I read Colin Meloy’s Wildwood before I moved to Oregon. It was a complicated read for me, vocabularic beyond my reach but with a slight hint of Animal Farm-a tenth grade requirement which would inform much of how I see politics and government today.
When I make the drive from Central Oregon to Portland, it is very much a passing between worlds. Mine is high and dry, sagebrush, silver and yellow. Theirs is low and moist, floral, green and dogwood. Just 150 miles apart, The Rose City bears almost no resemblance to the High Desert whatsoever.
The gifts of driving across Mt. Hood from one community of plants and people to another are surprising and immeasurable, especially when big deals are sitting on my heart.
I wonder if Colin had magical, illuminating moments driving through the Wildwood while he was writing his book?
The truth seems to want to reveal itself there, in the absence of all other communication range, oddly enough. The words come staggering and stuttering out of my mouth in an attempt to excitedly translate. The funny thing about what I call the “white light moments” is that there is no language for them. It’s just…knowing.
Knowing that everything will be okay.