gather with friends at Luna Cafe, or walk the Riverwalk at dusk to watch pelicans dance across the sky, I feel something that all those ancient paradise-seekers must have felt: a deep sense that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
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