
For some reason, early this morning I was reminded of a trip I took to San Francisco last year, around October. I was visiting an old friend of mine. Such a beautiful city… I saw some remarkable things; art, architecture, even the layout and topography of the city itself, full of historical oddities and quirks.
Outside the city, however, the natural grandeur increases exponentially. It was a Friday, and Ken and I drove to see the great redwood groves of Muir Woods just north of the bay area in Marin County.
Late morning and early afternoon were wet, to be sure, but oddly enough it never actually seemed to be raining. Instead, the droplets that clung to everything and plummeted to the forest floor seemed to come from the trees themselves, as if the clouds were not high in the sky after all, but in our very midst, dampening everything.
The drive to the woods had been marked by razor sharp turns as we climbed one side of a mountain through banks of velvet fog and swirling mists only to navigate those same jagged angles in reverse as we descended into the space between massive stone guardians; guardians which have protected the lesser (though no less majestic) giants nestled between their wide bases.
A narrow wooden path, dimmed by the shade of the trees, meandered deeper into the park, though in truth that word could hardly be used to describe such a place as this. A plaque near the entrance to the boardwalk read, simply, “Behold, the forest primeval.” A fitting appellation, indeed.
The scent there, ancient and damp, wood mixed with wild flora and mountain mists, almost overwhelmed me as I drew near. I had to close my eyes for a moment to keep from becoming dizzy from it. Have you ever taken in a scent so powerful and -old- that it makes your mind swim with thoughts that don’t seem to be your own?
Though there were others here visiting the grove, I noticed very little noise, as if the awe that pervaded this magical pocket of the world silenced all but the softest whispers from both child and adult.
My heart seemed to slow, as if it strained to match the grand and prehistoric rhythm that thrummed around me, at once utterly silent and deafening. The trunks, red and massive, surrounded by ferns and fallen timber covered in plush mosses, rose from Earth to sky, impossibly tall, their uppermost branches vanishing into the muted light above as it broke in scattered patches through the hanging clouds that had settled into the nooks and crannies of the valley; this place that was itself high above the regions surrounding the hills.
To draw in a breath here was to take into one’s self a perfume sweeter than any other; the scent of freedom, innocence, wildness and power. No religion could hope to compare with this; no building-bound worship, no matter how ecstatic and zealous, could hold a candle to these lords of the valley; themselves vassals of an even greater master.
As I walked further into the dimness of this faerie world I noticed other small bronze plaques, each nearly invisible amidst the brilliant greens and reds of this place. Each told a story about people who had passed through Muir Woods before. One of them, dated in the 1940’s, spoke of a delegation of diplomats representing the United Nations when it was still in its infancy. These individuals met among the very same redwoods upon which I gazed long before I was even born.
Perhaps they felt some of the same sensations I had experienced as they look ed at the tree before me. Perhaps they were drawn to throughts of peace and brotherhood by the silent giants around them. The plaque, a tribute to Franklin D. Roosevelt, who had brought the delegates here, called him “President, Architect and Apostle of Lasting Peace”.
I felt a pang of sorrow for a moment, that this gathering, so noble in its intentions, had given birth to the squabbling corruption of today’s incarnation of that august institution, but a sense of hope also flickered within me; the hope that one day we might again use descriptions like “Apostle of Lasting Peace” for our leaders, far off and unlikely as that day might seem in today’s world.
You cannot walk in a forest like this without feeling a desire for simplicity, tranquility and respect for this place in which we all live welling up in your throat like a cry that must be released and will not be denied.
President Roosevelt was right; the negotiations of international peace should be held in places like these; not in the cold, unfeeling fortresses of steel and glass that even today sap the will and hope from those within.
All in all, I think we walked about a mile into the forest along that wooden path. By the time we made our way back and out of the park I was calmer than I remembered being at any point before. It was as if I had laid my head upon the softest down pillow and emerged from a deep slumber on the far end of a lilac-scented night.
It is an odd thing that an experience like this should strike us as so rare and precious. After all, there are trees everywhere and that same sense of tranquil peace should be as readily available to those in such desperate need of it as it was to me, a few dollars poorer byt free then to enjoy the park’s splendor.
The greatest gift I could think to give someone, when it really comes to it, is time. So many of us have traded, rented or outright sold our time and spirit for a paycheck and a hundred barrels of debt.
As I lay in my bed this morning, the sensations of the forest primeval stole over me and I was there for a short time again, bathing in the peace. If only we could keep that sense of wonder and awe at our world when we conduct business, help others, elect our representatives, speak to those of other cultures or religions, dispense justice, legislate…
I cannot think of a single facet of life that couldn’t be improved by taking into ourselves the loveliness of that grove of innocence I wandered, and making it part of our minds and spirits.
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