The very best part of winter is the ease with which one can witness a sunrise. Without waking too early one can catch the brilliance of pink shooting across the horizon. I’m a big fan of an easy celebratory vantage, but an explosive dawn right out my east-facing window takes the prize every time. Sure, it’s cold, bone-chillin cold, but that sky is on fire and in that one moment I am fueled to face the day, with all that it might bring.
For a number of years I have advocated shutting off the news, avoiding the headlines, and generally occupying life with the stuff you can control. Mostly because I myself could not take another lie from an out-of-control Trump lie or his line-up of spineless acolytes who would rather steal women’s control of their own bodies and become internationally know for corruption than stand for truth or humanity. (The average Republican must be in a state of embarrassment and denial that their party has been hoodwinked by such an inept commander, perhaps shamed to wear a heart so white?)
In the most auspicious of circumstances, we have found ourselves living in a paradise garden for the last five weeks. “Gardens of Paradise take their name from the old Persian pairi dez , meaning “surrounded by a wall”. Transliterated into the Greek as paradeisos and henceforth known to us as Gardens of Paradise , they are in essence self-contained refuges for flora and fauna, with humans as their keepers and end users” (AKDN). Walled in by bamboo we are indeed separated from the bustling complexity of this Los Angeles world yet are connected to earth, water, fire and air in this sacred place, filled with morning light, afternoon sunshine, and a whole changing sky above. Here, in this garden, one finds paradise.
Nine Cent Girl 