The Usual Things
The usual things bring comfort: the oak trees, the golden hills, the mountains, the sky. I miss the backdrop of the sea, but in the morning the sky was a vast gray ocean, and that felt good. Images come to me in the night, inexplicable fragments of stories. Last night, I saw an old lady tending to a peach tree in an alley way. She wore a scarf on her head, and a long skirt, and the scene was like an illustration in a children’s picture book. I don't know where that came from or what it means. I believe I am crazy, but in a necessary way.
Yesterday I time traveled. I spoke to a man in Lompoc for my oral history website. This man is 94 years old and has lived in Lompoc all his life. He remembered picking sweet cherries in an orchard in the dark, and the walk to school, being greeted by neighbors all along the way, and the various jobs he had held from the time he was sixteen, and the delights of a rare snowfall in January of 1949, when the hills around Lompoc were thick with snow, and the kids got out of school to make snowmen and go sledding on pieces of cardboard. This man grows roses, and he has for seventy years--the secret is the compost tea his grandfather taught him to make, and a willingness to rip out the ones that aren’t doing well and discovering which ones thrive in each situation. He likes to cook, too, and he gave me a recipe for chicken mushroom casserole that I hope to prepare for friends at my first dinner party, whenever that might be, at the new house we are moving into. And he invited me to the Lompoc Old Timers monthly luncheon. I felt honored.
By coincidence, on the way home, I had a phone call from a younger friend (thank you, Ryan) about stories and cycles, the layers of history, respect for the elders, the privilege of bearing witness and the responsibilities that come with it. I realize it sounds esoteric and out of the blue, but this is what we talked about. Ryan understood, and it all made sense to me.
Meanwhile, we know what’s out there, how exhausting it is, how outrageous and disgusting it has become. But we can decide to be brave. I refuse to let my heart be stomped upon by a criminal clown wanna-be dictator and boot-lickers. I will not relinquish hope. (Please, oh please, come out on October 18th, even if you’ve never participated in a protest before, even if it’s not your style to be conspicuous, even if it’s outside of your comfort zone. Let’s make it historical and epic. Let’s exceed the tipping point, nationwide.)
We are going through this together. Last night I attended a folk orchestra concert at a church in Los Olivos; the theme was “songs of the sea” and it was wonderfully uplifting. I know people who are making art and writing songs. I know people engaged in political action and community service. I know people who are teaching kids and honoring history. Maybe somewhere a mysterious old lady is tending to a peach tree in an alley. And a dear old man is remembering a snowfall nearly eighty years ago, and as he speaks, I too see the white hills and remember how snow forgives everything and in the morning all is hushed except the laughter of children as they open their eyes to the wonder. I am fiercely in love with the planet, the trees, the waters, the good things that are quietly trying to continue and survive.
Let us be irrational and defiant and keep on weeding and painting and telling and writing and doing whatever we do, knowing there is a bigger arc to this saga.
Robert Hubbell said this today; “We are entitled to be hopeful. That does not mean relent.”
There is a swing in the yard here, attached to a sturdy old oak tree, and I swung in it, and it felt good. A hawk soared overhead. A small burst of rain passed through, and it smelled for an instant like a summer storm, and I remembered exactly how it felt to be young, filled with wonder and possibility. Then suddenly I was every age I ever was, and no age at all, just a story within stories and a light still filled with wonder, and anything is possible, even now, more than ever.