Fantastic Voyage
“Hey, New York!” said a friend, waving from his car in a parking lot by the beach.
“Hi, New Jersey!” I answered. We’d met once at some neighborhood gathering, and despite having lived most of our lives in California, we had immediately recognized the East Coast remnants in one another’s speech and quickly established our origins. Now I leaned against my bicycle, and we chatted for a few minutes as the surf sparkled, sunlight gilded the hills, and warm breezes carried the briny breath of summer.
“How the heck did we end up here?” he called out to me as he drove off.
I ask myself that question every single day. And I mean it. Each day is a procession of wonders, and for someone whose life started out on Coney Island Avenue, my presence here is stunningly unlikely. So yes, I am still amazed.
It felt exhilarating to ride my bicycle that morning, which is something I used to do regularly but has since become a now-and-then experiment. My strength and confidence have diminished, but I felt the force of my trusty legs pushing me forward, clicked into the proper gears with ease, and pedaled smoothly along the empty road at the west end of the ranch. I’d almost forgotten how being on a bicycle blurs the separation between you and the landscape, how the brightness of everything dazzles and soothes, and you become a creature in motion within a world you belong in. And I’d almost forgotten the simple joy of coasting downhill with the wind on my face, the euphoria of being ten years old again.
It was a good week, all in all. The following evening, our friend Beth brought us a zucchini from her garden, the most enormous one any of us had ever seen. Twenty inches from stem to base, thirteen inches in diameter at its widest section, it has the bulk and weight of a bludgeon. I marvel at the life force that propelled its extraordinary growth, for truly it is a superstar of squash, somehow both promising and problematic in its potential. I am envisioning some sort of eggplant parmesan, substituting thickly sliced zucchini for the eggplant, which is not something I have ever made before, but how hard can it be?
Such frivolous concerns are granted only to the lucky. I’m also culling clothes from my closet and facing up to the fact that my impulsive secondhand purchases are often inexplicable. A salmon-colored twirly dress with a print of big bright blobs of flowers finally made it into the donation box today, never worn by me. My friend Diane, another New Yorker, helped me out by offering her honest opinion: “It’s hideous,” she said. “What were you thinking?!”
I’ve picked oranges and made a jar of fresh-squeezed juice. I’m catching up on correspondence, and I am beginning to believe that I may write one last little book of essays before I die. I even have a title in my head. And in the political realm, I’m feeling more hopeful lately, as many of us are, and doing what I can to keep that momentum going. I have a dear friend who happens to be famous; he told me that you can be worthy and sufficiently “famous” by doing good in your own community, and he proclaimed with conviction that he is as honored to know me as I am to know him. Among our cohorts, all of us seem to be grappling with the same issues as we embark on this late-in-the-day chapter of our lives. What is important to us? How do we live life in a meaningful way?
Sometimes I do nothing. I sit and watch a trio of turtles in the pond by the creek as they warm themselves on a rock, splash into the water, and swim about beneath the glassy surface, shimmering like mirages of manatees or mermaids. Unhurried and peaceable, they relish their existence, ignorant of time, oblivious to the folly of the humans nearby. I’m always disproportionately excited to glimpse them. They are good indicators of ecosystem health, can live for fifty years, and I hope will be here long after I am gone. And just a few yards away, the saplings we have planted from acorns will perhaps be stately oak trees. I care about what happens after our time here. But sometimes I do nothing.
A few days ago, I stood in a corner of our deck where two walls meet, saying goodbye to a visitor, then lingering to watch dusk settle on the hillside. A sweet, cool breeze caressed my face, and I closed my eyes to experience it fully, for there is no greater gift than the feel of fresh air on skin. Suddenly I had the distinct sensation of being a figurehead on the prow of a sailing ship, moving through an ocean of sky. Even now, I cannot shake this idea that my house is a boat, and I am on a voyage into whatever comes next, pushed along by the winds of memory and story, steadied by hope and gratitude.