Gazing into the blue-green depths through this watery portal to the underworld, we don’t see the fiery hell of our imagination, but instead only reflections of our own worlds. Our demons do not dwell in the boiling, stinking waters that ooze from the earth’s bowels. They dance instead in the forests and meadows that surround us. ♨
The Hoh Rain Forest waits as a patient guide, a moss-embroidered forest of wisdom, lined with ferns and storied over with trees older than memory.
America has long been confused about whether nature is for us to adore and enjoy, or for us to profit from. This confusion has been painfully clear in our divisive attitudes toward national parks.
The historic Mount Tabor Church and Cemetery bears the names of unremembered lives, many more now anonymous as time, and weather, and neglect have defaced and crumbled their once-proud stone markers.
The moon had my soul as I stepped through the gate into the schoolyard. I listened hard for the sweaty shouts of teammates running ghost-like on the lined fields of memory. Echoes of their gameful cries disperse to memory. My gaze fixes now on an orange line of thin clouds lingering across the pale sky of coming day. ♨
Recalling a magical day in Yellowstone National Park that changed our lives and sent us on a journey that we are still traveling forty years later.