The forecast called for rain, but I’m currently soaking in the last of the afternoon sun. A bright point in an otherwise daunting day.
I don’t pretend to be well versed in the intricacies of our national politics, but today, the eve of the presidential inauguration, I can’t pretend I’m not worried.
I come from a split place. My parents, born in the heart of Oklahoma, educated themselves and moved west to California before I was born. It’s interesting to see the schism that now appears on my Facebook feed. The Midwest-born relatives championing the incoming change. The Californian friends mourning what will be lost.
And me in the middle with nothing important or intelligent to say. Feeling the oddness of this broken place.
I have taken to walking up the hill that leads away from the clustered little village of my apartment complex. I like to stand at the crest and stare across the valley at the big clouds ambling up Old Saddleback. The dance of shadow and light through those green velvet ravines. I like to look deep into the distance where I know red rock canyons and scrub oak cut their way through the Santa Ana range. I like to feel the warmth of the sun at my back and the bite of the breeze that brings the next winter storm.
These things that will always be.
I feel better for it, afterward. Once I have made the trek back back down the shadowed hill to my little home. I think it stokes the small hope in my belly that there will always be things bigger than our squabbles to unite us.