I knew I had found my home the moment I walked up the shrouded woodsy hill. The noise of the city was hushed under all those leafy greens and massive thick tree trunks. I could see the stars. I could hear crickets. And this was Los Angeles. I fell instantly in love. The stream of events that clicked into place after that moonlit discovery is one that will always strengthen my belief in the mysteries of the universe. It was where I was destined to be. And everything made it so. I thought it would be a way station for me, a temporary space to call my own. Fifteen years later, I had to pry my fingers from the door frame to remove myself from its hearth.
After a journey across the country, I've now landed back with family, on the streets and surroundings of my earlier life. There's so much I miss from my home off the canyon. The longings come and go. In one moment an ache will rise up from my chest, and in another moment, I feel rhapsody over the old yet new qualities of life that surround me now.
I miss my neighbors, Carla and Saul. They are the musicians, the artists, the liberals, the do-gooders, the ones who fight for those in need, the ones who tend to the plants and the trees and the birds. They taught me to nurture the earth. Day in and day out, I watched them honor all living things. If a bird was found dead, they would never just fling it over a fence as some would, or toss it in the garbage as others might. Instead that lifeless little being would be gently carried to a flower bed where it would be buried with seeds amidst the flowers. Months later, new sprouts would come from the earth with bright, beautiful colors - one part stray bird, one part reverence for life, and one part seed from the 99 cent store.
Carla and Saul have routines that became part of my own. Even if they didn't know it. Every morning they would rustle around on their patio. Carla would tend to everything up there. She has flowers bursting in vibrant colors, jade plants, peppers, limes, morning glories and a wild range of every flower scattered in pots. Carla and Saul are bird lovers. They have about ten finch birds and a beloved parakeet-type bird named, Peach. These birds live the high life - cared for, and seen as individual beings, in lovely ways. One finch was born with a crippled leg, she was named Little Foot.
And there is Peach. Peach gets fresh melon and cucumber every morning, seed all day long, and the freshest of water. He also gets one perfect green bean sliced down the middle for easy access to the seeds as a mid-afternoon snack. Peach meows like a cat if asked to. But only for Saul. Peach is moved from his bedroom into the living room every morning, front and center for the morning show on his patio.
From my bed, just as watching the sunrise is ritual for some, I had an expansive, front row view of the happenings on their patio. Bathed in sunlight, surrounded by happy plants that were dewy from watering, was a bird show like one had never seen. Every single morning. No matter the time of year. A festival of feathers. They have bird feeders that call to morning doves, an array of fluttering creatures and hummingbirds. Squirrels bounced across the railing. It was a majestic mystical show of nature, the rhythm of the birds as they swooped down for seed, the show of respect and patience as they waited up on the roof's ledge for their turn, the symphony of tweets and twirls as they all chirped their morning dialogue to one another. And at the center of it all, was Peach and his bird calls to all of his friends. So much life just outside my window. Carla and Saul created a space that welcomed life and life came.
If ever a bird or a lizard or a creature was in need, it was Carla and Saul who I would call for rescue, for safekeeping. One day I was walking into a store on a busy street and there was an injured pigeon, frightened and dazed and banging into walls. Someone got it into a bag to try to save it from walking into the traffic. No one knew what to do for this poor thing. I called Carla and Saul. They told me to bring it to them. I got the bird home minutes later and Saul had a cage ready for it. It was stocked with seed and fresh water. Saul fed the frightened bird some water through an eyedropper. The bird drank it up. Carla comforted the bird with her voice. They doused him with their big genuine compassion. The bird stopped shaking. As if he knew he was safe. They have mended so many creatures and then opened up those cages for them to fly free into the sky. And they have.
Miles from my home off Laurel Canyon, miles from Carla, Saul and Peach's morning love festival, I sit in the spare room of my mother's house in New Hampshire. Outside my window is a woodsy forest. And in my direct view is a tree. A tree that now has homemade pinecone bird feeders hanging from its branches. The birds have feasted on these feeders every morning since my mother and I made them. The once empty bird seed house is now filled to the brim with fresh seed. The pinecones are almost picked clean. It is a festival of life outside my window again. One that I invited in. One that arrived.
I watch the bluebirds, the cardinals, the orange-headed ones, the little grey birds as they jump from branch to branch and feast on the bounty that awaits them. There's snow on the ground. It's freezing outside. But they are here. Dozens of them. Dancing outside my window again. Rhythms and chirps and fluttering wings. The mighty red cardinal watching over them all.
I miss Carla and Saul so deeply. I even miss Peach. But there is some holiness, some wonder in the fact that their love of nature, their reverence for the birds has spread across the miles. It's here. In New Hampshire. It's with me. A morning love festival sponsored soulfully by them. Maybe one of the birds they mended and set free is here. Who knows. Seeds carried across the earth. Heart to heart. Tree to tree. Bird to bird. Love spreads.
