In March of 2023 I took a trip to prepare for a new chapter in my health journey: “The one where I fix my womb” . This is a sensitive subject so please just scroll to the pretty travel pics you’re after. However, I’ve found that the places you visit often become who you are- our travel and our experiences have a way of intertwining themselves into everything we do. I’ve tried to become more intentional with this practice.

I wanted to go to the most sacred place I have ever known- The Redwoods of Northern California. I found great comfort and healing here when I was first dealing with psychosis- I had been almost CALLED to their root system a week after release from the hospital. Knee deep in a creek the trees did speak. They asked me to release my old ways of shame based fear and to be free like a garden- to know that the divine force that is speaks through all- trees and more.

So, there I was. Hoping that the Redwoods would once again give me some sort of answer. I’d been diagnosed with high risk HPV in January of 2021. I’d had normal pap smears before that but my health seemed to have really taken a hit from my time on Seroquel. I’d been placed on that medication in dual diagnosis rehab in order to manage Schizophrenia. While it helped to stabilize me it caused an onslaught of side effects including a 60 pound weight gain (in 8 months) high cholesterol, pre diabetes, heart palpitations, elevated resting heart rate, sleep apnea, memory loss, tardive dyskinesia, suicidal intrusive thoughts, and an HPV diagnosis.

While I could have had HPV at any time in my life it popped up at a time when I knew my immune system was struggling. I tried very hard to follow a healthy diet, get regular exercise, good sleep, take supplements and despite being off Seroquel for 2 years- my numbers were not improving. My HPV went from Cin1 (lowest possible risk) to Pre Cancerous in 1 year.

I was scared. I was discouraged. I needed the trees to help me before I had my LEEP. I’d also just cut 6 inches of hair off because it was falling out in handfuls. The night before the trip- I cut bangs, and so you know how I must have been feeling…

So, we left (just Dave and 1) for three nights away. The first night would be in Cave Junction or more specifically Wakilma at Out N About Treesort. I’d always wanted to stay in one of their treehouses and luckily, they had an opening in The Forestree- 35 feet high in the air.

It was still snowing in mid March as we headed south, stopping only in Medford to get In and Out Drive In. I’d been on a meticulous diet since the new year and was feeling defeated but hopeful. Tired but hungry. I hadn’t had any sugar or alcohol and had been focusing on lean proteins, gluten free whole grains, veggies. I’d lost 20 pounds twice so far but kept gaining it back. At that point in time I felt depleted by psych meds. I felt better but my body had taken a hit.

When I shared my journey online I was told I was “falling into diet culture” and needed to just be intuitive or that since my account was about Oregon- my health and diet were not to be discussed publicly. I kept so much of my journey secret- adding judgment to my health journey seemed like the last thing I needed.

So, I got a burger, knowing people would scrutinize the choice regardless.

Then it began to rain- hard. It is a little over an hour from Medford to Cave Junction. When we pulled into the treesort everyone had left for the day but our check in instructions were thoughtfully pinned to a welcome board (in a plastic bag to keep out the rain).

The rain let up and mist rose from the ground in columns. We were alone and night was closing in (as it does at 4 pm that time of year in Oregon). Our instructions told us how to journey from our standing place on the ground up and across plank gangways to our treehouse.

At first, it was scary- it's like crossing a mountain where the passages are quite narrow and harrowing. The bridges creak and sway, the mind does not want to trust that it is safe to walk in treetops this way. Then, with some forced courage the catwalk becomes a right of passage. Three sky bridges and we were to our room for the evening.

When I first walked in I felt the movement of the tree. There was a queen bed and two bunks, a small sink and toilet (which was more for midnight emergencies than generic use). The entire round house had windows that looked nearly 40 feet down to the ground. My own private hideout- a lookout to beat them all.

Around the property was lots to explore- a communal kitchen and gathering spot with almost any type of utensil or cooking supply available. There were bathrooms there with showers. Outside were fire pits and a covered place to play cornhole or pingpong. A rope swing, pond, horses, and more treehouses and yurts.

We wanted to grab dinner so we headed down to Cave Junction where I encountered “blanket man” one of my favorite Oregon roadside vendors. He has the kind of fleece blankets you remember from the 80’s- wolves, tigers, dragons….whatever your heart desires. I decided on a technicolor sacred geometry design. It would be my cape and my comfort on the trail through the trees- before my LEEP of faith.

