Last night I dreamt I sat at the crossroad of Hwy 299 and Dry Creek Road. I looked up at the surrounding mountains, all very close and more numerous than in waking reality. To my right, the Cascades and Mt. Shasta, and the smaller hills like Bear Mountain. In front of me the Trinity Alps and behind me, the ghost of Mt. Tehama, and her offspring, Lassen. To my left were the hills that pressed in close, where normally there are none, blocking the way to I5 south…the road that would take me to San Francisco. I soaked in the smell of fallen oak leaves, earth, and rocks and gazed up at the peaks, practically barren at the top, black and grey granite. Below the hillsides were covered with the chaparral and gnarly pines that define the northern california landscape for me. I stared at one peak in particular, small and non-descript and yet… all I could feel was how much I wanted it…wanted to climb it, wanted to live in it, wanted to wear its colors and carry it in my heart. I looked down, back now in the driveway of my family’s home, and watched as a group of quail moved deliberately towards a brush pile, scurrying all together the way they do, except the young were almost full grown. Yet still they moved as a family, sticking together, following the mother.
Lately I am so hungry for home that my bones ache and my heart hurts. I need to be at the waterfall, need to see the color of the rocks and bark and bright green lichen that emerge in winter. I realized the other day that, because of my father’s stroke and my folks subsequent move down to southern California, we will probably never spend another holiday season at home. It has taken a long time to sink in. There’s no way to fix this one, to squiggle out of it or dose the loss with a panacea filled thought of “well perhaps someday and a new home will come and maybe…”. It just is, and it, if I can be honest, is awful. Sometimes I think that I need to uproot, to somehow move the seat of my soul out of Shasta County and then it will cause some kind of universal Shazam that will make a new home for my family (my own little tiny family of daughter and partner etc.) to suddenly appear. I know well that the acceptance of loss and the subsequent letting go and opening does allow for synchronicity and new beginnings. But this is actually not what feels appropriate here, and it feels like lying to myself. I know where I am supposed to be and I know what I need and for whatever cursed forsaken (probably wise and correct in some way I don’t understand) reason, the way there is blocked with seeming impassible complexities. Most of the time I can hang out with the not-knowing and the sadness…and it is just particularly acute during this dark time of the year when my soul is called home and my spirit longs for the ritual of being held by land that knows it in all seasons. My fingers need to roll serpentine pebbles between them and I need the tonal therapy of the waterfall’s voice, rich, deep and roaring with the swell of rain. There are places in my mind that can only be renewed by icy water, charged with its galloping ride down the mountain, embued with the rough beauty of opaque quartz, still carrying the memory of the buck’s hoof-step, the ringtail’s tongue. There is beauty in my heart with fading colors that flame into brilliance when I have the backdrop of the river behind me, petals of my own personal mythology unfolding, the landscape shimmering in a peacock’s tail that fans out around me. The rocks hum out “We know who you are” and my cells hum back “I know who I am.”.
I have been listening to this song so much. My muse reaches out a hand to my longing and together they dance in secret corners when no one is looking.
Also, I have updated my etsy shop with some new hair ornaments and still have several more to get in there. You can also contact me at terrallectualism at gmail dot com if you are interested or have questions or would like a custom made something or other.