I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.
Soon after returning from Pippin’s forest dwelling in the northern reaches of California, I drove southward to the Santa Cruz mountains, where I hadn’t visited for six years. My Airbnb was quite close to Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park, and also to the cousins whom I was visiting.
This area is where our extended family used to have a cabin, at Mount Hermon, just up the hill from Santa Cruz, under the redwoods. Under the redwoods is the theme of this whole area, which I had apparently forgotten, because when I came into town and found my lodging, and found again my cousins’ place, I was astounded by the height of the forest and its unique scents. I know, I was just remarking similarly about Pippin’s trees, but of course these are a unique experience, in a different climate zone. The forest here is mainly redwoods, madrones, and oaks. Fog is abundant, and redwoods thrive in it.
The cousins’ driveway.
My first encounter with dogwoods was in the understory of these towering trees, many decades ago. Little towns have nestled on the slopes and along the creeks since the 19th century, and humans have planted their own shrubs and flowers that thrive, and add to the good smells that rise up when the morning fog dissipates and the sun draws out their essences.
The climate this far south and close to the ocean is very mild. Sometimes the winter passes without a frost; this June is cooler than usual here as it has been farther north.
But summer has officially arrived! My cousins and I ate seafood on the wharf at Santa Cruz, with views of the boardwalk and the beach. We drove as far south as Capitola, and north to Boulder Creek; the sun came out every day, eventually, and flowers bloomed everywhere. We were nourished by all the beauty (and great food), but primarily by our memories, and our affection for one another.
Now I have returned home, and see that my garden has filled out a lot just from the beginning of the week to the end. The layers of blooms and textures are different, now that the ixia has faded and the succulents and lavender are coming into prominence. In the last few years it seemed that the yarrow was dying out, but now I think maybe it just needed extra water, because after the wet winter it is doing great.
Everything looks pretty when the sun shines through in the evening. The acanthus is so tall, and the heuchera, whose flowers change tone week by week as they dry up; they started as greenish white, and now are ever darkening orangey brown…
Clary Sage
I’ll be traveling again in just two weeks, to visit Kate and her family in D.C. In the meantime I plan to take advantage of the energizing warmth of summer, and enjoy every moment, in the garden and all over the place. Summer is the best!
I drove boldly past many “FOREST CLOSED” signs on my way up the mountain earlier this week. The United States Forest Service has closed them because of the drought and fire danger. Our cabin is one of a group on a little piece of private property in the middle of the forest, so I brought along proof of ownership. There are currently no fires nearby, and the skies are clear and blue, but the air was brown-tinged a few thousand feet lower down, from the smoke that drifts in from fires in the north.
So I saw few other vehicles or people, but the hummingbirds, chipmunks and jays are more to be seen than in my recent memory. This forest family stared at me as I passed:
My sister came up for a couple of nights, and we talked until late. She drove us down to the lake bed in her “mule,” and we walked around for awhile. The part of the lake visible through the trees from our cabin showed a bit of blue water when I arrived, but the next morning it had turned to mud. The water is used for irrigation, so it’s not an unusual situation at the end of the summer, and not surprising that it would be the case this year.
As soon as I entered the forest, on the last leg of my journey, the noise and strain that had been with me on the highways began to be absorbed by the deep silence, and the fullness of presence, not only of living and growing trees and animals, but massive rocks. Those slabs and domes were here eons before the lake, and they comfort me.
Sister Nancy showed me an osprey nest when we were down at the shore/lake bed, and though it was kind of far away, I took a picture anyway. I didn’t see the greater context while I was focused on it, and was surprised when looking at my pictures later, to see what looks like a cloud picture. Just to the right of the odd blue dot is the osprey nest at the top of a tree.
Something has gone wrong with my settings on my devices, and I can’t seem to insert most of the pictures I wanted. I really don’t want to spend any more time up here fiddling with technology, so this may be my only post about my little retreat. I am hardly disappointed that the lake is so low, because The Mountains are where I am, and they are so much more. When I saw this reading for a church feast this morning, it made me think about the living waters that God provides, the Living Water that He is for our souls, no matter how dry the landscape:
Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned: for she hath received of the LORD’S hand double for all her sins. The voice of him that crieth in thewilderness, Prepare ye the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the LORD hath spoken it. When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the LORD will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers in high places, and fountains in the midst of the valleys: I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water.Drop down, ye heavens, from above, and let the skies pour down righteousness: let the earth open, and let them bring forth salvation, and let righteousness spring up together; I the LORD have created it. Go ye forth of Babylon, flee ye from the Chaldeans, with a voice of singing declare ye, tell this, utter it even to the end of the earth; say ye, The LORD hath redeemed his servant Jacob. And they thirsted not when he led them through the deserts: he caused the waters to flow out of the rock for them: he clave the rock also, and the waters gushed out. Sing, O barren, thou that didst not bear; break forth into singing, and cry aloud, thou that didst not travail with child: for more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married wife, saith the LORD.(Isaiah 40:1-5; 41:17-18; 45:8; 48:20-21; 54:1)
“As for the fascination of rain for the water drinker, it is a fact the neglect of which I simply cannot comprehend. The enthusiastic water drinker must regard a rainstorm as a sort of universal banquet and debauch of his own favourite beverage.
“Think of the imaginative intoxication of the wine drinker if the crimson clouds sent down claret or the golden clouds hock. Paint upon primitive darkness some such scenes of apocalypse, towering and gorgeous skyscapes in which champagne falls like fire from heaven or the dark skies grow purple and tawny with the terrible colours of port.
“All this must the wild abstainer feel, as he rolls in the long soaking grass, kicks his ecstatic heels to heaven, and listens to the roaring rain. It is he, the water drinker, who ought to be the true bacchanal of the forests; for all the forests are drinking water. Moreover, the forests are apparently enjoying it: the trees rave and reel to and fro like drunken giants; they clash boughs as revellers clash cups; they roar undying thirst and howl the health of the world.”
Gladsome Lights 