The Octagon at Western Hills Garden. This was a retreat and artist residency I didn’t realize I desperately needed.

After a whirlwind week of events, leaving the Bay area for the hills felt like a delicious escape from reality. When we were coordinating tour dates and flights, there was a gap of time between the San Francisco leg and the New York leg, so I exchanged the urban environ of Lauren and Justin’s place for a hideaway in a rural hamlet of Sonoma county with Hadley, Kent and Simone. Hadley’s family invited me to Western Hills Garden to test-drive the property for artist retreat and residency opportunities.

The view of the garden from the octagon. Every night I listened to the rain in the dark, and hid away beneath the redwoods to protect myself from the rain.

For the weeks in the garden, I transported watercolors and ink sticks through airport security. There was a guitar, a kitchen and an out-of-tune piano waiting amidst 3 acres of green and rushing water. I stayed in the Octagon house overlooking the middle layer and situated under a fairy ring of redwoods. The window overlooked a water feature surrounded by a tangle of palm trees, succulents, and ferns. Paradise indeed must have been a garden, and I was there for the deluge.

a little hut on the beach mad me want to relive my childhood fantasy of living like the main character of Island of the Blue Dolphins.

For most of my visit, it rained. Not regular rain, but an atmospheric river dubbed “The Pineapple Express” fell from the sky for weeks. The first full day was the only really dry one, so we paid a solemn visit to the Pacific Ocean. For the remainder of the time, I slept, painted, cooked, and played guitar. There was little need for anything else.

In the deep stillness of slick green I found myself able to write again. I don’t know the last time I was able to write so much, so consistently (High school English, probably. We had a wonderful teacher, Dottie Feeney, who graciously provided coffee, a record player, and 15 glorious minutes of grappling with the interior castle each and every day). Good medicine, good rest, good food, and a chance to make good music.

We cooked chicken and howled in the moonlight, hoping to conjure Tom Waits to join us for Simone’s 17th birthday hootenany. I introduced Hadley to his ballads and we fell in love with the man on the hills under the gush of the atmospheric river. We started a temporary cover band, called The Stony Ponies and debated whether getting merch together was essential for our commercial success, or if we shouldn’t keep to our folksy d.i.y. roots. I spent nights in the darkness listening to the audiobook version of Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, and listening to mostly one album on repeat.

Hadley, Lauren, and I in the foliage at Western Hills Garden. Photo by John Burgess for the Press Democrat. Maybe it could be the promo photo for the Stony Ponies North American grunge cover tour?

Kent shared his special stash of local spirits (including whiskey and amaro), and Hadley and I poured one for Lester and Marshall, the men who built the dream of paradise into a reality. I saw the full moon rise from the night shadows of palms, and saw the big dipper in the inky cerulean sky. Magnolias and an assortment of other gorgeous flowers erupted in splendid shows of color.

Experiencing not one but two intimate environments shared with the families of Hadley and Lauren, was a breathe of release. After surviving the fallout of a global pandemic, sustained cultural race wars, and life in a city that feels like it is constantly trying to suck the soul out of my body, it felt good to be under the cover of green and water. For a little while, at least, to be able to be outside (or inside for that matter) without fear of danger to my physical or emotional person. To enjoy the beauty of fresh clean air, mighty water, and the silent dark of night was like church. For too many folks, especially Black and brown folks, these natural places and spaces have gone beyond our reach. Safe communities, access to nature, and freedom from the constant wounding of racism should not be luxuries.

I am still mourning the loss of freedom that came with returning home. Away from the daily gunfire, screaming matches, and speeding cars that mark life on my block and in much of my city, I was able to gather my thoughts enough to start writing again. If nothing else came from the experience of illustrating the book and going on the tour, this would have been enough. But the journey continues, and so does the story.

Thanks for reading part three. You can hop over to part one by clicking this link, and following along with the rest of the adventure. As a little thank you, here’s a link to my Tri Coastal Tour Playlist. If you’d like to purchase a book and postcard bundle, head over to the shop.

paradise was a garden (bridges and bookends, part 3)