My Travels

Seattle, USA - April 2019

 Mt. Rainier National Park

The temperature must've been in the high 50's, but I felt no chill through my bones, no lack of feeling in the fingertips that often comes with cold. By the time I reached the top of that hill, which housed a long-abandoned mineshaft, my blood ran warm and reassuring, and my lungs rose and fell to welcome fresher air. The satisfaction of finishing a hike so close to being abandoned soothed an aching heart.

I remember, even a year later, how deeply I inhaled that crisp wooden air - I would pull at the lowest reaches of my chest to meet with it, and only when it did would I dare expel it out again. How could I not, when I so rarely could experience the scent of the forest met with rain? It was the sort of cleansing breath that lifts one up from melancholy.

I had never seen so much greenery, so clustered and crammed into every corner of the space, yet existing in undeterred harmony. Upon the logs of fallen trees sprouted saplings, their roots hugging the curves. Moss filled in every crack of every trunk, every blemish and etching in the stone. Even in dark places grew grass indistinguishable from grass kissed by sunlight. To this day it remains, of all my travels, the most beautiful display of color and life I have ever seen.

A long series of puddles drew out from the mineshaft that turned into a stream. It babbled neatly down the hillside as if trying not to interfere with the visitor's step; stones and twigs lined its banks, and adorned the dark soil that moved the water along. No one could have manufactured it - it looked far too spontaneous. And there is extra beauty in spontaneity. 

Minuscule pinecones dotted the entire trail floor. And perhaps it was just my obsession with the small and tiny, but I felt strange sympathy for them - little bijoux of nature, so delicate and vulnerable, so close to being crushed by a hiker's step. Before I knew it, my pockets were lined with them, and now they sit in a candle's glass, shielded from harm, as I recollect the moment.

I heard the birds singing, as any forest will share with you. But I heard more my companion's gentle laugh and voice, and the soft crunch of the occasional snowbank under my curious Californian feet. Such sounds can never be grown tired of, for no one will ever conclude they've heard enough of them.

Pike Place Market

This place holds special significance for me when I flip through pictures of the trip. I remember walking fast to slink through the dense crowds. Many would find it annoying, but something about so many going about their business on that warm spring day, not many with a rude disposition, reassured me.

No one looked upwards to see the neon signs that I would never let my eyes train away from. Yes, I am a tourist, but the lights and banners that adorned the marketplace were so cheerful and jovial I'd likely never stop looking if I lived there. I would embrace infinite distraction.

The part that stood out, however, were the daffodils. The greatest flowers on the planet, and a keen reminder of the season we were in. Every hybrid and color imaginable overflowed from buckets, and the vendors lined every entrance to the market. My eyes were drawn to a white-petaled, pink-centered combination, that looked as though love's own hand had brought them up for all to see. If I could've brought them home before they wilted, I likely would've gotten more than a dozen. I would've scooped them up in hand and walked aimlessly through Seattle, with no purpose other than to clasp something faultless and beautiful. And I'd never let them go.

One day I will return, maybe with one I will love, and I will get a daffodil for them, one of every color. Not one left out, not even if they breed every known color to man by the time I get there. Not one.