Notes from the Redwoods

In the past few days, we’ve moved through three different redwood forests — each one a distinct organism, a distinct being, with its own spirit and song. Jedediah Smith, Rockefeller, and Arcata Community Forest. All held something unexpected, some layered revelation that asked me to slow down and listen.

In this particular moment, this feels at once radical and subversive, a tremendous privilege, and an imperative. When the world of human-constructed systems is simultaneously ramping up existential risk while crumbling under the weight of it’s own senseless audacity… it’s nice to hear the call of trees, and to listen, to respond, to show up, to sit down, to listen, to listen, to listen.

One of the most striking things I learned is that redwoods — these giants that can live thousands of years — have surprisingly shallow roots. They don’t grow deep; they grow wide, interweaving with one another, holding each other up. And when they fall, as they inevitably do, their bodies become the forest floor — layer upon layer of fallen elders, feeding new life. A thatched tapestry of ancient death nourishing the future.

This truth landed in me like a prayer.

I’m grieving the death of someone I love very, very much in recent weeks. Not being able to be with our community of shared loved ones in this moment of grief has been hard, but she and I always connected under the canopies of the most ancient trees where we lived, and that’s where I’m finding and feeling her right now.

Yesterday was also the anniversary of my dad’s death seven years ago. It’s hard to believe that it’s been that long. I remember so much of that time so vividly. And he’s with me more than ever these days.

Just like the forest floor of the redwood forest, the layers of death form the foundation of new life, the emergent unfolding of life finding its way from soil to sunlight and back again.

At Rockefeller, we crossed a cool creek to find a hidden meadow carpeted in redwood sorrel and trillium. There, in the hush, we shared a picnic among the living and the fallen, the young and the ancient.

Our guides into these magical spaces have been human elders — long lost relatives of Seth’s — whose lives and values feel deeply kindred to our own. There is deep story and mythos unfolding there, that we’ll share more about another time. But being with them in the embrace of the redwoods (and the giant eucalyptus trees surrounding their home) has felt so sacred. So meaningful. A transmission of wisdom not just in stories, but in silence and attention. Remembering. Living blessings. Acknowledging the miracles that brought us here.

In my awe at this incredible bioregion, I have deep curiosity about the lifeways of the original people of these lands. I am learning their names: Tolowa, Yurok, Wiyot, Hupa, Karuk, and Chilula peoples — those who have lived in relationship with these forests for thousands of years. For them, the redwoods were and are kin. Teachers. Ancestors. Sacred beings. I am learning how they move through these groves with reverence, only taking wood that had already fallen — listening, always, for what the forest was willing to give.

Last year, 500+ acres of redwood forest were returned to indigenous stewardship, under the InterTribal Sinkyone Wilderness Council, a coalition of 10 tribes that have ancient roots here. This is one of many, many initiatives moving to protect 30% of the planet’s lands and oceans by 2030. Each action contributing to this movement sets important precedent that the coalition of governments, NGOs, tribal bodies, and the Convention on Biological Diversity can build on as we move toward this goal. Read more about 30x30 here.

We are always on ancestral land. Sometimes we forget, but the land remembers. The voices of the old ones — human and more-than-human — are still speaking, if we take the time to attune. And the presence of deep time is always there beneath our feet, held in the root mat of trees, in the stories layered into the soil, in the silence between wind and wing.

Wherever you are, I invite you to seek out the old ones. There are trees near you with something to say. Elders who have witnessed what came before and carry dreams of what could still be. Let them meet you. Listen to what they remember. Ask what they’ve seen.

And if they share something with you — I would love to hear what you find.