Magnificent roots of the Redwoods

Years ago, I traveled with my family and best friend to the United Kingdom.
We took buses, trains, and taxis to reach our destinations as we toured England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. One stop remains vivid in my memory—the York Minster in York, North Yorkshire, England.
Workers began construction on the massive Anglican cathedral in 627 and completed it 252 years later.
As we tiptoed through the church—the tower alone stands 21 stories high—I was awed by the vaulted ceilings, arched doors, and medieval stained-glass windows.
The huge, circular Rose Window, created in 1515, with the sun lighting the rich colors of each painstakingly created rose panel. Despite the other tourists and guides, a sacred stillness pervaded the entire cathedral.
Fast forward to this last summer, when Ted and I vacationed in the Northwest. After we hiked the Tsurai Trail, we headed for the nearby Lady Bird Johnson Redwood Grove in the Redwood National Park.
President Nixon dedicated the grove in 1969 to former First Lady, Lady Bird Johnson, to honor her work in beautifying American highways and protecting natural habitats.
I enjoyed reading the plaque about the grove’s political history, but it didn’t prepare me for the spiritual chills I felt when we crossed the bridge into a stand of the tallest trees in the world.
Walking in a redwood forest, one author says, “means entering the cathedral of nature,” and it truly felt like we had entered a holy space as the massive trees towered above us, diffusing the sunlight through their branches and needles and quieting human sounds with their massive presence.
A stillness pervaded the forest, deeper even than the mere absence of sound, and everyone we met seemed to sense that same silence.
Despite the awe that many feel when entering the primeval woodlands, redwoods were nearly obliterated after gold fever abated and logging began.
In fact, only five percent of the old growth trees remain, including those along California’s and Oregon’s coasts. They continue to flourish, sometimes growing as tall 380 feet, with their upper stories nourished by the constant coastal fogs. They weigh up to 500 tons, and live 2,000 years or more.
These forest behemoths are remarkably resilient because their fibrous bark is often a foot thick. They don’t produce much pitch or resin, making them fire resistant, but they do produce tannic acid, making them insect and rot resistant.
They also have lateral root systems, going down only 10 to 13 feet, but spreading out 60 to 80 feet. The roots intertwine with neighboring roots which provides stability for the entire grove.
If a tree dies, saplings grow around the trunk’s base in a “fairy ring” and draw nourishment from the already established root system.
A few days after we walked the loop path in the Lady Bird Redwood Grove, we explored the trails in the Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park near Crescent City, CA.
In the interim, we visited the ocean with its offshore islands, spotting cormorants and seals sunning on their slopes, the Lake Earl Wildlife Viewing Area, the Crescent City beach and lighthouse, and a laundromat, all of which, except for the laundromat, were fascinating, but I didn’t feel any goosebumps as we toured the areas.
I began to think the potent stillness I’d felt in the Lady Bird Johnson Grove was a fluke, but as we roamed the Jedediah Smith Park, tingles again swept over me at the sheer magnificence of the trees. Our selfies show us dwarfed by the ancient giants.
It wasn’t until recently, however, that I started pondering the significance of the redwood root system, especially in light of the current Middle East conflict.
Because I belong to an international Sheng Zhen teachers’ organization, I have acquaintances in Israel.
Sheng Zhen, developed by Master Li Jun Feng, includes moving and non-moving meditations. Its forms cultivate physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being and include the overarching philosophy of unconditional love.
That is a tough philosophy considering the current situation, but while referring to the conflict in our Tuesday Zoom class, Master Li admonished us “to love our enemies.”
That same day, one of my Israeli friends started a daily meditation for peace which I’ve been participating in over Zoom.
Each day, after we finish, the Israeli teachers talk about the rockets they hear during our time together.
In the midst of the war, despite their grief and fear, they pray for peace, not just for themselves, not just for their enemies, but for all humankind, and they feel the power of our coming together in support and love.
Like the redwoods intertwining their roots to create stability and nourishment for the entire forest, we weave our hearts together for humanity.
Of course, we don’t need to be in a Zoom meeting to do that. All of us, any of us, alone or together, at any time, in any place, and in any way, can pray for peace and love.
Those prayers, drawing on heaven’s power, create a sacred space whether we’re in a magnificent church like the York Minster, a temple, a humble home in front of a computer, or nature, and I’m convinced they make a real difference.
Redwoods are often referred to as the Tree of Life because they literally connect the sky above with the earth below.
Perhaps that’s why I felt their spiritual strength as Ted and I walked through those ancient forests.