Savor Harder

To trees and water who are forever falling

The first time I saw someone wholeheartedly, full-bodily savor was on an autumn walk in New England with my now-boyfriend, Raj. Walking through our college campus, a couple of weeks since meeting, we came upon a tree whose wide trunk extended into generations of branches full of red, orange, and yellow leaves. A gust of wind hit. The branches swayed, and the clustered leaves whisper-yelled into the air. Raj looked up at the tree, swayed with the wind, bent left at the waist, and let out a small moan. He walked up to the trunk, pressed his palm against the ridged bark, and closed his eyes. Standing several feet back, I was wide-eyed and rigid. That’s when I knew I was doing life wrong.

This past spring, I flew to Northern California, and the land was greener than I ever remember, and the ocean bluer. My parents, Raj, and I drove three hours north of San Francisco to Mendocino County and walked through a grove of old-growth redwoods wider than I can believe. Giant trunks as wide as I am tall were toppled over, covering the forest floor and decomposing into rich soil. One fallen tree had separated from an outer layer of its trunk, leaving behind a fragment of tree trunk rooted and spiking upwards. Another tree’s fall had pulled up its base, unearthing a wall of roots two to three times my height. Some of the exposed tree roots were smooth and curving like blown glass, and some ended in wooden nubs the size of titan fists that must have once connected to root networks underground.

Growing up in San Francisco, I was among redwoods frequently, but I never knew to stop, stare, sway, moan, and place my palm against their bark. I often say that Raj taught me how to love trees. We were the only people in the forest, and as my parents ceaselessly snapped photos on their phones, I tried to channel Raj and wholeheartedly, full-bodily savor. I closed my eyes, inhaled, and tried to understand the redwood needles under my shoes. I tried to be more present than I was, give gratitude to the trees, remember this moment forever, and then opened my eyes. I was still in awe, but I was also afraid. I kept thinking that my time among the trees was limited and that I had to savor as much as possible now because it would soon be over.

I once waded by a small waterfall 10 feet tall and 20 feet wide when I decided to walk through the sheet of water. As I moved through it, the falling water pummeled into my skull, my shoulders, and my back, pressing me into the clay ground. Once through, my face was drenched and stinging. I turned around and, with rock wall behind my back and a curtain of thundering water before me, hiding me from the world, I knew I would likely never experience such a submersion in nature again. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sound of the crashing water and the texture of the currents. I opened my eyes, distracted by the same greedy dissatisfaction that I would lose this moment eventually, and soon.

I turned 25 this year, which means I’m at the so-called woman’s peak of fertility, attractiveness, and value. When I stride past older adults using canes and walkers or when I read about elder abuse and loneliness or when I wake up and the laugh lines between my nose and mouth are more pronounced, dread bubbles up. There is some fairness to aging, as all old people were once young. I learn this every time I walk through a college campus and see that the students are the same age while I have gotten older. Still, I am young, which sometimes overwhelms me with the need to take advantage of my youth. But what does that even mean? Should I run, bike, ski, and snowboard as fast as my body allows? Should I change jobs every year? Should I be single? Should I make terrible mistakes? Should I stare more at ancient trees and endless waterfalls? We are not young because we earned it, just as we do not grow old as a punishment, so how can we know what to do with our youth while we have it?

My trouble is in experiencing savoring as consumption, an insatiable act. Savoring the present moment—the trees around me, the rush of water in my ears, my youth—has no effect on the relentless passage of time. Every moment will end, and I am left dreading the future. Instead of savoring, I am now trying to accept. I am submitting myself to the fact that I cannot memorize the spectacular ancientness around me or understand how I have been brought to co-exist with it. Trees and water are beyond me, as are flowers, birdsong, snowfall, and clouds. There is only so much we can comprehend and so much we can savor. What I hope for is acceptance.

The Northern California redwoods have witnessed many wildfires and will witness many more. In the old-growth grove, the scarred bark of some trees resembles the skin of a reptile—gray-black and bubbled over. On other trees, fire only licked at the inside of their trunks, leaving behind teepee-shaped caves while the outer bark remains intact and the branches and leaves continue to grow. I stepped inside one of these burned caves and gasped. Redwood forests are already cool and shaded, but entering the hollow of the tree trunk is a submersion into black, still, quiet. It feels holy, like walking from a busy boulevard into a stained glass cathedral. Squinting inside the tree, I couldn’t discern the texture of wood around me or the height of the space above me. I took out my phone and turned on the flashlight. Shining it around the tree’s insides, I still could see nothing. There was only the darkness of an ancient and unknowable being.