Nothing Is Holier than a Beautiful, Strong Tree

Tags

Hermann Hesse, holiness, life, Nature, Philosophy, quote, trees

 

Recently a woman sent me a message on Facebook, commenting on my cover photo of the “glorious” tree roots intricately woven around rocks. She wondered where I found the photo. I told her I came upon the tree when hiking along a river in the mountains above Big Sur. Something about the tree and its rootedness arrested me, and inspired me so much I use it on several of my online sites. It’s gratifying that others are inspired by it as I have been. But trees have been an inspiration for artists and philosophers throughout the ages.

Recently I came across this quote from Hermann Hesse, the author of Siddhartha, on Zen Flash.

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone.

They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche.

In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree…

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.”

~Hermann Hesse

The line I love most is how “they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves.” And that is “exemplary” as Hesse notes and denotes a kind of holiness, to  remind us all of the need to be true to ourselves, to find our singular purpose in being and struggle with all the force of our lives to fulfill it, regardless of whether anyone takes note of it or us at all.

That tree found growing along the bank of that creek may have gone unseen, unappreciated by human eyes, its entire lifespan, and yet it would have fulfilled its purpose nonetheless. That is its great strength, the thing that makes it exemplary, and holy. Simply being what one was meant to be suffices. Nothing else is needed.

Having said that, here’s a paradox: The tree cannot fulfill itself alone. It is dependent upon its entire environment to fulfill its purpose. Those stones that probably felt like such an obstacle when it was striving to grow from a sapling to a mighty oak is what helped shape it and distinguish it and perhaps even strengthen it. It is what drew me to the tree.

I found in it something almost indescribably beautiful and inspiring, how it used the very stones that blocked its roots to build a firm foundations, and how it in turn become the foundation of new growth, creating a home for the ivy and moss and lichens that grow upon it, giving shelter to the small animals and insects that burrow beneath. It exemplifies that interdependence by which we all live and shows how strength and vulnerability grow hand in hand to create beautiful lives. 

Here are a few more faces of this lovely tree.

Other posts on trees you might like:

Walking in a Green Wonderland

My Roman Oaks

Endless Emerging Forms — Fog, Mist, and Trees

A Walk to Point San Simeon

Tags

Central Coast California, Hearst Castle, hikes, Nature, Point San Simeon, San Simeon, San Simeon Bay, travel, walking, wild flowers

Recently my husband and I and friends took our dogs walking out to Point San Simeon, just below Hearst Castle off Highway One. We’ve lived on the central coast of California nearly all our adult lives, and visited this area often, yet it’s the first time we’ve walked to the point. It won’t be our last. It was one of those breathtakingly beautiful days, and the scenery was stunning. Well worth sharing a few photos with friends.

We took Highway 46 over to the coast, the hillsides sprinkled with wild flowers.

Along the way we catch glimpses of the ocean . . .

. . . including Morro Rock.

Here’s a view of San Simeon Bay, with the pier and a peek of Hearst Castle on the hillside.

A closer view of the Castle.

We start our walk on the beach looking out at the point.

Here’s where the trail begins. Looking back at the beach and pier.

Friends on the trail.

Back-lit pines.

Wild flowers and fallen oaks.

Some of the largest and most spectacular Eucalyptus trees we’ve ever seen. . .

beautifully sculpted . . .

and inspiring . . .

wayward philosophers . . .

. . . explorers . . .

. . . and poets.

Finally we reach the point, complete with a lone fisherman and an elephant seal sleeping in the half-shade.

In case you missed him in the last photo.

Dazzling shades of blue around the sea-washed rocks on the point.

One last backward glimpse of the pier and beach as we head back to the car.

We take the back roads home past Hammersky Vineyard and Inn . . .

. . . past vineyards and grazing horses . . .

. . . past live oaks and wild flowers . . .

. . . to reach the tree at the bottom of our driveway (you can see our roof-line at the far right edge). I never fail to feel blessed by the beauty of the landscapes where we live.

Walking in a Green-Winter Wonderland

Tags

California, Central Coast California, green hills, Nature, oak trees, photography, Winter

Here on the central coast of California, we look forward to a green, rather than white, Christmas. While we love our golden hills of summer, we crave green in the winter. During last year’s drought our summer hills turned dun. Even the golden grasses dried up and blew away, and this lasted through winter. But this year our green came early and I’ve been revelling in it.

Here are some recent photos of the green-wonderland behind our home.

My husband and our dog Mitzy.

Amazing oaks!

 

A fallen giant.

 

Shadows and moss.

Sunlight breaking through.

The Three Sisters.

Home again.

