We made our way on winding roads, north of Big Lagoon, to the redwoods. I drove again. I love driving. I would rather be in control, I guess, and I'm pretty sure I'm a better driver than anyone else. We started the morning in Trinidad, at Beach Combers Cafe, where me and Sabrina bought two coffees and shared an overpriced bagel. After deciding to drive north, we were restless and excited. The feeling of driving along the coast, mist rolling in, waves crashing below, is unbeatable. We passed by the little shops that sold everything made of redwood; earrings, furniture, giant wooden bears. Finding the trailhead took a few wrong turns, but we made it and I parked the car and we leapt out like dogs out of the cage. Skunk Cabbage Trail, the sign reads. The still air smells wild and woody. The sharp smell of spruce reminds me of Ben's guitar, and I can feel the wooden vibrations and hear the harmonics of bronze strings. That guitar was stolen along with my car, I remember. So many reasons to be mad at myself.
The trees tower like giants, tall things that barely breathe or move; just grew up thoughtful and watching. The spruce are light and the lines on the redwoods run up and down the trunks. There's a hushed feeling. Everything is huge and the forest is dense with lush, green ferns, and dripping stones and soft earth. There is this feeling, different from any other forest. A reverence. Reverence...maybe that's the wrong word. That makes me think of pastors and funerals and stuffy churches. But this reminds me of the cathedrals in England, and stained glass church in Wales, and the little church where Luke was married in East Hampton. The ancient woods worships in silence.
We ramble and stumble across roots, crashing through forestry to taste and touch and see. Our violent voices break the silence, to laugh and sing our own songs. My sandals stomp the ferns and I try to be gentle as I cut off the path. My pants are soaked from my knees down, the condensation is heavy on the green. I make my way to the monumental trunk of a once-giant tree. Climbing inside, my feet are cushioned by the thick rotten layers. It's earthy reds and browns smell strong and the rot and roots tangle in a complicated beauty. I think of my human heart and the heart if this giant. I run my fingers through. I love the feeling of dirt and decomposing wood. Roots. Deep, layered, messy roots. This rotting thing is hollow in the center, surrounded by a crumbling wooden wall, breaking apart by time and the tearing feet of wayward explorers. I tie a thin root around my wrist. The outside is strong and beautiful, and probably invincible. It hides the inner disaster well. "This is your heart," I hear. "You will learn to love it." These words make me cringe. Back to the path.
These words keep running through my head. We stumble along and count mushrooms and Frederick quotes eccentric movies and Sabrina laughs at me when I trip. I accidently crush a snail with a sickening crunch and yell, "Holy shit!" which shatters the silence and again and we all laugh. But I get tired of conversation and speed up.
When I'm far enough ahead, out of sight, I begin to run. I need this alone time. That burning anger begins to fuel me and makes my chest hurt. Like I am full of cracks and jagged edges after an earthquake. And what is my heart? A rotten tree trunk? A mess of roots, that are ageless and decaying, yet still growing? I run along the path and begin to hear the soft roar of the waves. Through the green I see glimpses of white sky. I take off my hoodie and hang it on the trail when it forks, marking the way. I reach the slope of skunk cabbage, which the trail is named for, and hurry down the tiny switchbacks, reaching the sand. I'm afraid I won't make it. I'm afraid I'll screw up again. I'm afraid I will break what little trust I have with people. Will I have anyone here? Will I be my usual independant self, or am I too needy now? If you asked me I would tell you I'm fearless. I don't normally feel afraid. I don't feel very much anyways. But I am full of fears, and most of them are probably irrational; worst case scenarios or fearing the past will repeat itself. "Do you trust me?" I hear that question, that horrible question god has asked me for a year and a half now. I'm not very good at trust. Trust is wild, I think. Trust expects the best. But fear expects the worst, no matter what has happened, no matter what trust has proven. These thoughts tumble in my head, this argument with myself is never ending.
"Fear is unattractive." I hear it clearly. I've never heard that before. I've never thought of that before.
I take off my sandals and my feet touch the sand. There's not much on earth quite as wonderful and relieving as running towards the tide. "There you are, my friend." I sigh. What I love about the ocean is it swallows all your thoughts and words. Maybe that's how God is, a ferocious sea that covers all the terrible and smooths all the rocky pieces into small painted stones. "Fear is unattractive. It doesn't look good on you." I hear it again. I'm sick of it, I decide. I'll leave it here.
I take off my beach shirt, more of a rag, really, and tie it on a driftwood stick. I plant my flag in the sand. Sabrina and Frederick have caught up by now, and we take off our clothes and walk out into the swirling currents. I gaze out to sea, and I'm happy to be here with these two. My necklace feels cold on my chest, and the Pacific water is absolutely freezing. I read the necklace again: "The only thing stronger than fear is hope" it says. What on earth. I don't think I've read it more than once. It never really sunk in. Olivia gave it to me the day I left.
Wandering on the shore, we gather sticks and colorful stones and shells and some pairs of shoes to wear. I flew my flag and my fear into the crashing waves and we turned back. Up the dune, onto the trail, through the woods. We make up songs about bears, and when the sun comes out, it streams through the branches and still laughs at me when I say, "Holy shit!" I need better language for such beautiful, stunning things. And we keep stomping through, half clothed and half crazy. I feel better. Like it's easier to breathe. This band of scoundrels, it feels like we're still kids. And regardless of what people say, we're neither lost nor found.
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