I spent my childhood on a lake in the middle of Western Washington, surrounded by miles of second-growth forest and thirty miles in a straight line from the ocean, whose temperamental moods consistently dampened the woods. At times, the storms would blow in off the Pacific, bringing lashing rain and winds that blew hard enough to pick up water from the lake and blow it in thirty-foot-tall sheets into the shoreline. The firs and hemlocks nearly doubled over in the gale, their branches twisting unnaturally under the force of the wind. Each gust hit the house like a giant with a hammer, shuddering it to the foundations. The lake level rose and slapped waves above the bulkhead, splashing water onto the lawn.
But more often, a deep fog settled in each night, covering everything in droplets of water. Then, with the shift to daylight, it grudgingly lifted, steaming upward out of the trees in ribbons, clinging in a haze on the still lake. And as the fog crankily rose, it blended into a low overcast that hid the top of the hills, pushed downward, and misted.
Even though the forest was primarily second-growth, trees still towered overhead. Interlacing firs, hemlocks, cedars, maples, alders, and madronas each held their own feel and smell. I loved cedars, the touch of their crumbly, stringy bark between my fingers as I leaned back against a massive tree, feeling the life coursing through it, watching the finely fingered needles reach gently downward. Then, I closed my eyes, rested my head on the trunk, and listened. I heard the rustle of the underbrush as a mouse passed by, collecting seeds. Above, a squirrel chomped noisily on a fir cone, grinding through it like corn on the cob. Above that, a gentle rustle of a breeze in the treetops, and far, far above, the scree of an eagle.
Now, I live in a different climate, a place where a person can sit outside comfortably in November and wear flip-flops in March. But part of me still aches for the feel of the dirt, the smell of decaying leaves, the damp mist that hangs on the fir trees and drips softly from their needles. It’s as though part of my soul is still there, feeling the lake’s cold water against my fingers as I gaze into its depths.
Is that how plants feel when we transplant them? Do they ache for their original dirt sometimes as I ache for the rainforest? I can only assume that the answer is yes and that they, even though the new soil is better for their growth, at times miss where they came from. Even though I am grateful not to live there, sometimes it still calls me and whispers into my ear, a long-forgotten memory suddenly brought to the front of my mind.
And I can accept that, especially on days like today, when the gentle California autumn air rustles the turning oak leaves, the sky glints a soft blue, and wisps of clouds drape like a gauze gown across everything.
Shaun Porter is a California-based poet and writer. While he appreciates the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, he much prefers sunshine.
