It’s drizzling in Burbank. In June!! This news is as exciting as discovering that someone cleaned my kitchen while I slept. Even when we’re not suffering extreme drought, rain so rarely falls here in the summer months. The average precipitation in June is 0.09 inches. In August….it’s 0.0. Not a typo, the average, over decades of reporting, is ZERO.
I was alerted to the miracle by a text asking if the writing Meetup was canceled due to rain. Rain?! Good thing I wasn’t drinking coffee yet, or I would’ve spewed that precious fuel.
If not actual rain, there’s a drizzle up on the hillside where I’m often writing with the Meetup. It’s a world above the urban madness, snuggled on the hillside of the Verdugo Mountains. Coyotes amble by, dusty mountains frame the view to the west, while the east offers sweeping views of the gray landscape the “built-world” across the San Fernando Valley. When it’s not enshrouded in the mists, that is.
But the drizzles have kept me home today in Eagle Rock, some 20 miles south (and a few hundred feet lower in elevation) from the Meetup spot. Down here, the marine layer hovers high enough that the humidity in my yard measures a paltry 14%—hardly enough moisture to sustain a morning dew, let alone a drizzle. My desiccated skin is wishing I’d gone up just for the moisture blast.
Such are the microclimates of Southern California. Temperature differences between the valleys, the beaches, the mountains and the inland deserts can vary 40 or 50 degrees. Winter snows often blanket Mount Baldy, some 50 miles to the east of here, while my LA-born children have never seen a single flake fall at their home. Unless you count the tiny hail that once piled up on this deck.
All this thought of microclimates has me assessing my own personal geographies. My eyes sprung open at 2 a.m. today and Worrier Cheryl kept me awake for a couple of hours, anguishing over things I could do nothing about. Spiritual Cheryl deposited me on the yoga mat this morning for yoga and meditation…and washing away the worries. Practical Cheryl marched me into the kitchen to clean up the mess I abandoned last night and to study the day’s To-Do list. Daydreamer Cheryl feeds me fun distractions designed to keep me from doing any of it.
I suppose we all have our own geographics to navigate, though I do believe we Geminis possess some deeper divides that most. I can be equally persuaded that I’m on the right track or that I’m lost beyond redemption—within seconds. Or am I using my horoscope as an excuse for general indecisiveness? Probably. Definitely not! I can’t decide.
At least I keep it interesting. That’s what I usually tell myself as I whipsaw from the dry desert of despair to the fertile, misty mountains, much like playing both sides of the chessboard. I absolutely know what my opponent’s strategy, until I move from the black side to the white, and I realize I’ve bamboozled myself again.
But lately, my various parts act more like warring factions than board game opponents, each in it for The Kill. As if my cantankerous inner “Russians” suddenly dropped all pretense of civility and invaded my peaceful “Ukraine” while I (no longer certain who that is anymore) am begging for arms and reinforcements from my allies. Why now? Am I internalizing the rancor I see in the world?
What used to count as public discourse is now soaked in gasoline and torched in a social media dumpster fire. I can recall a time when we once “agree to disagree.” That now sounds like pablum for infants, as we take up arms at fire at anyone who’s “With Them”….metaphorically and, all too often, literally.
How did I come to normalize this accept this warring intolerance as a model for my own internal state? Have I been reading too much bad news? Possibly. Definitely.
While I’ve long sustained an almost-daily spiritual practice, this internal war has me practicing with a fervor I usually reserve for hating on phone books. On this point, all my warring factions agree: prayer, meditation, journaling, Nature time, and art therapy are no longer “nice to do.” They’re now Essential for Sanity.
My regular spiritual practice offers me respite, the Peace that Passeth Understanding that gets me through the morning, at least….and sometimes all the way till bedtime. For sure, it delivers a more authentic peace than the so-called medicinal Chardonnay which abandons me, naked and afraid, at 2 a.m. It’s a lot easier on the liver and the waistline, too. No carbs OR dollars required to acquire.
Would somebody please remind me of all this the next time I say, “it’s chaos and combat in here! Somebody hand me a glass!”?
Gotta go. I have an appointment with my yoga mat.
