Ancient sisters

Whenever I travel now, I begin the same way: I pause, breathe, and ask permission—from the land, from the spirits, from those who were here long before me. I look for places where I can give my thanks, where I can offer respect. My recent visit to San Francisco was no different. I chose to spend time in Muir Woods as a way of honoring the land that welcomed me.

I have always felt a deep connection with trees. Their presence grounds me, and their absence leaves me unsettled. I will never forget the first time I truly grieved for a tree. As a child, I used to gaze out of my bedroom window at a magnificent old giant, more than three centuries old. One day, after years of complaints from a neighbor about the shade and fallen leaves, the city cut it down. I can still hear the cracks as it fell—a sound almost like a last cry. It struck me then that trees are serene for most of their long lives, but unbearably loud when they fall. What I felt was grief, as if I had lost a dear friend.

Yes, I love trees. Trees are not solitary beings—they live in community, sharing nutrients through their roots, warning one another of danger, creating shelter for countless companions. They sustain each other, and all who live among them. They live with gratitude, patience, and balance. And in their way, they remind us that we are meant to live like this, too.

Perhaps that is why entering the cathedral of redwoods filled me with such excitement and reverence. The redwoods are very special beings. Some have stood for over a thousand years. What they have witnessed is beyond imagination. Their trunks rise like pillars into the mist, their crowns vanishing into the sky. Their bark, thick and rich with tannins, makes them highly fire-resistant. Flames clear the way for their seedlings, helping new life to emerge. Their roots intertwine, holding each other steady through storms and earthquakes. They do not resist change. They adapt, and even use it to thrive.

Walking among them felt like stepping into a different time. Their silence was pulsing with life. Mosses, lichens, insects, and countless hidden critters surrounded me. A beautiful raven passed above me like a blessing. Every breath of air carried the scent of resin and damp earth. Shafts of light fell through the canopy in dancing columns, like beams through stained glass.

I was especially drawn to one tree, a mother, scarred by fire. Her trunk carried blackened grooves, evidence of pain and survival. And yet, from her side grew a tender sprout, reaching upward, new life born from the wound.

I sat at her base and meditated. My attention, my offering. It felt like we were in conversation—her story flowing into mine, into the stories of so many mothers who carry scars, survive fires, and still nurture, protect, and give life. Her teaching was clear: strength does not mean being unscarred. On the path of healing, it is easy to believe we are damaged beyond repair. But we are not. Quite the opposite. Our wounds can become places of growth, offering gifts we could never have imagined. Strength means enduring, transforming, balancing, and continuing to give.

To sit with the redwoods was an honor. They are among the highest teachers, dignified in their harmony with all that surrounds them. They remind us that resilience is collective, that healing is deep and slow, that life wins and thrives even after fire.

Leaving Muir Woods, I carried more than photographs or memories. I carried gratitude—for the land, for the trees, and for the reminder that we, too, are part of this vast web of reciprocity.