The Wild and the Sacred

A thundering rhythm echoes across the damp field, into the trees and back toward us, through us. The drummers have taken the stage. The mosh pit is starting to heat up. "Feel the pulse," one of the drummers cries out. "It's the pulse of the forest, the pulse of your heart." No one here needs much persuading. We have traveled to this remote corner of northern California because of the forest. What is left of it. We are here because one of the last remaining stands of ancient trees, the Headwaters Forest, is under frenzied assault from Pacific Lumber Company, because we know this might be one of our last chances to do anything about it. Everyone here knows how bleak the prospects are, how much work remains to be done. We are here in part to organize, to plan strategies of resistance, to show by our physical presence that we will not stand quietly by while these ancient trees are razed. We are also here to pray, to worship, to give ritual expression to our feeling of kinship with this place, these trees. Which is why, restless after hours of speeches, we happily relinquish ourselves to the rhythm of the drums. All around the field, people begin rising from the wet ground, begin dancing, swaying, laughing. Five thousand of us, embraced by the forest, dancing to celebrate, to deepen our resolve, to rekindle our hope. For a moment the world seems simple, whole. The disappearance of the trees seems an illusion, an impossibility; on all sides of this damp field, we are surrounded, sustained by their presence. Nor does the clear-cut hillside that has unleashed tons of mud on the nearby town of Stafford seem real. Even the machinations of Maxxam Corporation, owners of Pacific Lumber, and their attempts to pay off junk-bond debts with trees seem, for a moment, to have no weight or substance. There is only this pulse, this rhythm, this forest, all of us, dancing and moving together in the soft afternoon light of this autumn day. There is only this wordless celebration of community, solidarity, ecstatic wonder. It feels sufficient in that moment to let the pulse of this wild place carry us, console us, renew us. A second image: it is just before dawn at Redwoods Monastery, several miles to the south and west of this field. Eight figures sit silently in a small, cinderblock chapel. As the light slowly fills the space, the shape of a simple square altar emerges. Behind the altar, a wall of glass twenty feet high. Just visible through the glass is another figure, tall, graceful, silent: a huge redwood tree. Its presence is particularly strong this morning. It is the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. Since at least the time of Constantine, Christians have been meditating on this great mystery, the saving wood of the cross, or as some would later call it, the verdant cross. The tree on which salvation was won. Today, in this place, we approach the great mystery in silence. A third image: a young woman wakes up, opens her eyes, and looks around. She sees branches and sky and, inches from her face, a northern squirrel looking at her. Suddenly she remembers: she is living in a tree. She has been living in the branches of this redwood tree, one hundred and eighty feet above the ground, for over a year. The tree is called Luna. Her name is Julia. She is here because she loves this tree and this forest. The ground beneath the tree is nearly bare: most of the other trees have been cut. The land is owned by Pacific Lumber Company. Julia and all those supporting her lonely vigil here are trespassing. But she says she will not come down until she receives an assurance that Luna and what is left of the surrounding forest will be preserved. These three images are part of a single complex reality: the struggle to save what is left of the Headwaters Forest in northern California. It is a many-faceted struggle, involving ecological research, community organizing, political action, legal maneuvering, and economic calculation. …