Nostalgia

   "At the distance of five miles from Antioch, the Macedonian kings of Syria had consecrated to Apollo one of the most elegant places of devotion in the Pagan world. A magnificent temple rose in honour of the god of light; and his colossal figure almost filled the capacious sanctuary, which was enriched with gold and gems, and adorned by the skill of the Grecian artists. The deity was represented in a bending attitude, with a golden cup in his hand, pouring out a libation on the earth; as if he supplicated the venerable mother to give to his arms the cold and beauteous Daphne: for the spot was ennobled by fiction; and the fancy of the Syrian poets had transported the amorous tale from the banks of the Peneus to those of the Orontes. The ancient rites of Greece were imitated by the royal colony of Antioch. A stream of prophecy, which rivalled the truth and reputation of the Delphic oracle, flowed from the Castalian fountain of Daphne. In the adjacent fields a stadium was bu...

   Easing deeper into the woods, I notice that some trees are joined together as pairs. One of the partners is usually larger than the other, and most have grown from a fallen tree trunk or stump, of which only a rotted hulk remains. Surprisingly, many of the pairs are mixed. The first of these I find is a fluted hemlock standing with a smooth-trunked spruce. The two lean slightly apart, but near the ground they merge, so that each has shaped itself into the other. The most remarkable thing is their roots, an intertwined mass of living tree flesh that grows over a decayed log like a tangle of fingers clutching the dark earth below. In some pairs, the root masses rise five or six feet above the ground before coalescing into mated trunks.    These coupled trees reach into the same soil and share its nurturing, share the same rains, brace themselves against the same shuddering gusts, feel the same summer warmth and winter cold, flourish in the same moments of ...

   My fears about the boat subside as the night passes. Wind, sea, and rain become a voice of pure wildness, expression of the enormous, powerful thing that was born far out over the ocean, grew and intensified, and now sprawls up against the coast. Someday a storm like this might catch me on the water and carry me away, but I love it all the same. What better way to vanish than into the dark flailing breath of a north Pacific storm?    I float toward sleep, drawn away from the fears in my mind by the comforting tempest outside. The great storm contains me. - Richard Nelson, "The Island Within"