My Roman Oaks

Tags

beauty, cycle of life, life, Nature, oak trees, photography, Roman ruins

Recently we had visitors who had just returned from Italy. We talked of how easily you can stumble upon ancient Roman ruins lying beside the road or tumbled along the edge of a parking lot. Paving stones from some ancient road where the legendary 13th Legion once marched; the foundations of a fallen aqueduct; broken urns and shards of pottery. None of it cordoned off to protect. None of it of much value.

It’s a common sight for the native populations, but an unexpected pleasure and exciting discovery for visiting tourists. In some ways these ruins impact us more deeply than the ruins we find with tourist guides or behind museum walls.

As we were talking, I pointed to the “Roman Oaks” in the meadow outside our window.

I’ve come to see these fallen giants, the ruins of ancient oaks that lie scattered in the hills outside our home, with the same sense of tender regard and respect. Once they had been huge and thriving ecosystems, little cities providing shelter and food for a vast variety of creatures large and small. Some dominated the landscape for centuries. Children were born and grew old and died in full view of their robust splendor. The trees that now surround these ruins were tiny saplings or green shoots or still bound within round acorns when these giants spread their roots across the hillsides and threw vast shadows across the land.

I’ve come to love these ruins. There’s beauty in the sleek stripped limbs, sculptured by the wind and rain and passing predators. Beauty in their moss and lichen painted bark. Beauty in the way their sharp ruins rise like flames against the sky. Beauty in their hollowed trunks and upturned roots. I walk among them with their fine mulch crumbled underfoot and feel a sense of timelessness. The past and present tangled together.

I’ve gathered a few photos here to share with you.

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Living Life Through a Lens, What We Gain and Lose

Tags

"step barefoot into reality", Philosophy, photography, story-telling, Wallace Stevens, writing

How much of our lives do we view through a narrow lens, whether through the lens of a camera, our own limited viewpoint, or the stories we tell about ourselves and each other?

When we walk through life with a perpetual camera around our necks, we are tempted to see everything through that narrow focus, framing everything we see–the city streets, the sunsets and landscapes, the people we pass, the objects that come into view. As we frame what we see and take photos, it helps us to notice things we may have overlooked otherwise, and to see these things in a new light. It intensifies our ability to discover the extraordinary in the ordinary, and allows us to capture and preserve those visions.

But it also breaks the whole into parts, raw experience into the photo-worthy and not-so-much.  We experience things not as a participant, but an observer, a spectator or voyeur at worst, a curator of the significant at best.

When we were sailing around the world, I wish I had done more of that capturing and preserving. There were no digital cameras then, and film was expensive and hard to store in a hot, damp climates. So now I have only a handful of photos from hikes through the enchanted valleys of the Marquesas. Three or four of our stay in legendary Bora Bora, a dozen from our three months in Samoa. Now I wish we had dozens more photos of each place to view and remember.

On the other hand, by the time my first grandchild was born we had a digital camera.  Because I saw him so seldom, when I was with him I photographed him almost continuously, following him everywhere and capturing every sweet smile, every cute incident, every new thing he did.

Until I stood back one day and realized that by indulging the urge to “frame” everything for posterity, I was missing out on now, on just being with him–soaking up his presence, our time together–in the moment, raw and unfiltered.

Now though, I do not regret all those photos I took. For I am able to relive those moments with greater clarity and in more detail that I might have been able to do so without them.

It’s all a balancing out, I guess.

As writers we do that too—viewing the world and our experiences through a mental lens, framing things for posterity, seeing images, events, interactions, as fodder for our stories. We couldn’t write without doing that, consciously, or unconsciously.

But we have to know when to see things through the writer’s mind, as observer, spectator, curator, and when to put away that lens and become a participant in the raw experience that evolves around us. To “step barefoot into reality” as the poet Wallace Stevens once evoked.

It’s harder than we might imagine, to put away all the filters through which we experience life, and just “be” it. Life itself. Unfiltered.

LINK TO WALLACE STEVENS POEM WITH COMMENTARY
http://www.thethepoetry.com/2011/03/poem-of-the-week-wallace-stevens/

Redwoods and Waterfalls – Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park

Tags

Big Sur, Carmel, Elephant Seals, Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, McWay Falls, Nature, Photography. Redwood trees, Waterfall

One of my favorite places to visit is the Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park in Big Sur, a two-hour drive from our home. There you can find not only 300-foot (90 m) redwoods which are over 2,500 years old, but an 80-foot waterfall that drops into a protected cove, one of the few waterfalls that empty directly into the ocean. The masthead photo on this blog is of the McWay Falls.

Recently I had the pleasure of taking some out-of-state guests there. Following are photos from our trip.

The drive to the park on Highway 1, winding along the coastline high above the Pacific Ocean, is one most spectacular that you will find anywhere in the world.

