There is something truly wild about the beaches in Mendocino county. 
Perhaps it’s the jutting rocks thrusting their heads up willy-nilly along the shoreline. 
Or the way one has to inch down a steep trail as if walking a tightrope. 
Or the fact that many dusty paths lead to cliff edges 
for stellar, yet precarious, views. 
Of course, I love this wildness. 
Love bending down to encounter yet another amazing flower. 
Love looking north to the not-so-distant mountains of the Lost Coast, which is wilderness incarnate. 
Ahh, creation… 
a daily reminder of God’s handiwork, 
of the intricacies that lie within a single plant. 
I enjoyed my life in the city when I was younger, 
but now it’s time to take a walk on the wild side.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my daily devotional book, Meditations on Mendocino by Sondra Sula. Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
If you’d prefer a daily river walk, Reflections on the Fox River and Beyond by Sondra Sula, might just be the book for you.
There is a desert style — 
Do you ever feel lonely? 
Tafoni is the name of the honeycombed lacework decorating rocks at Salt Point State Park in Sonoma County, California. 
Can one expect the unexpected? I believe so. 
Nothing says spring like its flowers. Take the trillium. Its trinitarian stance always reminds me of Easter: three leaves, three sepals, three petals and a three-pronged stigma. 
When I asked my husband what he’d like to do for his birthday, he said he’d like to take me to Otter Beach. He calls it that because a sea otter with a tremendously pungent aroma lives there in a cave.
He’s been trying to get me to go to this beach for years, yet describes the hike down the cliffs as treacherous and the climb up as death defying. One must wear long pants to prevent being scratched by briars or caressed by poison oak.
If that weren’t enough, once one reaches the bottom there is a knee-high creek to cross that can swell higher as the tide comes in. Oh, and did I mention the narrow hole in a rock through which one must crawl?
As a plump, just-turned sixty-year-old in the midst of getting used to orthotic shoe inserts, this did not seem appealing. Especially because my reward could likely be a mauling by an angry, stinky sea otter who views me as a home invader.
But of course I said: I’d love to!
Did he exaggerate the hike? Nope. It was a minor miracle I reached the bottom intact. But the creek was exceedingly low, which I took as a good sign. Although not so low that we didn’t need to change into our wellingtons.
The beach was beautiful and deserted, which wasn’t surprising given the circumstances.
There were lots of things to see before we reached the “eye of the needle.”
A thigh-deep pool of water sat like a moat before the opening. I realized we had to scooch along a rock ledge just to get to the hole. Rob tackled it first to show me where to place my feet. Even though “balk” is my middle name when hiking, I soon found myself inside the “eye,” whose walls were adorned with goose barnacles. As I came out the other side, I expected to see the otter cave. But what I saw was the Pacific Ocean.
“We just have to climb over these stones and around this rock…”
Those were the last words he said before I screamed: Wave!
The wave wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small, either. And northern California coast water is notoriously cold, which is why Pacific wetsuits are extra thick. I scrambled to the highest point I could, but the sea water still poured into my wellingtons. Rob was even wetter.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t think I feel confident about continuing.” That was an understatement. Rob agreed and we scuttled back through the narrow opening as swiftly as we could. Soon afterwards, water started pouring through the hole each time a wave crashed to shore. The tide was quickly rising.
Although the ascent back to the car was harrowing, I survived with only a minor stab to the knee from a hidden branch.
Even though I never saw the sea otter, I still felt triumphant, as if I had conquered fear in the name of love. Isn’t that what we all strive to do?
Most of us are only leaving our homes to go to the market and then home again, home again, jiggety-jig. After one market trip I pulled into our driveway, parked and unloaded the groceries, as usual. But this time I went back outside because I had caught sight of a single, exquisite calla lily shaded by ferns. I thought it had gone the way of all the other callas I had planted—a few struggling leaves emerging in spring and then quickly dying. I was pleased to see a post-Easter resurrection.
The day lilies looked healthy too, surrounded by a ring of fallen camellia blossoms. The lilies had diminished in size each year as well, until I transplanted them to a new location a few months ago.
The two remaining branches of our apple tree were blooming. A hungry, pregnant doe had broken most of them last fall when she had tried to balance her front hooves on the trunk and had stripped the uppermost branches with her strong teeth. Although I caught her red-hoofed, she appeared defiant and ignored my shooing.
Crocosmia had shot up sword-like leaves amid a display of petrified wood. They are one of the few flowers in our yard that do not have to be babied and offer a spray of brilliant orange. Because orange stands out so well against green, it is my favorite garden color.
Since we don’t have a real koi pond, this sculpture makes a great stand-in. I love koi because they are affectionate and like to be petted. Koi are on the short list of aquatic creatures who have nuzzled my hand to be petted, along with tiger sharks and bat rays.
In the previous blog I mentioned a bear that had enjoyed itself at the expense of our pear tree. But this same tree had also nearly fallen over due to the strong western winds that blow in off the Pacific. The pear has been through a lot although you’d never know it by just looking at its lovely blossoms.
Fuzzy salal flowers tickled my toes. Their rouge-colored stems echo their roots, which are strong and tenacious despite their deceptively delicate pink hue.
A blush of quince blossoms crowded along the branches of our large bush. This is one plant no animal will disturb, even when large yellow pear-shaped fruit ripen and spread enticing aromas throughout the yard. Most humans ignore the fruit as well since it’s difficult to process and can’t be eaten raw.
I was surprised to see a couple of residual red berries on a bush below the deck. Having spent most of my life east of the Rockies, berries equal autumn. But the manzanitas are already producing berries too. I periodically forget in what a unique microclimate I now live.
As I was about to go back inside, I passed by the vivid petals of the Sparaxis, or harlequin flower. For many Midwest winters, I had pined for this beauty when I saw it on the pages of nursery catalogs, but being a South African native, it is only hardy in zones 9-10. I had forgotten all about it when I spied it blooming in my mother’s garden last fall. I knew right then it had a chance of survival in my own, and she happily shared her bounty. It is decidedly thriving.
My devotional Gratefulness Walks require me to pay attention to the world around me rather than remain in my head, oblivious to my surroundings. Grounding myself and focusing on my sense of sight, smell, sound, touch and taste were the initial reasons I began this type of devotional exercise over thirty years ago.
But on this day, I was worried about taxes, what to make for dinner and general day-to-day tasks yet undone. I didn’t even realize I wasn’t in “wonder mode” until a black speck on a white petal caught my eye. As I crept closer, the speck became a plump, furry bee spread eagle on a calla lily.
Suddenly I was back in meditation mode, aware of everything around me. Why, just across the way was an ice plant bloom. Half the fringe-like petals were pale yellow and short, while the other half were pink and long. Imagine that! Well, I didn’t have to because my inner eye was now in sync with my outer eyes.
A few steps further led me to a bee mimic, also known as a hoverfly, perched on a strawberry flower near the tip of my toes. I was mesmerized by its undulating stripes as it fed on pollen.
As I turned around and headed back, I saw an empty snail shell. I remembered something God told me once about myself: I can spiral up or down; it’s my choice. And if I find myself in a dark pit, I should feel around for the spiral staircase that is always in the center—then begin my ascent up and out.
I believe we are all one—in union with Our Beloved, The Divine, God. St. Francis of Assisi expressed this sentiment beautifully in the 
Brother Sun was also shining brightly on some vivid yellow blossoms being visited by a winged insect.
The pretty pompoms of footsteps of spring and the circular form of miner’s lettuce echoed Sister Moon’s shape.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
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