The Church of California. 20 years a native. The place where so many brushes with uncertainty have transformed my very landscape. Only now do I feel rooted to her vastness in a way that makes me feel my feet are dangling in space, like on a Ferris wheel. Life has me in its clutches and I have her in Mine. (at California Spirit)
#weworkgoldengate #dowhatyoulove #wework (at WeWork Golden Gate)
I never expected to fall, or for you to catch me when I did. It was a bolt of lightening that cracked me broadside, followed by the sound of a thousand roots breaking beneath the earth, as I swayed, slow motion, then pitched to far to recover my stance.
Gravity overpowered. Rooted by thousands more, anchored in mid air, as I broke my 500 year old pose. Still, I lumbered slowly toward the ground, when a giant broke my fall.
Now we share more than DNA, and more than a million miles of connected sinews coursing through our forest bed. Now we collide at the surface, our trunks grinding and growing into each other, until the place where you begin and I end is undetermined.
The day the earth quaked, and the others trembled with the vibration of my descent, is the moment I was suspended by the grace of God.
This will be me, where the ground swells, and the birds nest.
"I once was a black bear, and now I’m not." No, in fact, you’re just an old tree. And not even that. A hallowed out trunk, overgrown with moss, but the wind, and the elements have sculpted you well.
Hendy Woods had a hermit and a meadow, but no one ever went to the woods to see the meadow. They went for the trees: the old growth giants, 1000 years old. They also went to catch a glimpse of the hermit: A man of unknown origin, who spoke a language all his own. Ok, so the hermit died a long time ago, but when I go to Hendy Woods, I go to see the hermit too. I walk along the same paths; look upon the same trees. I track his spirit whenever I can. The way he soars now with the crows that rule the meadow. How the frost still chills his soul, as it weighs down upon the brush. His whistle, no longer foreign, is faintly familiar as it reaches my ears, passing through the throat of a red tail hawk.