I’m craving my favorite place in the world.
I didn’t really know it was my favorite until more recently as the time grows that I’ve been away from it.
It is in the hills above the Sonoma Coastline. It begins at a large secluded house set away from the world. Separated from many things by woods of redwood trees and little towns full of hippies and coffee shops and bookstores. Part of why I love it is truly from those things that put it away from the world. Because you can go back toward normal life and get stopped by those storybook lands and realize that you still have respite lost in the fog.
It is quiet and then sometimes birds fly out of the mist and my little brother runs by yelling and waving a stick at some imaginary foe.
Minutes away is a river that winds to a cold, gray, wild and wonderful sea. Most people love going to the beach for sun and relaxation and palm trees. My love affair with the sea is different, we meet at the shore, I am scarved and blanketed, surviving each other. The haunting wildness is something that I will never forget, that calls me back. It lends itself to writing and reading and music and love. And leaves you aching for a strong cup of coffee.
The hills above this coastline are tall, but not indomitable. I have been lost in their woods on the way up a trail and finally emerge out of the gray to see the fog lift and the gold of the hills is free to beam at the sight of a rare bluest of blue seas. It has a sky to reflect and so it trots out the hues: turquoise, aqua, ultramarine, that it must hide in the depths or keep cloistered at its edges most days.
My favorite place is magical. It is quiet. It is God-breathed. It is wondrous.
