Rituals

It’s been raining here for almost a week. Rain is a rare visitor to southern California (twice since we moved here in September), but it always manages to overstay its welcome. After the summer wildfires set the stage, the rain puts on a spectacle of mudslides and flooding, steady and deceptively soft-spoken. It comes in fits and bursts, stopping every few hours to allow twenty minutes of sunshine before continuing. Accustomed to eleven months of perfect weather, the locals rush to take advantage of those small breaks, walking the dog or going for a jog. The occasional rumble of thunder is a newsworthy event, and local reporters vigilantly ensure that we are fully aware of every development concerning the Great Storm of 2010.

All of this, the stopping and starting and steady, pervasive soaking, carries a surreal sense of permanence, continuing in a manner that suggests the climate of southern California could be irreparably altered. But I look at the sky right now, and glance at the upcoming forecasts, and suddenly it’s clear that the sun will soon return to its rightful place, surrounded once again by clear skies.

Rain or not, I have fallen back into an enjoyable rhythm here in L.A. Little traditions and rituals define that rhythm, like crossword puzzles in the morning and beating David in Jeopardy! every night at dinner. My favorite ritual, though, started back in Bradenton. Each night before bed I pull the blankets out of the closet, transform the couch into a bed, and step outside for a long, slow walk. Some nights I stay on the side streets, watching the clouds through the trees and nodding quietly at strangers doing the same. Other nights I head up to Melrose and watch people walk arm in arm from the clubs and restaurants to their cars. There’s a bar called the Foundry, near where our street intersects with Melrose, and if I’m lucky there’s music playing as I walk by. Usually it’s some sort of jazz combo, though last night was a classical guitar trio. I stand outside for a few minutes and listen, watching the people crowded in a half-circle around the musicians, pleased by how thoroughly everyone seems to be enjoying the moment, until the creepy valet guy looks at me one time too many and I keep walking. Every once in a while I catch myself speed-walking, like I’m about to be late, and I have to remind myself that I’m not going anywhere, that cold dark nights are best enjoyed with a slow pace and frequent pauses. Then I make my way back to the house, where I grab a book and climb into my waiting bed.

Other, more sporadic rituals mark my day as well. These include writing, tutoring, trying not to be nervous about my graduate school application, and applying for jobs. (Speaking of which, the bookstore in Pasadena called and offered a full-time position starting at the end of February. That's happy news.) They also include trips to the library and long visits to coffee shops, where my book of choice is usually upstaged by a pleasant conversation with strangers.

Stranger conversations are always highlights. Sometimes they start with half-smiles and understanding head shakes as we watch the rain. Today this led to remarks about the monumental stupidity of NBC in choosing Leno over the infinitely funnier Conan, then to the frightening implications of our nation’s highest court acting on behalf of corporations. A recent theme is the manner in which all of our previous topics become terribly petty when someone brings up the earthquake in Haiti. Such horrific loss is absolutely heartbreaking, especially considering that this city’s biggest news items revolve around a few rainstorms and a couple of talk show hosts battling over contracts worth tens of millions of dollars.

The sudden gift of perspective is sobering and often quite humbling. It can be beautiful, though, when the moment is shared with another person. The only appropriate response is weighted silence, broken eventually by someone suggesting a way to offer tangible support.

I need to wrap this up because I don’t know where I’m going with it, and because the smell of dinner has become overwhelming to the point of distraction. Did I mention that ritual? David and Neil cook dinner every night. I wash the dishes, Britton takes out the trash, and we all split the groceries. We are quite lucky.

I probably say this every time I write an update on here, but I still don’t know what’s next for me. I don’t know where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing in a few months, and every once in a while that’s a frightening thought. But for now, I am exceedingly grateful for this place, and for my rituals, for rain and Jeopardy! and crossword puzzles and slow walks and strangers.

Remember love.