Richard Olmer

Paradise is something that most folks picture way off in the distance or on the other side of the world or even on some alien planet (or maybe even in some alternate reality). I am naïve enough to believe that paradise is right here. Paradise is a bench overlooking the Olympic Mountains or the view from an Adirondack chair on the pier at Lake Crescent Lodge or the view of the Pacific Ocean from Rialto Beach. Paradise is in our neighborhood, not unreachable.

I don't understand an archeologist out in the desert seeking the Garden of Eden based on his readings of ancient texts. I see Eden when I walk through a mature hemlock forest. And, even without reading the ancient texts, I know that Eden has a dancing, leaping stream of clear, cool water at its heart that crashes over and against rocks as it tumbles downhill ... sort of like the Graywolf River.

One thing that has been difficult for me to learn ... is that paradise is not a single place; it is a collection of places. And, it is not a place that you discover, it is a place that opens itself to you. In order to explain this to you, I have to admit that I am much more a clumsy Neanderthal than a suave, modern individual. I learn from my mistakes more than from my successes. Place exposes itself to me, not through reading or research, but through touch, smell, and feel. I did not marry my wife Candy because of data or reports or e-mails or rumors. I spent time with her and listened to her. It is the same way that you learn about place. It is not scientific, it is emotional. My first wife and I took batteries of psychological tests and were told that we were compatible, but our marriage was a mess!

The first time I walked out on Dungeness Spit, it was unique, but not compelling. It took a 5-mile walk back from the lighthouse during a high tide, strong winds and a driving rain to begin to know the spit. It took some weeks out at the lighthouse during the winter to know it better, some trips to remove non-native plants on Graveyard Spit, some trash collecting at the spit's end to know it more fully. It even took a number of walks beneath the bluffs to the west of the spit to sense how the spit is formed and grows and repairs itself when it is breached. Probably, the ultimate knowing was to jump into the waves on a hot summer day.

We all seem to take for granted that we need to take time to form relationships with other folks. We learn that these relationships can be quite meaningful and helpful and yet, we often ignore the lessons taught to us by place. I often find that places can nourish me, teach me, and calm me much more than folks. Place doesn't intrude on my being the way that other folks sometimes do, rather place accepts me as I am at the moment. Place is not judgmental ... something that I wish were more true of myself. I try to not judge, but it seems to be a deep seated part of me. Even with places, I seem to want or need to compare one place with another.

When I can stop comparing, I realize that each place is so different from each other place. No one place can ever be "best." I try to cultivate the sense that wherever I am is the best place for me to be at this moment. Each place, like each person I meet can add something to my understanding and enjoyment of life.

And, quite honestly, often the best place is just is just that anonymous place that you pass through on your way somewhere else ... somewhere like the Elwha River Valley.