Sea change
I just got back from a jaunt to the Cascade mountains in Oregon. It was amazing. Whenever I visit my father's house in the mountains, reality outstrips memory as soon as I step out of the car and into the overwhelming mountain silence. It takes a while to adjust to the reduced noise level, but soon the sounds begin to return: rustling leaves, the small scratch of animals and occasional birdsong.

The second thing to overwhelm me is the sense of the place. Of Blue Mountain. Nothing but trees and fields and mountains and trees as far as the eye can see. I am cupped within a curvaceous riot of greens, dark and light, sharp and soft, brightened by splashes of foxglove, lily, fireweed and daisy.

There are 52 windows in my father's house, to let the mountains in. A porch circles the front, shaded by a grape vine and slowly ripening concord grapes. A garden to one side contains flowers of every color and description: blue centaurea, coreopsis, cosmos, lavender and mint, sage and snapdragons, roses and Sweet Everlasting, there are too many to name. Behind the house is a young apple orchard, protected by chickenwire from the opportunistic deer that live nearby.

Blackberries crowd the long driveway down to the Blue Mountain Lane, bejeweled clusters of wicked sweetness. Paths wander away from the house into fields of broom and flowers and into the tall forested slopes. A short hike down a green hill athwart a cedern cover leads to three ponds ringed by birch and willow and dappled with fallen leaves. The air is so still there, it feels as if your arm will slow and then stop if you try to wave it.

Being surrounded by nature like this, so overwhelming and inescapable and splendid in its variety, changes me. It strips away the artificiality of modern life. It makes me feel transparent as glass and stone-simple, as easy in my skin as a cat. My gaze is clearer. I talk less, and listen more. I wake at dawn. I can wander for hours, dining off of sunwarmed blackberries and sweet apples, nibbling Eve-like on rose hips and juniper berries and marveling at the shocking brilliance of the summer stars.

Food is a celebration, here. A cup of morning coffee, freshly roasted from the local farmer's market; a breakfast cereal of blackberries and cream, judiciously supplemented by corn flakes; fresh-caught steeleye salmon, stuffed with garlic and greens from the garden and cooked on the grill; A rich pinot noir from the winery down the road, and homemade blackberry ice cream for dessert.

We visited the coast during my visit. I've been to many shorelines--Florida, the Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico, California, France, Spain, Greece, the North Sea--but there is none that can match the Oregon shore for sheer, inhuman magnitude. I'm engulfed by its endless broad beaches, smooth and white and scattered with driftwood too artistically shaped to be anything but natural. Waves boom against the black cliffs, smash and shatter and froth, over the rocks and into my soul. The sky is filled with cormorants and seagulls, and the salt wind carries the tang of a thousand sea tales. Lick your lips, and you can taste them.

The Oregon coast has a power that is palpable. It surges through me whether I will or no. There is a magic here, ancient and rough and blind, that is harbored in the ceaseless movement and exchange of wind, water and rock. Everyone has a landscape that fits their spirit, hand to glove, and the Oregon coast is mine. I feel more intensely alive here than anywhere else in the world.

One day, I will live here. I will retire to a small shack on a broad strand, near Yachats or Newport or perhaps Florence, where I will take driftwood and shells and wool and silk and weave artistic wall hangings to sell in town. All of the kids will be convinced that I'm a witch, but won't be able to resist the butter caramels that I sell in town and give out to passing children...the best butter caramels for a hundred miles around. I will wear broad floppy hats and patchwork velvet skirts and overalls. And every morning I'll walk on broad, horned bare feet along the water's edge, my hair blowing neglected down my back, berating the seagulls and conversing with the western wind as I gather sea-gifts one by one.

One day.