Dinner was at Sushi Asian Cuisine. At this time I can’t remember what we ate- but I do remember there was a giant lobster staring at us the whole time ;)

Do you ever feel like you're being..watched?

That night the rain came back, it began again as we were making the ascent to our treehouse hideout. By the time we settled in we were in a full out storm. I felt safe here, connected to the sturdy tree- ready to face what was to come. I slept the whole night. I always note when this happens- as it is incredibly rare for me.

Sunrise seemed to approach differently, from the vantage point of a treetop. I peered out the window from my knees, a bit uneasy to look directly down first thing in the morning. Sometimes reality sets in AFTER you’ve spent a night somewhere. I digress.

The view was mesmerizing and I had to take a moment to catch my breath, I really did just sleep in a tree. Time to descend.

Breakfast was served in the main lodge next to a warm hearth surrounded by pictures and clippings of how the treesort came to be.

Like most Oregon things I love- it came about from a wild vision that was fought for tooth and literal nail. When Michael Garnier first built his 37 acre tree-sort everyone thought he was crazy! He had to provide tests to prove his methods (and trees) are safe. He is now, over 30 years later, an expert- and lends his wisdom to other treehouse builders the world wide.

It was a lot to get up and leave after only one day's time. Not because it’s a hassle to pull(ey) your suitcase 35 feet up and down trees but because it's the type of place you learn things from. Sleep in a tree and tell me how you feel…

On my way out of Cave Junction I jotted a note, speaking for the trees.

Off into the wild unknown (of our hearts)

Still the journey beckoned and down the road we went to a place our friend had told us of years before- The Grove of Titans. This is a place I don’t share as wildly on social media and for good reason. I want them to remain Titans and not stumps. These friendly giants mean us no harm- and when we go to see them we must remember that they have fruit to give us- if we learn to look for wisdom instead of timber.

You can destroy with your foot what ancients have known for centuries before us- we can speak without tongues and in languages you might not think exist.

Redwood trees communicate with their roots through a vast underground network of mycorrhizal fungi, which allows them to exchange nutrients and information with each other. Foot traffic can damage redwoods by compacting the soil around their roots, which impairs water and nutrient absorption and can lead to soil erosion and root stress.

In 2022 a new pathway was designed and built around the grove to direct damaging foot traffic and protect the trees. The pathway is thoughtfully designed and incorporates educational signage and interpretive elements that highlight the cultural significance of the redwoods to Indigenous communities.

Like the day before- it was raining hard. The road into the Grove was muddy and sparse. No one was around but us. I pulled on my winter coat and walked to see ‘Hyperion’, which is one of the tallest trees in the world. 397 feet and 600-800 years old.

Hyperion is the great infantilizer. That is, to stand next to such an ANTI machine…a natural thing so great in its ability to grow from a thing the size of a tomato seed, to transmute such energy, makes you feel soooo small (but in a good way).

A Redwood of this magnitude can sequester over 300 metric tons of carbon. That offsets 65 cars driving for one year. A study by Humboldt University and the University of Washington found that redwoods store more carbon per acre than any other forest in the world.

This place is a monument and should be protected as if it were a statue in D.C.

It is my sanctuary and the house of the wisdom I found to survive. The Titans take care of things- the air, the animals, the land…and its people.

I don’t like to mention the trees but I also wish to speak for them. If we do not know of their wisdom it will be lost for the 800 years it would take to grow them back. These gentle creatures feel the Earth for miles around. Look to them to know what is to come….

The journey was South to the Entrance to the ambassador of the greatest coastline on Earth, as far as I’m concerned.

The mouth of a wild river...as it should be

A place where wild rivers dump into the sea and life flourishes as it once was and as few on this earth see. Soon these places may cease to be.

Even now- when I describe it to you this way people tell my I my mouth is full of (dog poop) and I must not know anything of where I’ve been

Because this place is named Crescent City, a place known more for felons than as a surfers delight. More for its material poverty than actually having the greatest riches under the sun.

I defend this place ruthlessly because it isn’t the rundown Safeway or Pelican Bay Prison that I come here for- it is something timeless.

It may not look like much but it has a secret- the best surfing spot by a long shot

The indigenous history of Crescent City, California, is deeply intertwined with the heritage of the Yurok people, who have inhabited the coastal regions of Northern California for thousands of years. The Yurok traditionally lived along the Klamath River and its estuary, extending into areas near Crescent City. Their culture was profoundly connected to the land and water, with the Klamath River serving as a vital resource for fishing, particularly salmon, which played a central role in their diet and ceremonies. The arrival of European settlers in the 19th century brought significant disruption.

