Sitting in a poem

Sitting in a poem. I’m shaded beneath a moss-covered maple tree amidst a forest of ancient redwoods. The pebble-strewn creek hiccups chilled, rippling water which vibrates my spine, my left hip, my knee, foot then circles back to my neck which were regrettably injured a few days ago in a rousing basketball game with my nephews and crazy, elderly amigas. Yes, I’m that grandma, the one who thinks she can shoot hoops competitively in Disney Crocs only to save herself from certain bone-snapping doom by clumsily tweaking the left side of her bread-dough body.

Not a pretty sight. But the headline I elect to focus on is: She didn’t fall!

Was it worth it? If I was a true basketball player I’d say, “You betcha.” But given the next day’s re-launch of my Great Fall Sojourn, I’d have to emphatically gesture, arms waving, “No! What were you thinking?” Alas, the old competitive, let’s play ball, be damned, “DANGER! DANGER!” red flag warnings, talk-to-the-hand, desire to have fun with the guys, got the best of me and now I’m paying the price. Now I must rest, can’t ride my bike and be patient while I wait for my body to heal. 

But what a place to heal!

I’m at campsite No. 50 next to the creek at Elk Prairie Creek National and State Park, not far from the Oregon border. It’s the fourth time I’ve visited the park which is about a 12-hour-plus drive from the South Bay and like all the other times I’ve been here, I’m fairy-dusted by this enchanted cathedral’s grace, love and acceptance. This West Coast treasure asks nothing of her guests. She doesn’t need to be loved, admired, photographed or engaged with. She simply is—-a living, breathing reminder of the continuity, beauty, challenges, fortitude, strength and adaptation needed to strive and thrive on Planet Earth. 

In this Magnificent Forest, I am the taker, the absorber, the grateful human woman privileged enough to be able to rest in Her womb and grow.

            Determined to fall

            A weather exposed skeleton

                                                  Basho

I’m re-dubbing Part Two of my annual van life adventure the Re-set, Re-set, Re-set Great Fall Sojourn because it’s abundantly clear I still have a lot of work to do until I get myself “just right”, as porridge connoisseur Goldilocks would say. Not so long ago, I had students to teach and an old house to restore. These days, devoid of noble distractions, my No. 1 Project is me. I’m on a quest to carve out my decomposing tree trunk to see what’s tucked inside so that I can make better decisions about how I react to the upsets of life.

Frankly, I’m sick of dwelling on conversations and people who think ill of me. 

I can trace “that feeling”, understand from a third person perspective, why it is I do what I do and why, when someone misunderstands my sincerity or intention it stings so badly. My history explains why I’m drawn to underdogs and wounded creatures and why it’s so difficult to shake off mean things people say. It also explains why this historically social person craves solitude in her 60s, why I need to get off the train and re-set, re-boot, re-align so I can Teflon-away cruel comments, see my truth mirrored in the creek, the shadowed ferns and grasses, the beginning of existence, the place where it all began: 

When I was in the third grade, I felt a longing to go to church; my British parents found a Church of England-ish spiritual home, Christ Episcopal Church in Redondo Beach where I attended Sunday School and studied the ritual of Holy Communion which I mimicked at home using a TV tray altar and Barbie doll and Co. parishioners. 

As long as I can remember, I’ve had a desire to be close to God and Nature; when I was in the fifth grade, I asked Mom if I could plan a rare family vacation to Sequoia National Park and she agreed: The experience was life changing. No. 1, my mother’s faith in me made me feel empowered; she trusted me to find lodging, plan sightseeing excursions, create a list of food and clothing necessities, estimate distance and gas prices. At 10, I became a travel agent and event planner, the seeds of which would later show up in various leadership roles I’d assume as a teenager and adult. No. 2, our family excursion was the first time I had ever been to a forest and surrounded by Nature. The smells, textures, vivid colors, the air, and towering, reassuring trees and fern-carpeted pathways, cast a spell on me: I never wanted to leave. 

Just like now. 

In the forest or by the sea, I can be still, silent, observe, reflect, take-in, release—breathe. No politics. No criticism. Absolute, utter acceptance. The beauty of acceptance. 

To be cherished, respected, loved for who you are is the ultimate gift; that’s how I feel, right now as I witness…

A golden leaf 

                       floats 

                                   down 

from the green sky

                                   transforming,

                                   reshaping,

from parachute

to Communion cup,

adeptly—gymnastically—landing atop a giddy creek

                                     not worrying,

                                     not thinking,

about what used to be, 

                                   or what’s to come.

Whenever—whenever—I put my ear to the forest, to the sea, toward the sky, and sit in the poem, I am transformed, renewed be it from mental or physical anguish or as Walt Whitman described Nature’s tonic:

“My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart,

     The passing of blood and air through my lungs,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves …” 

I am

at one with,

The joy. The pain. The Song of Myself.

The great Mary Oliver, described our relationship with forest best when she wrote “When I Am Among the Trees”:”:

When I am among the trees,

especially the willow and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

Would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”