Sunday Drive

 I drove myself to the forest. I took the scenic route along the old Highway headed east and let the cityscape fade behind me. Too much time inside has me feeling like I can’t breathe. If I can’t connect with the Earth in a tangible way a kind of neurosis sets in. My soul cries out and my body follows.

I came to the age of lasting memory in the realm of ancient giants. Evergreens, cedar, Douglas fir, hemlocks all towered above the alders in that forest home called Waterwood. Damp earth and moss beneath my bare feet. Babbling creek outside our yurt window. The sounds of the forest absorbed in the dense undergrowth of the Oregon wild. I am forever grateful for that sacred land. To spend my early years in those woods imprinted something deep within me. A feral forest child still dwells inside.

In these times of masks and sanitizer, to be in the dirt, breathing fresh air at the foot of a waterfall felt akin to being in a cathedral. A holy place. Where I could just be human. Not political. Not worried. Not in my head in a dozen different ways. Just a tired, wild thing yearning for connection with the Divine. In this stillness, away from humming of “progress” I come close to equilibrium. 

I drink up these moments and take them back to the city with me.  Back to the “real world”. I feel in my bones that the Earth will thrive again. With or without us she will thrive. In order to thrive with her we must learn to see with our hearts again. Unplug from the crisis narrative and put our bare feet on the ground. Go outside and listen. Just listen. That’s where the medicine is.