The tribes faced restrictions on their fishing practices, which led to protests and legal battles that continue to this day. Efforts for restoration of rights and recognition of land have been ongoing, with the Yurok and Tolowa tribes advocating for their sovereignty and the preservation of their cultural heritage.

Battery Point is a historic site located in Crescent City, California, known for its picturesque lighthouse and rich maritime history. The Battery Point Lighthouse, constructed in 1856, is one of the oldest lighthouses on the West Coast and serves as a symbol of the region's maritime heritage. It sits on a small island accessible by foot during low tide, adding to its charm and appeal.

After a visit to the lighthouse we stopped into my favorite place to eat in Crescent- SeaQauke Brewing. They make their own Kombucha, enough said.

With snacks and a cultural stop taken care of it was time to travel the most magnificent stretch of coastline I have ever laid eyes on. It is where the mighty Redwoods meet the sea- a place where I lay down my pride and ego to give way to the trees and mist and might of the large, beautiful Sequoia and even more enormous Pacific.

To me, this magic coastline is like a tunnel through time. It is the opening to a quest laid out before my soul long ago….the first time I opened my eyes to this drive I was someone else; a lost and gone younger version of myself who had taken a trip to find some sense of peace in a violent time, mentally.

I found sanctuary in a creekbed, covered in dirt and Earth. The trees had told me things would be alright then and there was a part of me hopelessly yearning to hear that truth again.

This time however I sought a light hearted approach to tree therapy, the kind that can be found at a long time local attraction: Trees of Mystery. A relic of long gone roadtrips in the family station wagon- when you approach you are greeted by a 49 foot high Paul Bunyon and his blue Ox, Babe.

Although this temperate rainforest was doing what it does best that day- rain…we chose to purchase tickets and check out the attractions that have been in operation since 1946. There are a collection of named Redwood trees here, notable for their interesting shapes and unique size.

The newest attraction is a Canyon Walk- plank style gangways through the treetops. Already schooled in the art of plank walking from our stay in the treehouse, the trails here seemed like a cakewalk. Although, to the uninitiated, one look down could freeze you in terror.

My favorite thing here is The Gondola ride known as Sky Trail. It is like an enclosed skilift with 360 views across the canopy of the Sequoias. On a clear day you can see all the way to the ocean from the viewing platform at the top of the ride.

I thought I could pass for Paul's Girlfriend, aka a logger's dream

The gift shop is everything you would want for the quintessential road trip. There are little trinkets of Northern California like mugs and pocket knives, Redwood crafts, clocks, and jewelry. There is a small cafe that serves hot drinks and snacks.

Most wonderful though is a private collection of Native artifacts and crafts of the Indigenous tribes of the area. It is called The End Of The Trail Collection and is free to enter.

The mission and scope of the End of The Trail Private Collection could hardly be explained any better than they were in the words of Marylee Thompson Smith, the main collector and person most responsible for its existence, spoken on the day it opened, on March 10, 1968:

“Dear Friends, Welcome! What you see here in our Collection is the culmination of a dream that began over 30 years ago when I became interested in the ancient and modern cultures of our “First Americans”. These people, to my way of thinking, invented the noun “ingenuity”- my definition being “doing with what you’ve got”! It is interesting to see what each geographically located groups of peoples did with what was available, be it on land or water. With the “advantages” of modern civilization, it is no longer necessary to hunt food or clothing, or to spend long hours gathering materials and weaving baskets. Sad, but true, much of what you see here is already a lost art. Every year, these treasures become lost to our future generations by fire, flood, neglect and time itself. With this collection, a part of their culture will be preserved – for your children and mine. This is my promise.”

Although I could spend the rest of my life living at the base of a Redwood tree it was time to reach our destination:

The Front Porch Inn, Arcata: an intentional oasis.
I was invited to visit as a promotion, for which I am endlessly grateful because there was much more provided here than a nice night's stay.

I’ll start by describing the inn as I saw it- glowing warm in the ‘greyening’ of evening; the subtle ombre of nightfall in winter in the Pacific Northwest. Even before I went to our room I knew what I had to see, enchanting fern lined walls leading to soaking tub nooks, open to the ever misting sky. Copper tubs, hand pounded with log spigots of hot water, dual porcelain baths, a sauna within a rock hut, gurgling spouts, a pond and prehistoric fronds. Paradise found.

