Sunday among Redwoods

Redwoods. Every time I see them they blow my mind. It's like looking into the night sky and seeing the light of stars hundreds or thousands or millions of years old, except you can touch a redwood and feel what ancient means. Time stands still in forests.

I drove down to the redwoods today on a whim, then hiked four miles with my notebook but no water. Now I'm sitting on a fallen tree, writing, thirsty. The car isn't far away, and soon I'll make the hour plus drive home. But for this moment I'm sitting, breathing deep, bathed in the dull flow of fading sunlight in this narrow clearing near park headquarters.

It's quiet here. Still. Even when branches crack or the wind blows through the low leaves or you hear a bird titter or a nearby group of people laugh. It's quiet. Still.

When I was in college I once meditated nearby two talking friends. One came up to me when I was finished and told me a story. It goes like this:

"Once there was a monk who got tired of meditating in his monastery on a mountainside, so he came down into the city, found a street corner by a busy market, sat down, and meditated there. Someone asked him why, and he said, 'It is easy to meditate when your surroundings are peaceful. True enlightenment can only be achieved when you can silence your mind even surrounded by chaos.'"

Could that monk have ever learned to meditate in the chaos, though? In the woods, you may not find your Buddha nature, but you maybe do come closer to the Earth's.

Forever and forever
   everything's alright
Midnight woods
     - Jack Kerouac