Often when I’m walking, I notice patterns. 
Not necessarily exactly repeating patterns, because that is rare in nature. 
The buds of a variety of flower all look similar, but they are not the same. 
Neither are their blooms. 
A tangle of washed-up vegetative debris illustrates the similarities and differences found in redwood needles, leaf veins and similarly sized sticks. 
How do we recognize our own patterns? 
Repeating 
or non-repeating? 
What does that tell us about our own lives? Our own ebbs 
and flows? 
What must we change? 
What ought to remain the same?
When we delve into the mystery of ourselves, we do not go alone. There is One who recognizes all of our patterns. One who not only knows us implicitly, but loves us unconditionally.
Photos © Sondra Sula.
Take a walk with me by reading my most recent 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.
I’m not sure why I’m fascinated by machines. My father was an engineer and perhaps that is why I’ve always respected people who are able to take apart something complex and put it back together again.
When a mini excavator was brought in to clear twenty-six fallen trees in our back woods, I have to admit it gave me a thrill to watch it advance through our side yard and galumph its way into the back woods.
The sad part was what had happened to the woods—tall bull pines and cypress were victims of high winds and soaking rain.
The root balls of many trees had been pulled up, too. These roots, now vertical, towered over my head.
But the claw was here to help.
After the first day of work, the excavator was left in the woods overnight, which enabled me to absorb its powerful charm up close,
as well as inspect its pedals,
bolts
and bucket.
After most of the trees were cleared and the creek cleaned up, I felt a sense of transformation. This portion of woods now had the opportunity to become something else. A meadow? A place of light?
Two ravens sailed above my right shoulder on a headland breeze. I could hear their noisy flight—air rushing through soft, black butter-knife feathers—even as the waves crashed. As I watched them disappear I noticed a beached redwood log.
I zoomed in and was astounded by its redness. Where did it come from? Where would it end up?
Further down the path I passed over Pudding Creek. A large octopus-shaped seaweed swayed as the incoming tide and outflowing river pulled it back and forth. From what depths of the Pacific did it arise? How much fresh water can it tolerate? How long can it live? Is it even alive?
I moved on. A small brown log tumbled in the surf. Waves pushed it toward another log much further up the beach. During the trees’ early years they were tied to one spot, rooted in the earth. But now they could roam freely on a wave’s whim. Did the two logs desire connection? Were they trying to meet?
Near the end of my walk I saw another redwood tree trunk that had been smoothed by the ocean. Though it looked like a toothpick from where I was standing, I knew it was probably at least twenty-five feet long. How large or small are we? Is our size mere perception?
I watched, mesmerized, as the trunk rolled back and forth with the rhythm of the waves. Though the salty water buoyed the log up like a beach ball, I knew it was heavy enough to crush me. What is more powerful, liquid or solid? Or perhaps spirit-like gas?
I spent a half hour watching that log and didn’t regret one minute of it. That simple act may have been the most important part of my day. I must make room for such experiences, for they are truly the heart of existence.
Some things are hard to size up without comparison—especially in photographs. In most of the pictures I took in Sequoia National Park the trees didn’t look gargantuan on their own. I needed scale.
Otherwise the sequoias just looked like cinnamon-colored trees in a forest.
The immensity of the behemoths really came into focus as I sat on a small log backed by a fallen tree’s root ball.
And again, when my husband posed on top of a downed trunk where cars parked for photo ops decades ago.
Even the sugar pines dropped enormous cones. Without Rob’s hand, they looked pint-sized.
Seeing one sequoia was amazing, but seeing a forest of them was almost overwhelming.
The largest tree in the world, by bulk, is the General Sherman tree. When I saw this photo of me in front of it, I was astounded by how tiny I looked. But when I think of the capacity of God’s love for us, that tree is miniscule by comparison.
We have a hard time comprehending immeasurable love because it is so vast. Being loved by one person is enthralling—so to be loved by a God who is larger than the cosmos is, well, mystifying, yet also thrilling. Why not allow yourself to imagine and feel the enormity of God’s love as you look up at the sky today?
My husband, Rob, and I recently visited Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks for our wedding anniversary. How does one condense such a diverse experience into a single blog? I guess it’s a lot like trying to fit twenty-three years’ worth of marriage sentiments into a single card.
Or trying to live inside a single log.
Marriage is an eye-opening experience.
It requires two sets of very different eyes.
And seeds of love:
One plucked from each heart.
The seeds grow,
mature
and make more seeds
so that even if an interloper tries to steal the seeds—
tries to consume the love—it doesn’t work.
Because love hangs on.
Love knows how to go through dry periods.
How to cling to its foundation through all sorts of weather.
