As we drove up I-5 we caught our first glimpse of Mt. Shasta and it left us a bit breathless. We continued to gasp at all the delights of the day: the sweetness and generous hearts of Todd and Pam, their home and land all bedecked with fairy lights and sun-catchers and special rocks and the Earth flag, the cozy cabin/sauna where Lily and I are sleeping tonight (in the pictures, it’s the one with the Tibetan prayer flags hanging on the front of the porch; at this moment I’m sitting in one of the chairs, in the semi-dark, with only the light of the laptop and the fairy lights shining, having greeted a curious deer that wandered by in the night). The wonders never cease: the LAKE. Swimming with bubbling joy, the mountains all around, the tiredness leaching from my bones. The delight of once again observing Lily interacting with new people, sharing playfulness. Visiting the headwaters of the Sacramento River and filling up the water bottles and water jug with spring water. Walking around Todd and Pam’s glorious garden, deeply admiring the bean trellises, the carefully-tended nine compost heaps, the clearly blissful plants, the greenhouse, the fruiting trees, the exuberant kohlrabi, the stunning veined cabbage leaves, the knock-your-socks-off aromatherapy of basil, the bursting lusciousness of raspberries… oh, it was rapture, I tell you!
I revisited a previous blog post I wrote, From fearful to airborne, written three days before Lily and I departed on our journey. It was satisfying to read it from the perspective of being midway through this pilgrimage. I still have to pinch myself that we’re HERE, NOW, all the time. Here I am, in Mount Shasta, California, the night air soft and warm, looking out at little blue, green, and red lights, listening to the insects singing and the wind in the trees. Here I am, my beloved Lily sleeping right nearby, resting from all the exploring and vibrancy she generates in her own little powerhouse of a spirit. Here I am, a skunk suddenly skittering next to the porch as I hastily retreat into the cabin.
I’m thinking of myself at the beginning of June, a bit terrified at making such a series of leaps across the continent, and wanting to hold my own hands and say: You couldn’t know that you would float in such life-giving water. You had no idea. You trusted. Brave girl.
Pam said to me, when taking leave of us this evening: “You’re doing the right thing.”
Every whistle of wind in the trees, every bird calling, every word spoken by every person I meet, seems to echo these words.
For some reason I’m having a doozy of a time trying to upload the remainder of my photos from today, which is paining me, because I want to show you these photos so badly. Gaaaaaah… okay, here’s my temporary fix—I’ll post them on Facebook, on my page. Stay tuned.