Birthdays are in the air in our house at the moment. Our daughter turns four in a couple of weeks and talks of little else but parties, friends, balloons and presents. It so happens that our canine family member, Duke, also has his birthday in March and while he will be turning six in human years it is also very nearly five years since we first laid eyes upon him.
My husband and son left early yesterday for a soccer tournament in San Diego. The noisy haste with which they departed left an unexpected stillness in its wake. Living the speedy dance of family life the weekends often pass in a blur and so I’ve spent quiet moments sitting on our balcony watching the rain as our dog gazes territorially at passers by and offers the odd ferocious bark.
I’ve been wandering alone in this beautiful town of dreams recently during the times of day when my children are happily occupied at school. There’s a song that’s been on my mind for weeks now that tells a tale full of the bitter power of memory and the bone shaking timeless grief that the loss of a loved one can brings.
We headed out last night into the freedom of an evening without children. From the frazzled normality of busy Saturday afternoon parents we were transformed into a carefree couple thanks to the magic only a trusted babysitter can bring. As we drove in the slow moving twilight traffic towards the restaurant my husband had chosen I remembered just how essential regular evenings such as this one are. It’s almost easy to forget that the two of you exist outside of your identity as parents without them.
It rained in Los Angeles this past week. The city finds it impossible to behave as usual in the wet weather. Everything is suddenly difficult- and this place is not built for hardship. Water is everywhere as the rainfall has nowhere to go and venturing outside of one’s dwelling place suddenly becomes an expedition into the wilderness.
We watched the Holiday one evening last week during the strange period that is the hiatus between Christmas and New Year. I’d seen this movie at least twice before but was spurred to watch it again after a conversation with my sister who commented that she had particularly liked the character of Arthur, the octogenarian screenwriter, played by Eli Wallach. So, when I settled down with my husband and teenage son for an evening viewing, it was to Arthur’s story that I paid particular attention.
Christmas is almost upon us and my three year old is beside herself with excitement that Santa will be coming to town anytime now. It’s a funny thing living in Southern California at this time of the year. I remember our first Christmas here before our hearts had fully comprehended what our heads had already understood; that we’d put the East Coast and Europe down, at least for a while .
We went to the movies last night. Clint Eastwood’s new film, the Mule, has just opened here and I’ve been really looking forward to seeing it. The screenplay is based on a true story and I saw the trailer at a recent showing of a Star is Born. There was a reverent tone to the air in the theatre; the announcer remarked that it must have felt somewhat like this at the opening of American Sniper.
Sing of Hermes, Muse, the son of Zeus and Maia,…..a son resourceful and cunning, a robber, a rustler of cattle, a bringer of dreams, a night watcher, a gate lurker, who was soon to display deeds of renown among the immortal gods: born in the morning, by midday he was playing the lyre, and in the evening he stole the cattle of far-shooting Apollo- on the fourth of the month, the day the lady Maia bore him… Hermes it was who first crafted the singing tortoise. (Homeric Hymns: To Hermes)
It’s turned chilly here in Los Angeles with the arrival of December. Jackets and Ugg boots are out in force and everyone is talking of the cold in the rather embarrassed way that we all do here. I took a very brief drive last night to our neighborhood Ralph’s for some essentials rather than walk. In the mood for music, I googled, as I periodically do, the only I line I remember of a song that has haunted me since the time I spent in Sicily during my undergraduate degree at Oxford.
I was driving along the other day in Santa Monica- can’t remember where I was going- the lavender dreaminess of the place will do that to you. Suddenly up ahead at the end of the street in the distance I saw the ocean gleaming mischievous and silvery bright in the early afternoon sun. Just knowing that it’s there, lurking playfully, is a whimsical feeling.
Sitting in the sunshine with a mind finally free of the clinging tendrils of jet lag I hear the far off rumble of an invisible plane high up in the sky and I smile wistfully. I returned a few days ago from a short stay in a London cloaked in an unfamiliarly autumn garb. Having been on this side of the Atlantic during the colder months of the year for several years I’d been eagerly anticipating the chance to rejoin the seasonal flow of England-even if just for a brief moment.
