Remnants of Eden

“And the Lord God said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil… So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken.”

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/C7auoVfyMULPaj4j8

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August 26th, 2024- California Day 3

“What kind of music do you like?” 

Icebreakers always trip me up. Call me a chronic overthinker, but is that really supposed to be a simple question? Music taste says a lot about a person, so your answer is critical. Now that I think about it, it’s a good thing I married Tyler when I did. If I had been released into the dating scene like my peers, I’d still be stuck on my first date, trying to figure out the answer to an icebreaker. What kind of music do I like? My preferences don’t fit into tidy boxes. I like music that sounds good. How’s that for an answer? I love listening to movie soundtracks because the orchestral instrumentation carries the emotions of a narrative. I like listening to 1930s big band music because it makes me nostalgic for the era my great-grandmother knew. I like listening to folk and bluegrass music because it is the music of my Kentucky heritage. I listen to indie, rock, classical, opera, country, folk, and everything in between. I appreciate the artistry in nearly every music form. Now do you see why I’m incapable of answering “What kind of music do you like?”?

While we were in California, there was a folk song by Amelia Day that played in my mind endlessly. I’ll quote some of the lyrics below:

“Eastward of Eden, where the clouds meet the dirt

We left our poor mother and seeded the earth

The gates, they were shuttered, the latches were locked

Oh, Eastward of Eden, where men become Gods…

We watered our forest with fire and flood

And fed our own egos with our brothers' blood

We starved every ocean 'till they ate up our shores

Oh, Eastward of Eden, where we always want more.”

I really like this song. Nestled in gentle mandolin chords, the lyrics slice like a razor blade. They are precise, convicting, truthful. Humanity once lived in paradise. We lived in contentment, perfectly sustained and in harmony with creation. Then, through free will, we got ourselves banished from perfection. And what did we do outside of the Garden? As we suffered pain and toil, humanity didn’t see the error of its ways. Instead, it turned to greed and murder. We built ourselves a tower to reach the heavens. We built cities, fed civilization, sought out profit and prosperity. It was just like the song, “Eastward of Eden, where we always want more.”

Standing on a mountaintop on a sunny California morning, this couldn’t be more apparent. A meadow of vibrant green shrubs filled the foreground. Their smooth leaves lifted towards the life-giving sun. Pine trees painted brush strokes into the sky behind. Blue mountains neatly tucked themselves into layers around a jewel-toned lake. A bird wheeled through a cloudless sky. In the stillness and majesty, I imagined I could almost see Eden. Yet, over it all, humanity’s mark marred the perfection. A polluted haze smeared filmily over the scene. It blurred crisp edges. It discolored the vibrancy. It inspired nothing but distaste and disappointment. Even on the mountaintops, one cannot escape the mistakes of mankind. 

When we later strolled through a forest of sequoias, I was struck by an interesting thought. Once, all of our forests may have looked like the towering majesty of the sequoias. Brachiosaurus may have browsed the treetops as pteranodons wheeled in slow spirals overhead. Massive elk with twelve-ft antlers would have browsed lush meadows, keeping watchful ears open for the pack of dire wolves on a nearby mountain. Mammoths would have plodded slowly along a lakeshore. Gigantic plants would silently unfurl new leaves in the forest undergrowth. Everywhere, the sky was clear, the streams pristine, and nature untouched. As the years passed, humanity expanded. Earth’s atmosphere shifted. The perfection slowly slipped away.

We live in a world so profoundly different than what it once was. This is evident by the ever-increasing wildfires, the melting glaciers, and the disappearance of once-common species. Yet, there is still much to appreciate. We may not have prehistoric forests, but we still have redwoods. Tyler and I walked amongst them, admiring the peeping face of a pale moon between tall trunks. Atop a broad yellow mountain, a honeybee buzzed through patches of dancing purple flowers. Unnoticed by the bee, the glint of a vehicle’s windshield sparkled on a winding road far below. Later, we travelled that road, following the path of a laughing river as it bounced over granite boulders. The river plunged into the palm of a rocky pool, drawing visitors in to relish its cool depths.  When Tyler and I grew restless for exploration, we traversed a narrow path through a boulder field. We scrambled over pieces of granite larger than us, the mere shavings of mountains carved into the sky. At the foot of an elegantly-carved mountain, a meadow of cattails mimicked the whisper of ocean waves. A broad, slow river lent water for their roots. In return, the cattails held the river in place, protecting it from the force of its waves. In all, it was perfect.

There is a fact that we may find hope in. Though humanity was banished from Eden, the Garden was never destroyed. In fact, guardians were sent to protect it. I firmly believe that those guardians are still in place today. Eden is now among us, sheltering in the valleys, reposing on the peaks. Remnants of Eden exist in the redwoods, the sequoias, the ancient mountain ranges fixed on the horizon. They are jewels in nature’s crown. They are the assurance of a Creator, one who still walks with us in the cool of the evening. Humanity has been banished but never forgotten. 

Eden is still here.

Hiking trails:

Panoramic Point Overlook

Grant Grove

Roaring River Falls

Zumwalt Meadows