Cathedral Grove

A towering canopy of douglas firs, centeries old, with weathered bark. Trunks and spindly branches coated in moss, some hanging like vines.

Nurse trees lay splintering on the forest floor with networks of spry, young trees feeding off of them, growing upwards towards the scarce light.

The cherished old growth must fall to nourish new life. The cycle moves forward apathetically. Those with the greatest stories carry them down to a shallow grave.

There is a carpet of ferns and horsetails illuminated by slivers of light bursting through the canopy.

Some tree trunks have hollowed and opened, growing up and around the carved names of lovers and friends.

We trek along the gravel path, dust blossoming under our heels, dragging our hands along the mossy planks of the railing.

We marvel at the old and young, the small and the unfathomably large, against the backdrop of foliage-covered mountains and glossy creeks. At the oneness of God and all he has created.