Tall, silent pines create kaleidoscopes where the light manages to sneak in. The bugs dance in the light, mesmerized by something... the silence, and occasional conversation of birds, feels eternal. Trees feel eternal. The red trunks of trees have eyes here- de
ep, powerful eyes and wrinkles. Wrinkles of age? Or are trees born with wisdom? What do others feel when they sit here, and watch, and listen? Is it possible to sit here and feel nothing?
To what extent is my experience as a hiker and nature enthusiast disturbed by evidence of human? A chain fence, a house on a hill, a flat and wide path - where is the line? Can an invasive species be beautiful? Should I stop myself from admiring the elegance of the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir because knowledge that my brain, but not my eyes, holds? How do we see? What can we allow ourselves to admire?
What empowers each foot to step farther into unknown territory?
When do you turn around?
What force begs you up, closer to the peak, closer to the sun?
What draws you in?
There is spirituality in our feet every time they choose to take a step.
On the Wooded Metoale Grove of Redwoods off the Berkeley fire trail:
This is a grove that could teach any city dweller what John Muir preached as the religion of nature. These stoic giants that surround me, filtering light, give the mystical rays that do reach the floor infinitely more meaning. Light and dark, silence and sound, stillness and movement... a delicate balance that makes me realize how everything that is here is meant to be here, in these very spots, where time is eternal. The way the needles on the floor glisten with dusty sunlight, and pieces of spiderwebs flicker like stars in a Disney midnight. Gnats float and dart in random pattern. Every fallen log is a line that moves my eye across the hill to other demonstrations of beauty. The sun reigns supreme here, and he knows it- the giant pines must eventually succumb and the sun reaches through. I am belittled.
