Quote

There was not one cause for our internment, but many - a deep-seated racial prejudice working on top of fear, distrust, and greed. So how is one to say exactly where history begins or ends? It is all slow oscillations, curves, and waves which take so long to reveal themselves ... like watching a tree grow.

Gretel Ehrlich

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Gretel Ehrlich
Age: 78
Born: 1946
Born: January 21
Essayist
Writer
Santa Barbara
California
Ends
Cause
Racism
Internment
Take
Grow
Slow
Seated
Many
Tree
Prejudice
Curves
Long
Grows
Begins
Distrust
Like
Causes
Wave
Racial
Working
Watching
Waves
History
Exactly
Reveal
Oscillations
Fear
Deep
Greed
Oscillation

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All through autumn we hear a double voice: one says everything is ripe the other says everything is dying. The paradox is exquisite. We feel what the Japanese call aware--an almost untranslatable word meaning something like beauty tinged with sadness.
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It's no wonder human beings are so narcissistic. The way our ears are constructed, we can hear only what is right next to us or else the internal monologue inside.
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True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
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I understood why war zones are called 'theaters' because they frame a kind of play acting or, worse, deceit, that can stain a human life forever: the deceit of hate on hearsay - hating an enemy one doesn't know.
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Fog rolled in like a form of sorrow. To live exiled from a place you have known intimately is to experience sensory deprivation. A wide-awake coma. ... The sea was a memory bank into which everything fell and was lost. I dove in but came out empty-handed.
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Am I like the optimist who, while falling ten stories from a building, says at each story, I'm all right so far?
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Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.
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To rise above treeline is to go above thought, and after, the descent back into bird song, bog orchids, willows, and firs is to sink into the preliterate parts of ourselves.
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Islands are reminders of arrivals and departures.
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To long for love, to have experienced passion's deep pleasure, even once, is to understand the mercilessness of having a human body whose memory rides desire's back unanchored from season to season.
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Finally, the lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life.
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I thought: to be tough is to be fragile to be tender is to be truly fierce.
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Perhaps despair is the only human sin.
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Ritual which could entail a wedding or brushing one's teeth goes in the direction of life. Through it we reconcile our barbed solitude with rushing, irreducible conditions of life.
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A tree is an aerial garden, a botanical migration from the sea, from those earliest plants, the seaweeds it is a purchase on crumbled rock, on ground. The human, standing, is only a different upsweep and articulation of cells. How treelike we are, how human the tree.
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The toughness I was learning was not a martyred doggedness, a dumb heroism, but the art of accommodation. I thought: to be tough is to be fragile to be tender is to be truly fierce.
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To trace the history of a river . . . is to trace the history of the soul, the history of the mind descending and arising in the body.
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Walking is also an ambulation of mind.
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Between highway sounds I heard waves and thought how the curve of the coastline here had sheltered and nurtured live-born sharks, humans, and migrating whales. Here, at the edge of the continent, time and distance stopped in the lull between sets of waves I could get a fresh start.
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I like to think of the landscape not as a fixed place but as a path that is unwinding before my eyes, under my feet. To see and know a place is a contemplative act. It means emptying our minds and letting what is there, in all its mulitplicity and endless variety, come in.
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