From An Island

Last night through Jeanne’s kitchen window we watched the full moon rising above the branches of the trees. “Let’s go outside and look at it,” said Jeanne, but it was windy out there, and I preferred to stay inside her cozy house, where Pi lay contentedly on the floor thumping his tail against the rug, and a big cushy chair seemed to envelop me perfectly, and a glass of wine I especially liked had made me sort of sleepy.

In truth, it was time to go home, but not before Jeanne served us a trio of desserts: homemade ice cream flavored with Indonesian vanilla and a hint of hot pepper, another with fresh kaffir lime, and the piece de resistance, a refreshing granita made with blackberries and lavender from her garden.

We’d had a wonderful dinner with good company -- even our Steve-from-Utah was there -- and afterwards we were just sitting around talking, and more than ever, despite the crazy wind, the Ranch felt like an island in the midst of an unsettling world.

Yes, the bully wind had kicked up in the afternoon, spraying stinging swirls of sand against our skin at the beach, shoving against us as we walked back up the canyon, rattling the windows, banging shut a door, shaking oranges from the trees, incessantly howling. But in the evening there was also the fragrance of honeysuckle, the soothing serenade of frogs, and then the rising of that big white summer moon. I am home.

Re-entry has been a bumpy process, however, and it has taken me nearly two weeks to feel like myself again. The atmosphere has been strange, hasn't it?

For one thing, there has been the Michael Jackson weather. Think what you will, it has hung heavily in the air here, impossible to ignore. There is too much hype and circus, to be sure, but underneath it all, something poignant and sad, and it tugs at my heart, as do all intimations of great pain, lost gifts, and lives left unfinished. 

And concurrently there is a constant barrage of Tweets from Iran. How much is rumor? How much is truth? Every few minutes, it seems, there are dispatches about arrests, disappearances, attempted protests, unreported murders. Brave people are rising up against oppression, and it seems to have slid into the back pages.

We can’t blame Michael Jackson’s death for that, but it’s certainly been a distraction.

It’s a complicated world, after all; attention wanders, priorities abruptly shift. Meanwhile, there are letters to write, laundry to wash, gardens to water, bills to pay.

And life goes on, both mundane and miraculous.

Of course I have my own little personal struggles too. For example, I went back to Orange County to look in on my mother after my long absence, and it’s gotten to the point with her where one problem solved just means another opens up.  She seemed frail, child-like, and at times exasperatingly out of touch, although as I was driving her to pick up her new lower denture (to replace the one she lost) she did announce to me that Michael Jackson had died. She also told me that she is very fond of elephants and tigers. 

Since I was in the big O.C., I decided to have my hair done. I made an appointment with a Vietnamese woman named Annie who works in a little Hair & Nails salon in a strip mall in Orange. I like Annie’s confidence.  She is good at what she does and knows it, and she is not shy about telling me exactly what I need, whether or not I agree. She skillfully eliminated the one-inch band of silver-gray beginning at my roots, trimmed away an inch or two, flattened it all with a hot iron to make it sleek and chic, handed me a mirror so I could see the back, and stepped aside with pride. 

The old guy in the chair next to me shot an appreciative glance my way. He is the one I had just overheard describing himself to Annie as having been a stallion in his younger days. Seriously. A stallion.         

I heard an ad on the radio as I drove away: Memory loss? Gaps in short-term recall? You may be suffering from brain inflammation. It’s not too late, but don’t ignore the signs. Now a prominent neurosurgeon has developed a Brain Repair Formula just for you. There was an 800 number, easy to remember, and it’s nice to know it’s there.

Back at the Ranch, tomatoes are beginning, lettuce is bolting, birds are feasting on berries and drunkenly careening into the house.  The wind has become as constant as a background song, the cows are gathering in the shade beneath the sycamore trees by the creek, and I am quiet on my island, wondering what comes next.