When we set out to seek our private happiness, we often create an idol that is sure to topple. Any attempts to protect any full and private happiness in the midst of so much public suffering have to be based on illusion about the nature of the world in which we live. We can only do that if we block ourselves from a certain degree of reality and refuse solidarity with “the other side” of everything, even the other side of ourselves.
--Adapted from Preparing for Christmas with Richard Rohr
sunsets, in December, tend toward sapphire and apricot. The mornings are cold--the grass wet, the flagstones slippery with dew. The farmer's markets are full of orange persimmons, earthy sweet potatoes, acorn squash with leathery skin the color of evergreen trees. Front yards burst with creamy, lush roses, drooping clusters of scarlet toyon berries, bougainvillea--magenta, fuchsia, imperial purple--flaming so brightly the blooms seem to be lit from within. L.A.
I open my breviary. I seek your face; your face, Lord, I desire. In the gathering dawn, I sit, bathed in the shadowy blue light, and wait.
It’s and dead quiet, an hour in which it is easy to imagine the whole city holding its breath. Blue Christmas lights—one rogue pink replacement bulb calling to mind my own imperfections—frame the window behind my chair. Two black pottery angels from
hold beeswax candles. The branches of the Brazilian pepper tree rustle and the pewter sky lightens slowly to peach. The garbage truck pulls up and I hear the grinding of gears, the wheeze of the claw, the contents of the upended trash container being poured into the truck’s maw. In another hour, the cat will cry for his breakfast. Oaxaca
|THIS IS ACTUALLY DUSK,|
BUT THE POINT IS I'VE BEEN SPENDING
A LOT OF TIME IN THE DARK...