He walks over the sea-washed shells
and stones, the relics of the tides
of time. He walks toward the lighthouse,
that symbol of safety and guidance,
as though his own life might need
some buffer from the rocks
and shallows of the shore.
But he walks, knowing
the true light is within him.
The same light that, when absent,
Creates the absolute darkness.

Fires burn in their chosen places.
When she put her hands on me
I could feel the heat from my own furnaces.
She gave me permission,
By touching each place I had held
Too many doubts and fears,
To release the energy within,
To put a name to some slight
Or other self-wounding.
And I stood taller afterward,
Saw beauty in even the wind.
A little moment
Of being reborn,
Of giving myself a break,
And another opportunity
To appreciate the charred places
That would yet again
Give composte to new seedlings.

There's a clearing by the creekbed and, likewise, all the way up the vertical expanse of the towering redwoods. This clearing allows the sun, passing overhead, to cast its light and temporary warmth on the mossy surroundings. This otherwise dark laboratory of algae gets a lightshow on a daily basis, the kind where individual rays of the sun get amplified, as if taking turns or working in tandem with one another. A stage really, acting out the whimsy of nature as she shows off her colors, her variety, and her splender of ongoing, never ending activity.

Otherwise dark, dull greens come alive to reveal multitudes of shades and hues when exposed to and highlighted by the sun. The trees play a part as they filter this light at various angles through their branches. The damp air itself might stir enough to mix in dust particles, now seeming to float in the stew of yellowish sunbeams.

Observed or not, this play goes on everyday, as if for Nature's own pleasure; an expression of herself which requires nothing.

You can almost taste it. The aroma from the blossoms on the cherry trees when the wind blew back in your face before you had to go into the stuffy church building on Sunday morning. Or how about the way the sea air would suddenly fill your nostrils and the entire world changed as you neared the ocean in the car with mom and dad and Uncle Bob and Aunt Jane? You couldn’t breathe deep enough or long enough. Just moments ago you didn’t even notice the air and now that’s all you could notice. Or the country could do that. Aunt Helen would stop the car by the side of the road and announce everybody out to pick huckleberries and the dust from the just stopped car and the closeness of the bushes as you climb out seemed to almost suffocate you, but you had to keep inhaling all that your lungs could hold. The air was so intense you couldn’t get enough. Think of it. These were the days when encountering the world came to you by sensations, by newness, by never-before-experienced-experience, through the magic of your fingers and nose and ears and the eyes they all widened in such astonishment. When the train thundered into the station and blew it’s hot steamy air all over you as it rumbled past, with it’s brake-squealing and bell-clanging assaulting your ears, your feet vibrating, your heart pounding, and your nose picking up on the staccato mixture of grease and coal and heat; it was your eyes that couldn’t resist opening wide to be filled with cinders because of the absolute immensity of this black iron machine that seemed to be an alive beast. That was aliveness--that was growing up. And each one of those lip-smacking memories was a right of passage. Remember?