Believe.

04/25/09
I’m at the ocean. In Haceta. Instead of running and exploding from anticipation… I walk forward slow. This is where the river meets the ocean. This is where the tree fell. This is where the stones fall smooth to the wind. My elation is subdued by the quiet of the forest. I have never felt God the way I do on the coast of Oregon.

The ocean and the sand combine, but they are not the fullness of story. The history is in the trees. The Wet. The Growth. The Green. They grow forth from all angles in the wet living air. The moss below stretches down the mountain as I scribble scattered phrases onto my page...and know: that to truly be here would not be to observe, but to experience.
It would take months to find this place with words.

I am foreign to the black crow echoes living in this rock face. In North Carolina I take off my shoes and run down the coast. I dive into the waves. I am the sound of freedom. In Oregon I zip up my coat, breathe out, and let go of yesterday; my fire burns low and blue. In Oregon, my thoughts slow to the wind of another tribe, where gray is comforting and slow rain is a teacher.