In the shade of giants
Along the ragged hem of the continent,
where the Pacific Ocean beats the northern coastal rim—
the land is forged by fire and water.
Heavy beds of volcanic ash gave birth to Goliathan forests that stand like ancient giants;
towering sentries, silent and watchful, standing guard from the coastal breaks to the shoulders of the Olympic Mountains.
This is where I first learned to see the world—not just with my eyes—
but with my senses.
Rain doesn’t merely fall here—
it saturates.
It gathers in the air, beads along bark, seeps into everything until the world feels soaked in silence.
The ground is spongy underfoot.
Moss clings to every surface—the forest, wrapped in a blanket of green.
The air is thick with dampness and evergreen, sea wind and the drumming of rain.
It isn’t just scenery. It is a world that seeps into the skin—a primeval silence, alive and primitive, that listens back.
And to an observant boy . . .
it became part of him—something carried forward, like breath, into everything his hands would one day create.
Even now, no matter how far I travel, I carry the forests and the rainlight with me.
Here, the land dominates.
The air is clear and cold, like the icy runoff of a spring thaw.
It humbles you.
It sharpens your senses.
I walked these places again and again—
through shifting seasons,
in the wash of morning light,
beneath skies heavy with rain or painted with sunset.
I learned the language of their shadows, the way the wind moved through grass and trees,
the quiet endurance in every curve of land.
I painted them to capture their beauty. I painted to remember what they gave me. These places, quiet and enduring, shaped more than my work. They shaped the way I see the world.
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