My friend Malcolm Margolin called hanging out with friends and family “warming oneself at the hearth of their stories.” All we have to do is kindle those flames.

How often I hear people say, “I wish that before (insert name here) passed away, I had asked her about….!” History disappears with the departed unless we’ve captured their stories—or even taken the time to ask.

Where have we come from? How did we get here? Two of my driving questions.

In Blog #1, I explained my own trajectory in coming to the forest after decades of teaching in urban areas. I needed to immerse myself in nature.

Now, as to the origins of these lands themselves, walking among these hills, I often contemplate what life was like before non-Native colonizers came, how the indigenous Pomo and Yuki once lived here. Not so very long ago—up to the 1850s—they thrived on the plenty provided by the sea, forests, rivers, and valleys and lived in relative peace for generations.

Many folks ask, “What’s it like living in a one-room cabin in the woods? It must be so peaceful and beautiful!” Beautiful, yes! Surrounded by redwood trees, tanoaks, madrone, and fir.

Peaceful, often, but I’m still busy. Even tucked away in a forest, I’m connected via satellite and cellphone to a lifetime of beloved family and friends. The lives of others I cherish—or hear of on the news—are not always peaceful. Sorrows, challenges, and joys all abound.