Until it is full and lush again
undeterred by any scars. That’s just the way steadfast love is.
I dialogue with God. I have found it to be a helpful spiritual practice for nearly two decades. Most of our conversations begin on my end with a simple: Hi God. That’s why I chuckled when I came across the word “Hi” on my gratefulness walk. Sure, I had to use my imagination a bit, but that’s half the fun.
A nearby log also had a message for me. I didn’t completely understand it, but “birth” and “emergence” were words that came to mind.
Right around the corner from birth was death. Dew-covered feathers in the sand signaled a bird had lost its life. My lighthearted mood morphed into something more serious. Likewise, I never know where my dialogues with God may lead. Sometimes stark realizations appear from conversational fluff. Hi usually ends in bye.
Towards the end of my walk, I passed some sort of hardware locked inside protective housing. I didn’t know its purpose, but it drew to mind a caged heart. When I close my heart to signs and wonders all around me, life can appear dull and mundane. But when I open myself to the Creative Mind, I see meaning in everything.
Literally tons of “dead” wood are washed up on the dark beach. But even though these logs are no longer producing needles or leaves, they are definitely alive. I know, because the first log I see is a woman’s torso—a decorative chain just above her slender hips. A mermaid’s wavy hair lies next to her, as does an uneven tortoise shell made of bark.
Cave paintings of dancers wildly swaying to and fro offer a lively narrative to any passerby.
A log evocative of animal skin makes me question the existence of spotted zebras. I rein myself in, deciding it looks more like harbor seal fur.
Worms have created hieroglyphics on a log stripped of its bark. I know they are trying to communicate to me, but I can’t understand their scribbles no matter how hard I try. One log has its limbs chopped off. It holds its stubs out imploringly—its gaping mouth echoing a hollow howl. Another tree’s bark is peeled away to reveal a pattern akin to the nest of a paper wasp—fibrous and curving.
Lastly, I come across a log that appears to be rippled, like the nearby river. Water has carried these logs here to rest together and tell their stories to anyone willing to listen. I am.
The relentless rain, though welcome during a drought, has made many trails impassable without Wellingtons (which give me blisters on long treks). I thought I’d try the latter part of the Jug Handle Ecological Staircase Trail because it’s at a slightly higher elevation than most of the trail and might be less flooded. This meant I’d have to park near the llamas.
As I entered the well-worn path, I spotted three sawed logs, like three unblinking eyes with pale pupils. I was reminded to keep my “third eye” open for spiritual insight during the walk.
Next, I came upon moss-covered trees that gave me the feeling they, too, were moving along their own path—wriggling and bending to and fro when I wasn’t looking, but motionless when they sensed my gaze. Some trees looked striped due to deep cracks in their bark—the zebras of the forest.
When I reached the pygmy forest, starbursts of rhododendron seedpods greeted me openly and I delighted in seeing their shadows—for shadows meant sun! It shone down in full force, prompting me to remove my jacket and tie it around my waist. I felt almost giddy with joy, feeling the warmth penetrate my skin. I lingered on the pygmy boardwalk, basking in the golden rays.
Eventually the loop spit me out on a part of the trail that had become a tiny river. As I examined the bubbles, leaves, pine needles and rocks that littered the sandy stream, I felt grateful for the rain—for without it, the sun wouldn’t seem as sweet.
The day is sunny, the temperature crisp. What could be better than a walk with my husband on Thanksgiving day? We timed it prior to any gorging so we wouldn’t be dragging our bloated bodies up ravines, nor accidentally rolling down them.
I’m thankful for banana slugs and their varied “outerwear” from mottled leopard spots to pure ochre; for the way their curious antennae protrude and retract in relation to the environment; for the fantastic shapes they can make with their bodies.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Close to the Ides of March, when the winter snow melts in Aurora, Illinois, a drab landscape unfolds in shades of brown and gray. A feeling of impatience wells up within me to experience the brightness of spring, with her wildly colored tresses and riot of movement.
But if I am patient, and look closely at the forest before me, I spot signs of life. A dead log thrills my sense of design with its abstract patterns of ivory, chartreuse and silver created by living decay. Oak leaves shimmer with diseased spots that look radiant against the monochromatic forest floor. A tiny spider catches my eye, and I snap a photo of him before he jumps away. What else can I find?
I behold a glorious display of snowdrops—triune petticoats aflutter in the strong breeze—that have pushed through a season’s worth of heavy mulch despite their delicate appearance. Nearby a tiny caterpillar crawls quickly, his dotted yellow sides undulating with every parallel movement of his suction-cup legs. I even see a green-leaved vine snaking its way up the rough bark of a tree.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
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