I would return to the tubs after dark but now it was time to open the door to another world. Always growing up I was fascinated with the idea of themed motels along the American West. Dollywood style romance rooms with golden pillowed headboards, spoon themed bathrooms, the likes you’d see on “I Love Lucy”.

This themed inn is different. It captures the spirit of where you want to take your mind when you fantasize about the places you love best. Our room was the recreation of a campsite creekside, complete with a canvas tent hideaway bed and exquisite mural of quaking aspen. There is a camp stove to cook on and stone lined fireplace to sit by.

I was most inspired by the craftwork in the bathroom- The outdoors showers and sauna featured stonework inspired by master mason stone builder Gregorio Montiel who worked on the world famous castle "Castello Di Amerosa" in Napa Valley for 20 years. The shower in this room is like a stone castle with a rainwater shower cascading down upon you. I’ve never seen anything as lovely….oh, to shower in this sort of beauty each day!

Truly, I could sit in this happy bubble and describe to you the extra sensory delights of this hotel spa environment infinitely. I could wax poetic til I choke. Still, I will attest- that healing does not always find us in perfectly curated moments worth publicly sharing.

For, although this is a place you come to feel better- often it’s the sickness within you that must leave in order for that change to take place. I ask my pain to leave when I am in water. I ask it to leave when I am walking through nature and sitting near the ocean. I ask the land to heal and through that- I FEEL.

Having every expectation that I would feel weightless and screamless and chill- that was not what I was bringing in through the pipes and water and rain and steam of Arcata. Instead, I was distraught. Over what had been, the upcoming surgery, and how little time I had to spend.

My account and this very blog is the reason I can travel as I do- but I’m still learning to navigate what that really looks and feels like, for me and for my family. At this time I had a lot of plates in spin.

Checking in to my page at least once an hour of every waking day to comment and moderate and be supportive.

Connecting to those who were making themselves a part of my baby Oregon community I’d built (mostly in the darkness of the pandemic, alone and going through the aftershocks of quitting antipsychotics). I felt the need to create new videos on the daily to surf an algorithm to so-called certain shores, of which I might someday sit on and breathe.

As much as I was excited and on a trip to connect to what I needed to- I was under water in content goals. It was a lot to juggle and even more still when the call came in- from another creator next door to my suite. Her name was Annie and she was booked right next to me. She invited me to dinner- I sat right down and busted out in tears.

Sure, sure! I’m only here for five minutes, of which time I need to explore every part of this new world (without somehow making a sound, because now I've been found out).

I had an itinerary of hikes and museums and unique and interesting cafe’s. At this time I still had a book to write and was also on that deadline. There was of course the need to connect with my husband and somehow lay down whatever stress was causing my nervous system to rile up through my teeth- no matter how furiously I gritted them. So, what was hanging out for a few minutes with the girl down the street?

Might as well call it what it was, a work trip and now I’d be stuck networking or making content with people I was scared of. I was a treetalking psychonaut on a search for cosmic healing and most people expected me to show up ready to connect. I’m still shy, I’m still closed off and frightened of what most people find exciting- friendship, fun, love. I’m social, but only on the internet.

Knowing I couldn’t hide in the intimate fern hallways, I agreed to meet Annie and her friend, for dinner. She promised me a gorgeous farm fresh meal made with magic! We’d play games or just chill, prance about and talk about the weather or each other or whatever else- skies the limits.

It was too much pressure, so I crawled like a pile of slop into the rock shower and canceled.

Annie suggested breakfast and I relinquished, feeling like an introverted snot frog. Dave had started a little fire and offered to pick up a burrito from the taqueria down the street.

Wrapped up in my sacred geo blanket from Cave Junction, I assured him the next day would be better. I’d make it to all the places on my list, shoot a litany of A AND B roll and magically solve all my problems with one picturesque soak. I bet the sky would be blue too. Ha!

Sometimes it's Mexican takeout for the win

The next morning felt extra early, I’d scheduled breakfast with Annie at 8 am sharp, thinking I’d get it over with and have my day ready to rock. Instead there was a mishap and breakfast was postponed. I waited practically on my haunches ready to explode into action. Every minute was a minute too long as I counted down the hours of my day- gone.

