Tuesday Morning—Long Beach
On Sunday, I extracted my ‘residents only’ green pass out of the glove compartment, positioned it in my lap and headed towards PCH.
No matter how many times I drive up this drive….in this altered universe of the present…this road that I travelled practically with my eyes closed, while also breathing in and cellularly knowing every twist and turn and nuance….the tears flowed again. All on their own. No thoughts. Simply feelings. Black skeletal structures, one after another, with blue skies and white clouds above and beyond.
The word is that among the home owners, after paying $20,000 for toxic waster removal, $30,000 for debris removal, more $$$’s septic tank surveying and removal, no insurance payments in the works, and no re-building to begin until summer 2026, there is massive abandonment of the premises…for now. People have found new places to live temporarily and my bluff has basically been deserted by its humans.
Years ago I had been told that our bluff had been an ancient Native American burial ground. I had also been told that spirits dwelled in my home with me, friendly spirits, and not to worry. I knew this. The bottom drawer of my great grandfather’s cherry chest, that sat in the corner of my nest, was the niche that came alive once I closed my curtain for the night. Much activity in that drawer. I peered patiently numerous times, I crept over numerous times, I shone light in a pounce again and again, nothing…except for the rearrangement of the linens that laid there…innocently newly rumpled. And so I added the spirits to my list of ‘good night’ wishes.
On Sunday, Palm Sunday, I arrived and parked in my driveway all alone in the surreal quiet. My two hawks flew over and circled me immediately and more tears flowed. This is sacred ground. A 180 degree view of the coast…looking down on the Pacific Ocean….my paradise, which still exists, simply is a new incarnation, as we all are.
I sat on the steps of my home. Everything else has been cleared. I listened to the wind in the trees and birdcalls as they gathered in my fig tree. This is still my home. Sundays, for these next months, before building resumes next year, will be my time out to be quiet.
Gifts come in untold packages, but sometimes we need to slow down and invite them in.
With this, I wonder, where are my spirits are sleeping now.
I look forward to hearing from them.