There was a moment when I was bathing in the forest, and the sky opened up with heavy, relentless rain, and I found myself laughing.
Between the weather and me—I do my best to concentrate on the softness: skin in water, brushing branches of grand fir and western red cedar across my thighs. Light the fire, dry off carefully, listen to the rain and her anvils.
I pressed a leaf to my eyelids and went back to the beach a friend showed me last summer. Down a muddy path, through bushes of rose hips and trees covered in lecanoromycetes. Exhausted. I fell asleep on a log induced by only the wind, by muscles expended, the current rushing by.
The clouds were unbelievable.
The apex firing rays straight through heaven.
I want everything to always be how it is now (in these woods in this moment). I want to revel in the stillness, the solitude, the simple act of living.
In silence, in having less, in wanting things for their convexities, their bareness, their inadequacies. I really only want two things: to have only what I need, and for what I need to move me.
Thank you so much for having me. I can't wait to come back.