Coffee for friends, something I nearly missed

Okay, I thought- it's supposed to be that way. I’d keep it short and sweet and respectful and be on my way. Annie suggested a place called Cafe Brio on the plaza. A place to sip creamy lattes and squeezed to order juices, where farm to table was a lifestyle and their motto is “to heal the relationship we have with the natural world.”

I breezed right by that, ordering just a coffee. Annie insisted on a treat and suggested several breakfast plates more than worth a bite. I screamed eternally and obliged, with a smile.

Cafe Brio- don't take the small things for granted

Who was this Annie? She’d inspired me, of course I’d rushedly scanned her entire Instagram- which is professional etiquette when you do what I do, I suppose.

I learned enough to know that I was loads behind what she had acquired- a following twice as large as mine, world travel, she’d designed the inside of her own van- was cute- stylish- and probably infinitely cooler than I could ever pretend to me.

Why she wanted to hang out with me was beyond my recognition and I was justifying the reasons why I was behind her in almost every single way.

That’s when she said to me “So, let’s cut the crap- I see you're working your ass off on your page and I see something else…an authenticity that I can’t seem to bring. I’m gonna tell you right now- we're creators and we should be friends because there are not a lot of women OUR age in THIS world. You inspire me.”

My mouth must have been agape, at least it was on the inside. I was staring at an angel- with sleek beige sets and a passport full of stamps I can't even pronounce. My legs were mostly stuck in thick black leggings because variety was not my forte’. I am a hometown girl.Next to her I felt like poop.

The next thing she said surprised me even more. She didn’t ask a bunch of questions about me, which is what I despise most about small talk. Instead she began to tell me every truth of building her platform and the struggles she’d faced from men, losing her business and home, to moving into a van out of necessity.

She described how her page came out of need to find an alternate income stream and that she was taught by other creators in Southern California, people who would become her rivals.

It was if I had a sports coach- a social media talent agent manager who knew the pitfalls, the ins and outs. Yes, she had been there before and instead of hiding she was spreading her wings wide to teach me how to touch down on the solid ground I was so furiously working towards.

She talked to me about growing older on camera and what being a creator means as a woman over 40. How could we connect to others in a meaningful way?

Also, she fiercely advocated for me to value my work and not to be afraid to charge for my talents. Then she asked if I wanted to go for a drive to collaborate together on some content.

I appreciated my new friend, as unexpected as she was, but I also had a big day planned with my husband Dave. Still, how different could our goals be that we couldn’t combine them? I wanted to catch some more trees and ocean and she wanted to go to a place called The Fern Canyon.

We piled into my jeep Wrangler and took off back the way we came- sharing more of our life history with each other as Dave drove us through a mountain rainfall.

Soon he had to pull off to avoid a torrential downpour that threatened to hydroplane us off the side of the road. We checked the drive to see how far Fern Canyon was- another hours drive- would it be worth it?

We pushed on to arrive at a spot I’d been just the day before. I’d begged Dave to pull off because a giant herd of elk had been standing in the meadow. The parking lot had been sunny and dry and I’d used the bathroom and sat for a while drying out.

Today it was blocked off with big road signs “FLOODED”. The canyon was a no go.

Suddenly, I was internally losing it again. 2 more hours wasted, to drive to a place I was just at the day before- though, I had no idea there was a magical fern tunnel just beyond where I had been.

I needed a friend to know that but I wasn’t seeing it at the time. All we could do was turn back and look for drier ground.

“Well, we could try Trinidad, I’ve got a pin there but I don’t know why” we pulled off 101 into the little oceanside town. The waters were rough and the rain was still dripping like a wet rag wrung from the sky. We got some drive thru coffee and headed back to Arcata.

Annie suggested we visit the Redwood trail in town and at least get some video before we parted ways. It was wet, dark, and hardly “commercial” friendly. I’ve only used the footage once- with the caption “look up”.

Our day had been a bust but we had a fancy dinner planned at another themed location- Campground, a steakhouse adorned in aspen twigs and lamplight. That’s where things took a turn for the worse and I almost crawled out of my skin.

Everything was lovely but Dave drank two glasses of wine. I’d been on a sober kick as I do from time to time.

Basically I don’t drink most of the time and especially if I’m feeling bad or notice I’m starting to drink casually.

