Centuries of Movement

 I recall often thinking
that Mt. Rainier always lurked
in my mind, and it does,
but that is an accident of place.
Had I been born in Northern California,
I might have been lurked by
Mt. Shasta always in my mind.

It is nearly as tall--a few hundred feet--
but, I think, more serene in a sunny way,
perhaps a function of not having Puget Sound
scarcely an eruption away.   When in its prime,
the debris from Mt. Rainier reshaped
the place that became the Port of Tacoma.
It still occasionally belches, just as a reminder;
just as a threat.

Mt. Shasta is a sister reminder of how small
it is to be human when earth shakes its shoulders
and reaches down to hot places below,
coming up with something like rage.

Napa, in the wine country of California,
just north of San Francisco, sits on
one of the seams in earth's crust where,
in 2014, considerable parts of the town
were rattled like castanets.  Today,
construction and reconstruction fences
are common, so we turned to the redwoods.

Muir Woods is on the peninsula
reaching south to anchor one end
of the Golden Gate Bridge.
There are more cars around the woods
than there are redwood trees in Muir Woods,
We gave up, once, then went back
and lucked into a prime parking spot.

As grand as they are,
and they are,
we could not avoid remembering
the Giant Sequoias in Kings Canyon
from last summer,
nor rid ourselves of the torment
of cars parked miles long
on every approach to the Woods.












We turned toward the Golden Gate, thinking to go to Golden Gate Park in the City itself, to the Japanese Tea Garden but somehow every one of those cars parked outside Muir Woods got to the City first, and like Christo creating a prank, lined up all the way to the sea on the west, the downtown on the east, Portland up north, and Machu Picchu down south.  As if borne by a tide, we drifted west in the park toward Hawaii, or maybe Japan, and sighting it, decided to have lunch at the Cliff House:  there was one parking place, and it happened just as we approached it.

Kite surfers are amazing.

They are crazy.

The water is like ice,

the wind howls,

and the surfers themselves

wear body-fitting innertubes

to slow the speed of death.

They dream of waves

as tall as trees and as heavy

as mountains of mud running free.

We drove to Fremont, where once I lived when I was a clergyman wondering in what millenium my head lived, finally settling on the one my feet walked in; before I went to Chicago.  

We drove to the house where last I had lived, in Fremont, a house now refurbished--no, rebuilt!--to something I had not imagined nor been able to afford.  Al and Lulu lived across the street, as they had then, and in all the racial and religious turmoil since the Sixties until now, they welcomed us as they have always welcomed strangers, as they welcome friends.  

 On impulse, I rang the doorbell where once I had been the first owner of the house, and we were invited to talk for a few, engaging minutes.

Not wanting to resist the urge, we drove to the church where once I had been the first regularly appointed pastor.  It was lovely still, larger still, still engaged in engaging society.

Then, knowing that every car in Portland, every car on I-5, every car parked at Muir Woods and in Golden Gate Park had accompanied us down the Peninsula and across the Hayward Bridge, we turned toward Santa Cruz, where Heidi and Jack were welcoming us.  Escorted thus, we drove south again, unsurprised.