Rest, retreat and reflect. 
Silent retreats feel necessary to my being. 
I love to simply “be” without the guilt attached. 
Very little is expected of me at Redwoods Monastery: 
show up for meals, wash my own dishes 
and tell a nun if I leave the premises. 
Otherwise, my “job” is to connect with Spirit, 
listen to God 
(oh, how much easier it is to hear that small, still voice in the silence) 
and practice ways of devotion that suit me — 
prayer, sacred journaling, meditation, monastic services, spiritual reading, walking in nature. 
I am then renewed, rejuvenated and radiant.
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.
Do you ever feel lost? 
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?
I tiptoed over the precarious rocks, some of which slid under my feet. I was being called siren-like to an orange dot in the distance, which proved to be a sponge. As I traversed the uneven terrain, I considered the story of Persephone ending up in Hades due to her attraction to a beautiful narcissus. But when I got closer to the sponge, I saw a small rock embraced and sheltered by a much larger rock and was instead reminded of God’s love.
Bits of abalone shell tucked into the stones looked like precious jewels. That’s how we appear to God, I thought.
A ginger-like seaweed resembled a rough hand sans finger. I thought of all those who have lost parts of their bodies through genetic anomalies, surgeries, accidents, war. God still sees everyone as whole.
A kelp bulb hung over a rock, its round purple-pink roots graduating to flat gold-olive streamers that twisted into a fat braid. No matter what our surface color is, we are intertwined and come from the same root.
A jellyfish washed up on the beach reminded me how transparent we really are: God can see right through our makeshift walls.
Another kelp lay on a bed of sand. It was dressed in bright fuchsia complemented by a burst of green ribbon. Yet it still couldn’t shake its dark shadow. We all must face our own shadows because they accompany us into The Light. Observe, befriend and accept your shadow without judgment and you will understand Mercy.
Finally, a lone stone nestled into the curve of a boulder’s shoulder. I remembered the many times I had rested in God the way a child rests upon a parent’s chest or a lover rests upon their beloved. Whenever we are weary we are invited to rest within the love of God.
I glanced down to see the bottom of a tree trunk encircled in a profusion of tiny yellow daisies, and another complemented at its base with purple companion plants. I decided to focus my camera and my mind on the place where a tree’s foundational support meets the soil. A mystery of root webs concealed from view keeps the trees grounded and nourished. I must remain rooted in God for balance, support and nourishment.
Other trunks let a few of their roots show, displaying their connection to the earth. Lord, let me know the right times to publicly demonstrate my devotion to You, and when to allow its intuitive interpretation.
I passed a tree’s base that was split, yet intertwined. When I differ in opinion with another, let me remember our greater bond of oneness, inextricably uniting us.
Diverse color and texture abounded: peeling, paper-thin rusty orange bark, gray lichen-encrusted trunks, even young bark that was red on one side and olive-gold on the other. We may look different on the outside, but our life-sustaining “sap” still comes from the same Wellspring.
Lastly, I zeroed in on a large tree’s undulating bark. It flowed down vertically in rivulets of green-tinted gray over a reddish-brown backdrop. A single eye had formed where a branch had been severed. The healed wound offered insight: We are all in the flow. We can fight it and seek to drag ourselves to dry land or we can float effortlessly to The Source and join all others who have gathered there for fellowship. I choose the easy channel to companionship.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
I get discouraged, just like anyone. Sometimes I feel all washed up—pale, bedraggled, pushed between a rock and a hard place.
As my body parts hurt and ache, I wonder what it would be like if they simply broke off and drifted away on the tide.
I look down at my feet and see all that has been uprooted and tossed upon the agate-laced shore: delicate ocean plants, a bumpy translucent sea creature, a plume of seaweed growing from its perfectly round root ball.
A kelp bowl holds the detritus of land and sea. Another bulb is whole, but scraped and battered—its fringed appendages imploring the air for some explanation. Part of a spewed up sign contains mysterious letters that cannot be deciphered. What does it all mean?
And then I come upon a little nest the waves have made. Its outer layer is green and threadlike; its inside layer is pink and precious, tender and pliable. I recognize my soft, inner self, always wrapped in God’s embrace, even when I struggle and flail. I use my aching arms to hug myself, thanking God I have them.
I first discovered the existence of Bowling Ball Beach from an Audubon engagement calendar with which I kept track of unpaid bills. Tucking the bills among gorgeous photographs always made me look forward to paying them, for I would turn the next week’s page and be awestruck by the beauty of our planet. The day I flipped to a beach covered with large round stones, I knew I’d have to see it one day. As I read the small print, thinking this landscape would be in New Zealand or Indonesia, I was overjoyed to discover it was in northern California.
Imagine my glee when a friend suggested a group of us go there at sunset. I separated from them because I wanted to experience this decade-long dream on my own, without distraction—plus, they were going to a different beach first, accessed over giant algae-covered rocks, which proved too slippery for my scaredy-cat legs. Frankly, the trail to Bowling Ball Beach wasn’t that much easier due to a steep descent that included climbing down a rope/driftwood ladder and over a creek.
Everything I saw astounded me: craggy cliffs, pebbles constantly trickling down them; massive uprooted trees stripped of bark; washed up kelp still clinging to rocks meant to keep them weighted to the ocean floor.
Curled stalks and wavy ribbons of seaweed contrasted against smooth boulders, round rocks and minuscule sand granules.
Strangely patterned rocks pushed up from the kelp-strewn sand, like moiré paper lining vintage hardcover books. Tiny pools formed where tides pushed in and out, year after year.
A flat expanse of rock, like rows of a farmer’s field, jutted out at a strange angle to the shoreline. A white egret walked among the furrows searching for a meal. Were the bowling balls any more impressive than the rest of the beach? I’m not sure, because every diverse thing exhibited its own unique exquisiteness—much like us, each incomparably beautiful.
I was excited about this hike. I’d heard a dazzling waterfall was at the end of it. Along the trail I spied nodding heads of columbine, noting the default color was similar to, yet more intense than, the pink and lemon blooms back in Chicagoland. I noticed a wild cucumber blossom with a little bug crawling inside. Yup, Aurora had those, too. How long was it to this waterfall, anyway?
The air changed a bit. It felt cleaner, oxygen rich, more moist. The dark canopy let only shafts of light through. I passed a tree with six feet of roots above ground and a hollowed out trunk that looked like a hobbit house in the making. Okay, this was definitely different from the Midwest; I must be near the waterfall.
Suddenly I could hear it through the trees: liquid hitting rock. And then I saw it. Well, it is pretty, I thought. Perhaps not as spectacular as I built it up to be… I scrambled down to its base, felt its misty spray on my face, gazed at the pools into which it emptied. I couldn’t help but feel a little let down. This is the payoff?
I continued on the path as it switchbacked steeply up. I discovered I was at the top of the waterfall and it was narrow enough to straddle. As the water rushed between my feet, I realized the payoff is actually before, during and after—there is only one moment encompassing them all.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 