I was sober for three years during my healing journey and will forever be in “recovery” from my psychosis. Most of the time other people's drinking doesn't bother me but after all the disappointment and lost time I broke. I got mad and stomped off, saying it all wasn’t fair!

I went alone to a deep copper tub and filled it up with hot Humboldt water. The sky was misting hard and obscuring the warm string lights. Dipping in, all the way to my shoulders, I returned to breath and timelessness. It’s hard to feel angry wrapped in water. Water is a miracle hug, a cleanser, a healer, life giver.

I don’t know how long I stayed in- easily two hours hopping between tub and rainfall shower, sitting on a damp log and staring up into the fog of the night. I came back to the room, sheepishly. Dave was already asleep.

The tent bed was warm and cozy and had twinkle lights inside. It carried me off to sleep…but I had a nightmare. My friend and I were running from something unseen and then I was shot at.

My friend Jared, who I had met in rehab (and who had passed away from an unintentional overdose two years prior) sent me a text in the dream.

There was a water gun emoji and the words “The 17th Street Gang will protect you” Jared was a felon from LA, he had schizophrenia like me, and had been a member of a couple gangs. He’s spent 18 years in prison. He was my closest friend with “what I had”.

6 months later to the day I would be shot at 4 times in Eugene, Oregon.

I had woken up completely soaked in sweat. Once again the fire and sacred geo blanket proved to be my comfort. Sitting up, staring into the flame, I let it all burn.

The worries about the surgery, the constant pressure to show up and impress, my control of other people's habits, all of the rush….

The next morning we made bacon on the camp stove and packed up. There were two things I wanted to do before I left town- visit the vintage store and take Dave to the Cafe Annie had shown me.

The irony- MY homecoming dress on the vintage wall (the blue one)

My inbox was full, I’d accomplished maybe a third of what I drove 500 miles for, and it was time to face the reality of going home and having 80 percent of my cervix removed. It was still damp and gray and yet there was one message I felt like answering that day.

It was from a woman named Celeste who had seen a video I made about Newport. Her family owned Mo’s Clam Chowder and she wondered if we could speak on the phone. I said yes and she called while we were sitting at the Cafe.

I stepped out into the downpour, slunk behind a canopy and told her my own Mo’s Story- of how I grew up going to Newport with my grandparents and parents to see the murals and get some saltwater taffy and clam chowder.

We agreed to meet up later in the year. What I didn’t know is that this too would end up in a friendship I didn’t know I needed. Looming back, it’s easy to see how lost I was into my OWN world pushing towards building my page and “being healthy” and fixing all my problems- that I’d not let anyone else in.

I was stuck micromanaging my life to feel safe and productive. The universe was beginning to cancel my plans for me and teach me to relax, to open up to friendship.

The day I was shot at- I was forced to step back from travel all together to prioritize my own sacred pace (and safety). That’s another story entirely but as we ride through another season of eclipses, I’ve learned to look back at the last to see “what the heck the message was”.

The ride home was long and we were met with snow at the Oregon border- and a text. My friend was on the road too and wanted to know if we could meet at Cave Junction, to get some famous maple bars. I thought we could make it? We’d do our best to arrive.

5: 00 p.m. passed and the Trillium Bakery closed but there was my friend in the parking lot with a big white box of maple bars for us. Another friend- trying to make a connection. This time I let her in a little. I’ll admit I’m still a little shy…and typing this out, I see I need to relent to my own grueling timeline just a little more.

My surgery went extremely well. It did hurt a lot and the recovery was less than glamorous. I was helping to co-host a healing retreat 10 days later, where I received the news they had removed all of the pre-cancer.

1 year later I was all clear, the HPV had gone into remission.

I do believe our stress and internal environments have a profound effect on how healthy we are. The landscapes themselves have tremendous healing power, if we can slow down enough to listen. I know at this time I was struggling with pressure I put on myself. I had an unhealthy attachment to -outcomes- thinking always of the end goal instead of the surprises along the way.

I have lifelong friends that started on this trip that I nearly missed. Memories are priceless and worth more than “content”. I’d rather BE content…at peace.

I’m still trying my best to integrate these lessons and be less hard on myself. Slowly, little habits do strengthen themselves. Just as trees- you may not see their progress but over time they grow. The road can teach and sometimes the rearview mirror explains everything.

Healing in the Red Wood Forest- a journey of discovery along Highway 101

Ashland Springs Historic Hotel