Tuesday, April 19, 2016
I begin up the road, a narrow rocky windiness and with each step up hill I feel more ready to walk for hours if needed. The buzzing sound of wings surrounds me and numerous birds chirp and tweet from the highest tree. Spring is in full pop and the air is still cool enough to want to fall asleep in the sun. My hair warms up, and I can smell its earthiness, I dream of it being long and draping around my neck and shoulders. Walking past the flower bush I sniff the air to catch its fragrant greeting and remember to take a deep breath. I go 20 steps looking around at the shimmering green and candy blues and remind myself to breathe deeply again. Fresh ideas rush through my head, ones of writing and painting, playing music and eating picnics. Yerba Santa sprouts her waxy leaves dripping with medicine, and the purple ceonothus houses thousands of cheerful bees.
When I walk downhill I notice how my legs have to use different muscles and I point my toe, rolling my heel to walk cat like. As I turn the bend toward the meadow I smile at the thought of approaching my favorite spot. Fairy worlds and wisdom pop into my head while I am surrounded by clover growing under a grand madrone in a lush and dewy sweet spot. Here I ask them for advice, and when I don’t know the answer to the toughest questions they simplify and help me make sense of it all.
My head swirls with gold leaf as I take in the sight of the harp tree. It is a king standing alone in the meadow, his trunk splits at the center and two strong arms reach up forming the shape of a lyre. He is to become a painting so I see his scaly bark, twisted needles roundly shapes bursting with color, vibration and sound. Whilst intermingling this world of fantasy and reality, I am interrupted by the discomfort and squirming feeling of spider webs wrapping themselves around my ankles. They build in the low grass and my mind shifts from itching and scratching to a feeling of tickling and invigoration. I read somewhere that women used to gather spider webs in their homes to use in their medicines, and perhaps their is something useful in that sinew coming out of the insect. The dew from the leaves brush them off as I walk in the tall grass, conveniently cleansing the blanket of lacy sticky spiders.
My mind settles back into the space of the yurt as I begin to walk uphill through the tunnel of manzanitas. I’ve seen more foxes on this road than anywhere in my life. They live in the thickets of dense low growing trees and burrow in holes in the soft soil near rocks in the meadow. The ghost of my cat always runs at my heals on this path, as we used to walk it together a few years back. The yurt appears in view, the turreted bedroom on stilts and golden cedar porch glitter from the dancing shade of the oak trees. Little memories live everywhere and my heart pounds at a healthy pace. Back up on the porch I look out across the forest where I can see past several hundred feet of trees, and am ready to get back to my hibiscus tea, painting ermines and listening to cello music.