I’m sleeping on a bed that was made for a cellist. The bed is raised high up off the ground by shelves at its head and foot, and in the middle, under the bed, is an empty space. A place to keep a cello for a cellist who once lived with little space to spare. Now the bed is in a small cabin just north of Fort Bragg, and the space under the bed serves well the suitcases of visitors who come to the Pacific coast and let the ocean breathe into them. The cellist is no longer a cellist but a gardener. “I hated being inside. Hours in the practice room – that was the worst thing for me.”
From the gardens around the cabin comes the night-time song of frogs. The garden around the cabin is beautiful – plants and trees shape this living space, extending to the outside the created world of a home that tends and protects. It has been raining a lot, and all the outdoors brims and drips with water droplets. Under the wide spread of a cedar tree is an outdoor bathtub, reached across a green carpet of baby’s tears ground cover. I lie in the steaming bathtub in the dark, under the branches, after the rain.
|Garden bathtub between the leaves|
|McKerricher State Park|