Here you can see the highway hugging the coastline.  Often it is washed out by rains and mudslides in the winter.

Along the way are glimpses of beautiful coves and beaches and wild flowers..

Julia Pfeiffer Park is located 27 miles south of Carmel.  It spans the highway with redwoods groves and picnic areas on one side, skirting the McFall River.

My cousin shows off one of the largest, and perhaps oldest, of the redwoods found in the park.

Visitors can walk through a tunnel under the highway to find trails leading past the falls up to where a home once stood with fantastic views of the ocean to the north and south.

This home had been build by the former U.S. House Representative Lathrop Brown and his wife Helen who acquired the property in 1924. In 1961 they bequeathed the property to the State of California and dedicated it to their friend and neighbor Julia Pfeiffer Burns.  They requested their home to be demolished, so only a stone foundation remains.

This is the view from their home to the north.  The water colors are some of the most beautiful I’ve seen since traveling in the South Pacific.

A closer view of the northern shoreline.

Here is the view of the McWay Falls through the trees from where the house once stood.  Closer views of the falls along the trail follow.

The drive home is no less spectacular, passing along homes built along the hillsides, then dropping down to sea level where we find Elephant Seal Beach, and a peek of Hearst Castle.

Elephant Seal Beach is a protected sanctuary with docents available to answer questions.  It’s a few miles north of Cambria along Highway 1, before the climb up to Big Sur.

A chummy clan.

Here you see a bull, its mates, and a baby.

A peak of Hearst Castle high on the mountain top.  Soon after this view we turn away from the coast, passing through these mountains to our own hillside home on the other side.

Related articles

• Park and Point: The Big Sur Coast (pamphotography.wordpress.com)
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A Walk to the River

Tags

hiking, Nature, oak trees, outdoors, Photo-essay, photography, river, walking

We walked to the river recently, my husband and I and our little dog Mitsy. A short hike down a canyon a few miles from our home.

I left a crumb-trail of photos, if you’d like to join us.

This is where we started. The river lies below that ridge of mountains you see in the background in the photo above.

The way winds downward and grows narrow.

Among the hollows the oak trees look so dark and wild.

Eventually the canyon opens up into a wide, grassy meadow before descending again to the river.  A place to linger among the oaks.

We find a tree perfect for a child to climb or swing from . . .

. . . and places to picnic in the sun-filtered grass . . .

. . . while we admire the gracefully curving branches of the oaks, some bending so low as to touch the ground.

We watch out for the critters, spotting the tracks of deer and a mountain lion in the mud left-over from a recent rain.

xxx

And strangely enough,  we see the barefoot print of a child, judging from its size.

We cannot imagine what a child this young would be doing out here all alone in the wild. A fairy child, perhaps?  Or one raised by wolves? Or the one that lies down with lions and lambs?

Soon enough we catch glimpses of the river far below the meadow.  Here a ribbon of blue shows beneath a fringe of pine and oak branches.

Another glimpse, framed by falling strands of moss, shows where the river parts, passing in two strands.

Nearer now an old tree stump stands guard.

Closer still the river is almost lost among shadows and leaves.

The final steep trek winding down toward our destination.

Ah, the river, at last.

Looking to the east is a sign warning us to stay away–a military training camp lies beyond this peaceful setting.

Looking westward all is calm and still.

A stand of trees fed by the river rises straight and tall on one side of the shore . . .

. . . watching their white-barked cousins dance on the other side.

Our little dog sniffs among the leaves . . .

. . . and wades among the shallows . . .

. . . and stops to gaze upon the perfectly rounded world reflected in the still water.

Up close the river is just as pretty–a still life of rock and moss . . .

. . . lies beside the rippling water . . .

. . . while green fronds rise from the mud below.

One last drink before we head home.

The walk back is just as lovely as the way down, the path still dappled in sunlight.

I never tire of admiring the oak trees, each so unique and elegant . . .

It’s almost two lovely to leave . . . .

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Sea, Sky, Earth, Fire–My Daughter on Her Wedding Day

Tags

adventure, daughter, sailing, traveling, wedding

She was married beneath a cliff on the edge of the sea standing barefoot on the rocky beach.  Barking seals sunning on rocks and crashing waves nearly drowned out the simple ceremony.

Hunchbacked boulders rose from the sea behind her like giant guardian sentinels. A single guitarist played flamenco music to match the red rose in her hair while the late afternoon sun glimmered across the waves.

Sea.  Sky.  Earth.  Fire.  All four essential elements holding the world together blended beautifully together that day.

It’s not surprising she would choose such a setting for her wedding day, with all the things that she loves, that helped shape her into the strong, fearless, independent and beautiful woman she is today, in full display.  Sea, sky, earth, fire.

