There is science, logic, reason; there is thought verified by experience. And then there is California. — Edward Abbey
Not in any particular order, I have been or currently am a scientist, professor, student, pourer of wine, wife, mother, writer, and artist. I am always a reader.
Here is to celebrating writing a first draft of my novel. And here is to the ongoing work to make it a story that others will want to read. I’ll be continuing that work—just as soon as I’m done drinking my expensive champagne.
There are some magical moments in San Diego. One is doing an airport drop off right around sunrise.
I am drawn to books that address the aspects of my life that are out of balance. And my balance of busy with stillness is terribly askew.
Smirk is one of my favorite words. It gets at the quirk of a sensation that holds conflicting emotions in the same space with a modicum of joy.
My route strokes along the side of the Pacific along the sides of Sunset Cliffs. Every time there’s a different texture to the trip: marine layer fuzzing the horizon, Santa Ana’s making the air knife sharp, the sweep of clouds catching the light silver or flame, and the blue—so many hues. Beauty’s true color is blue.
That is one of the not so great things about our technology. We’ve divorced ourselves from the pattern of light where we wake and sleep with the sun. And we are a species of light. We are solar powered, so these long moments of dark are times when our biology rebels against the need to keep working all night with the lights one.
The flame opens its maw, engulfing the tree, swallowing it bottom to top, licking at the night sky now roaring.
You can feel winter in the change from the smell of desert rock to ocean brine in the air; the shift of southern sun not quite able to ward the chill from your house’s bones; the orange red mornings and pink dusks like lenses thrown over a picture; the way the Pacific seeps into the air, causing rivers of fog to flow along the canyons. All these and more are winter here.
The truth is that there’s a little bolthole in winter break that doesn’t let me accomplish but rather renew . . .
