On Tuesday morning, I woke up with the knowledge I had less than twenty-four hours left in my sweet, potent home on the hill. I knew, too, that it was time to return to the earth the many powerful pieces of land I’d brought into my home: branches, leaves, flowers, grasses, stones of every shape and color, feathers, shells, healing herbs, acorns. Some terrestrial umbilical cord was pulling these items back to their source, their beginning. The wind was strong, and as I made my way up to the hilltop outside my house, many of the leaves and petals began to take flight. Turning in the direction of the wind, I let them stream away from me, settling again on newly greened patches of grass, dedicated sage brush, welcoming soil.
Later, I would say: I have rarely felt so aware that a land was not mine. My friends weren’t sure what I meant by this, because it wasn’t about ownership, not exactly. It was about the vastness and power of the Santa Monica Mountains, the history of Topanga Canyon, and the people who once lived there, in sustainable harmony with the earth. Maybe it was simply about humility, finally accepting the smallness of my coming and going, my impermanent step upon the steadiness and solidity of these mountains.
Tears came, quickly and with force. I gulped the wind, holding each acorn to my heart and returning it to be fertilized and make new trees, native oaks so strong they can withstand the fires that human life cannot. I asked permission to keep with me two small objects: a conjoined acorn, and a starfish. They are with me now as I write to you on a plane carrying me to a new (ancient) mountain, resting in my backpack amidst a jumble of man-made objects that carry far less meaning.
The acorn and the starfish, they are what remains. At least on the outside. The rest is imprinted within, vital as the wind. Seeds I’ll carry forever. I pray they grow trees in me, teach me to withstand fire.
