We met up north of California. Some little town. Pitched the tent in a backyard somewhere and slept the night. I think it was Eugene, OR. Reunited after the sailboat dibogel, a short stint saving up to buy a van in MN. Then we met up for a road trip down the west coast. Our goal was to meet the tree people of the redwoods. And on her birthday, we did.
With the trees towering over. We saw them, walking. They tip toed along the uneven rocks of the river like trick or treaters barefoot in the snow. In their hands was tin of honey with a golden key inside it. It was like the opening of a dam. As they walked down the side of the stream with them came an eerie sense of calm and a subcurrent of excitement for the future. Trust was in the air. Love was present. You could smell the earth in every breath.
We all spent the night in the redwood forest in the midst of some of the most ancient and sacred beings on the planet. The trees.
And just like that, it was spring.
And everything got washed away.
