The redwood forests of Northern California have always been a special place for me. Growing up nearby, I've spent a lot of time with these giants. Even during the warmest days inland, the weather here would be cool and damp. The fog rolls in from the coast and hangs in the canopies, exaggerating the long strands of light reaching all the way to the forest floor. Everything is alive, and massive. The scale of things makes me feel out of place, like I'm somewhere down the rabbit hole where I didn't mean to be. People walk by looking up instead of forward, and for some reason speak in quiet whispers. To me the air here feels heavy and hushed, full of reverence for something. Maybe it’s the sheer size of the trees commanding a kind of authority, scared from lightning strikes but still standing tall. Or maybe it’s the sense of time the forests represent, having outlasted whatever was here before I walked through. Whatever it is I can’t help feeling respect and awe for the forest, like in some way I've been allowed to be here and if I can just listen closely enough, the trees might tell me something.