mine, too

"Is this your first pregnancy?" she asked. The question hit me like a ton of bricks. A "yes", deep shame-ridden breaths. My first.

sunday in california

"At first sight, the visitor is surprised not only by the purity of the sky and the ugliness of the dispersed and ostentatious buildings, but also by the city's vaguely Mexican atmosphere, which cannot be captured in words or concepts." That's Los Angeles for ya.

Mind you, these photos are from Northern California, Half Moon Bay, to be exact--because I thought it to be simultaneously romantic and incredibly creepy (Happy Halloween?), what with the pervasive fog and agricultural sprawl and imperious cliffs... but I digress.

I'm writing from Sacramento (where I first delighted in California's fall) and reflecting on my annual visit home (to see autumn in all its glory) and contemplating the frequent "so how's L.A.?"-s I received there. I wish I could tell you (them) I love L.A. Not quite.

But when my Aunt MaryAnn pressed the explanation further, and I mentioned that its the city's very Mexican-ness (as Octavio Paz described above) that makes me love being there, I realized the extent to which that's true. From there we went on to finish two bottles of wine and discuss the disgusting comments Donald Trump has made and inspired towards Mexicans. Apparentlys she's reminded her sons (my cousins) that he might as well be speaking about me, my father, my siblings. A fact that has not been lost on me.

I'm sure I noticed difference as a child, but I didn't understand it; not like I was made to learn later. How could I have possibly known that inner city-dwellers are black, and black men are to be feared, and Muslims are natural terrorists, and Mexicans are to be hunted?!

I ask the facetious question above in agitation to emphasize that what we desperately need, here and now, throughout this country, (Universe), is neither political correctness nor meek tolerance but the acknowledgement of our shared humanity. And a vote.

When I then told my aunt how it felt to grow up monolingual in our Italian-American town where Central American landscapers were "Mexican" and when Latina meant gold jewelry and outspoken sex appeal, she was surprised. She hadn't realized. She couldn't relate.

And of course this would be news. Although I expect each one of us feels the pressure of a world that dictates "what we are" and "what we are not", the sentiment is obviously felt on an individual basis. It can just as likely incite ambition as it can resentment; and understandably so. We are at the same time such resilient and fragile beings. And nearly every morning, when, from my L.A. home, I overhear my neighbor speaking Spanish in a familiar accent, I'm put at ease.

I'm reminded why immigration policy as well as higher education and reproductive rights are so important to me. We are the products of our experiences, our experiences matter, and so are the issues we're unequivocally drawn to as a result. November 8th, save the date.

sunday in temecula

I've lived in the state of California for more than two years. Two. Years. + How did this happen? Why?! The simple answer, of course, is that I took a serendipitous job opportunity and refused to let it be a mistake. The reality is infinitely more complicated than that.

Nevertheless I've come to fully appreciate this place founded by pioneers and dreamers and those who couldn't quite fit into the communities they were born to. L.A. itself is a haphazard assortment of creative ideals. SF is SF. And I might finally be thriving.

I ventured to La Jolla for work in early August—an appropriate memory to recall on a Labor Day weekend, no? I was instantly and unexpectedly charmed by San Diego's wild beauty and laid back reclusion. The event itself ran smoothly. And the day following, driving back with a colleague, I noticed signs for Temecula; a city I recognized from my recreational study of California wine regions. I suggested a tasting. We lounged for hours at Mount Palomar Winery. I was so pleased with my spontaneity and the Golden State.

If life in Los Angeles, CA seems painfully far from the people and things that matter most to me... it is, somewhat. And yet there are phone calls, and plane travel, and weekend visits, and afternoons (like this one) that bring every place I've ever loved within reach.

death valley at 28

All I want to do is wake up in the desert on my birthday, I thought. And it was the oddest thing to think, because I don't even like the desert that much. If I were to rate landscapes based on how beautiful I found them to be, the desert would most certainly come in last.

And yet... I couldn't get the longing out of my head. So, I booked a hotel room (I am many things but a solo-camper I certainly am not), got my oil changed, packed a change of clothes and some groceries... and drove out to Death Valley around noon on May 28th.

I'm not not a birthday person. I do enjoy celebrating with close friends and, if I'm lucky, family. (I did, later). But this year I sought to be grounded, connected, gloriously free—all at once. I needed to lighten the heaviness of certain memories and current events.

After checking in, I ventured to Artists Palette; then Dante's View for sunset over Badwater Basin. And just as the desert became completely blanketed by stars, I arrived back at the hotel. I bought a beer and pulled a rocking chair out into the darkness to gaze.

The next morning, after accidentally waking up early, I watched the sun rise with Letters to a Young Poet, and ~20 photographers.

There aren't words to describe how spectacular an experience, nor how special it felt to be a part of it. Feliz cumpleaños, indeed. 

I went on to meditatively walk the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes before heading back to the hotel for avocado toast and coffee. And that was that! Almost. I also stopped for a hike through Mosaic Canyon and drove up to Aguereberry Point on my way out of the park.

Twenty-eight sounds old to me—not in a "ugh, I'm so old!" kind of way (how obnoxious), but in a "wow, I've lived a bit, huh?" way. And waking up in the desert at 28 was perfect. The wide open space and relentless dry heat and pristine towering peaks above the below-sea-level basin were everything I'd been craving. It instilled the most serene awareness of my minuscule, and all the while, worthy existence. Needless to say, the desert landscape might be growing on me...

northern california's fall

{In anticipation of "real winter" in New York... remembering "real autumn" in Sacramento.}

on an ojai high

{Krotona Institute of Theosophy}

{Rose Valley Falls hike}

{Casa Baranca Tasting Room}

{Meditation Mount}

{Unpictured: Penne Valverde & Cuscinetti al Zuccone at Osteria Monte Grappa}