She grew up on a cruising sailboat, after all.  The rhythm of the sea and sky moves through her body.  She was rocked to sleep in her bunk with the sound of the wind and waves rushing all around her, and a sky full of stars for a nightlight.

The world was literally her playground. In every new port or cove we entered she and her brother would row ashore to explore on their own–us trusting they would return safely to us.

Even when her bother stayed behind in Australia she continued to explore on her own.

In Cyprus, Turkey, Malta, Spain—this woman child of fourteen slipped through the streets with her canvas backpack and torn jeans scrawled with the names of the heavy metal rock bands she’d come to love.

With her long dark hair and sun-browned skin, her dangling earrings and silver bracelets, she looked like the Gypsy she may have been, her Spanish heritage in full flaunt.

Her first guitar was purchased in a tiny shop in Toledo.  I can still see her bending tenderly over the strings, strumming softly, her face half-hidden by her long bangs and curling strands of hair.

When we returned home after seven years of living on our boat, I worried about this woman-child who had barely seen the inside of a classroom, who had been home-schooled nearly all her life, whose lab work was diving for scallops, gutting fish for frying, drying sea-horses, and identifying shells she’d found beach-combing.

Whose knowledge of history was gathered from the villages she roamed, the cathedrals and castles and museums she visited, the Pyramids of Egypt, the Parthenon in Athens, the Alhambra in Spain.

Political science was gleaned first hand when we were caught in a coup in Fiji, aided by navy sailors flying the cycle and hammer in Port Aden, accused of selling arms to  enemy rebels in Sudan, and sailing into Panama on the day it was invaded by US warships in the overthrow of Noriega.  How would she survive High School in the United States?

I needn’t have worried.  She was as solid as a rock.  She had such a strong sense of herself that none of the juvenile drama and gang warfare and cliquish snobbery fazed her.

Nor was it surprising that she chose archeology as a career, or took up skydiving and surfing as her hobbies, or fell in love with someone who loved the sea and sky as much as she did, a fellow skydiver and surfer.

My daughter is as earthy as she is sea and wind washed.  As  down-to-earth as they come.  She digs in the earth for a living. She hikes across hills and mountains surveying the land and mapping archeological formations.  She uncovers and catalogues chards of earthen pottery and stone tools from ancient middens.

She hammers copper and strings stones to make her own earrings. She grows her own herbs. She designed her own wedding gown, baked and decorated her own wedding cake.  She runs marathons, works out in boot camps, and eats mostly vegan, mostly organic.  She takes charge of any calamity with the iron resolve and don’t-mess-with-me attitude of a Marine staff sergeant.  If she hasn’t had her morning coffee—well, watch out.

For there’s fire in her soul too.  You can see it in her dark snapping eyes, her loud belly laugh, and the way she salsas across the dance floor. In the way she tumbles from planes and rhumbas across the sky, nearly 2000 jumps now.

The thorny rose tattoo that circles her ankle, the diamond stud in her nose, and the chipotle pepper in her dark chocolate wedding cake all attest to her fiery, feisty nature.

You can see that fire in the flamenco inspired wedding dress she designed with the tea-dyed Italian silk, layers of French Chantilly lace and funky high-low hemline, a red flower in her hair to match her red heels. You can see it in the flowers she chose for her bouquet, the scarlets  and purples and oranges. You can see it in the way she looks at her new husband and basks in the love-light of his eyes.

Sea. Sky. Earth. Fire.  All are perfectly balanced in this beautiful daughter of mine, and blended in perfection on her wedding day.

Did I mention how much I love her?  How proud I am of her?

For you baby girl, from your mama–the speech I never gave but composed in  my heart as I watched you on your wedding day.  January 12, 2013.  Twelve days after the world was supposed to end your new life begins.

A Frosty, Sunlit Morning Walk

Tags

backyard, frosty mornings, Nature, oak groves, oak trees, photography, spanish moss

Yesterday when I woke the frost was so heavy on the grassy meadow behind our house it looked like a light pattering of snow had fallen in the night.

By the time I went out the sun had risen beyond the hills and streamed down through the trees.

I’d forgotten gloves and my fingers were freezing but I kept walking, snapping up photographs of things I found and wanted to share, like the frost-laced fronds and mushroom below . . .

Or the old upturned tree stump, lined with moss and dusted in frost . . .

. . . and the mossy tree branches . . .

and lichen-spotted tree limbs.

I loved the light filtering through the trees . . .

. . .  and the Spanish moss dripping from the branches . . .

Mostly I loved how each oak tree is so unique and elegantly shaped.

Finally, on the walk back, I loved seeing my home nestled among the hills and oak groves, and the man I loved waiting for my return.

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