Have you ever felt small? Tiny? Minuscule? Insignificant? Benign?
Small.
It's such a perfect word for the emotion it conveys, at least to me. When I look at it, I feel all the times I've felt lost in a sea of people in a crowded area. I feel how big the universe looks when I look up at the night sky and how minuscule I am in comparison. I feel all of the stresses and problems that sometimes consume my mind melt into nothingness as I realize how trivial of a place I hold in the world; in the grand scheme of things.
There's a scene in the movie Birdman where a recovering addict tells her father about the ticks she makes on a roll of toilet paper that really hits the meaning of small that I'm so often stuck on right smack on the head. Have a watch:
Humans have seen such a tiny piece of the history that life has endured on this planet. We take up so much space on it now that it's rather easy to feel self important and big. Like everyone else on this planet, I get wrapped up in my own existence, my own self perceived importance, my own grandeur. My woes seem insurmountable and my happinesses seem impossible for others to empathize with. Like somehow my experiences are totally unique and that no other human being has ever experienced what I have. It's fucking silly, because they have.
Which is why I seek out experiences that make me feel small. I like to make sure that I don't get so wrapped up in what's going on inside of my head that I forget how tiny I am. Doing this helps me remember to fully embrace the human experience, with all its ups, downs, whirlygigs, and shared experience. To soak in the good and the bad equally and find the beauty in both, and then remember: I am small.
There are a number of ways to get that small feeling. Redwoods National Forest is one of them. I'm not exaggerating when I say that there are some of the world's most monstrous trees there. But what is more gigantic is the knowledge that those trees have lived through so much. They were sitting right there growing before our country was a thing. Before colonists even landed in New England. They sat there and grew while Native Americans in the region lived and died. They persisted as the great migration to California for the wonderful resources, like themselves. Most of them have burn scars all over their trunks, meaning they just kept sitting there growing while the world around them burned, and they live to bear the evidence. They survived us showing up and cutting almost all of them down, and those that are left protected by our desire to remind ourselves how great this world is, silently scream through their massive tallness the story of perseverance.
The trees I'm talking about are those in Tall Trees Grove, an old growth grove right smack dab in the middle of a densely populated Redwood forest. To get here, we had to show our own level of perseverance. We checked in at the local visitor's center, gave the ranger there our license plate number, personal information, emergency contact info, and the details of our visit. Once I had signed the parking and camping permits, the ranger pulled a giant map out of the area and explained the 13 mile route I would take to the trail head parking lot and the combination to the gate leading there. He explained that the entire drive would be through second growth forest until we hit the trail head, where the old growth grove began.
They only let a predetermined number of visitors to this particular grove each day in order minimize the human impact on the forest, which is one of a few of its kind. The ranger then showed us where on the map we were allowed to camp, along with some other rules before we topped off on water and left. We had driven hard from Oregon that day to get to the visitor's center before it closed and even though we had covered a couple hundred miles that day, but the next 13 took us about an hour to navigate. The road was steep and wound around the stumps of monsters that had already been logged and of up and coming Redwood monstrosities. We went slower than we had to, but it was worth it.
Low hanging clouds came in as we parked and got our camping gear packed. A light drizzle, as is the theme of this trip so far, began as we made our way into the much darker forest. Even in the dim dusk light, Corbin and I both were struck with wonder, walking up to touch as many of them as we could, like some child's idea of a handshake for trees. And much like a child we were in awe of their size juxtaposed next to our puny hands. Before long darkness settled on the forest floor and we were so distracted that we hadn't made it even close to camp. Even in the darkness you can feel their enormity looming over you in the almost cave like darkness. Once found, we made camp and slept.
And woke a few hours later. Birds and bugs were waking also. We broke camp and found an old fire pit on the banks of the creek turned river to make breakfast. We spent all morning there, cooking, eating, reading, writing, stretching in the new found and short lived sunshine, all while stopping every few minutes to yell at each other "Look at them! They're so big!" as if we thought the other had forgotten.
Walking through the grove during the day was just as magical as in the dark, but instead of only sensing the majesty of these monsters we could actually see them. And I've got the crick in my neck to prove it. We saw what for a long time used to be the tallest tree in the world. We saw mushrooms that were otherworldly, and only a handful of people quietly wandering with their mouths agape and their heads thrown back as much as possible, just like we were. And it was wonderful.
On the drive out of the grove and into the rest of Northern California, I consistently thought about those trees, some of which have been alive for 1,500 years. I mulled over how small I am, squished between giant trees and an even more massive Pacific Ocean. I was reminded by the fact that those trees still stood by some stroke of human forethought that was missing when the rest of the forests were logged, that even small decisions can accomplish meaningful things. I may feel small, but only in the sense that there is more to the world than myself, and should act accordingly.
