Trapped in a Golden State, divided from Boston’s snow
February 26, 2015 - Picnic Time
I woke adult here a few days ago and common a beneficial “golden milk” mixture (turmeric, ginger, and almond milk) with my Tibetan Buddhist pals. There’s a reason that devout wanderers group to a Ojai Valley, about 80 miles northwest of Los Angeles: It’s beautiful, cool, and serene.
The object was resplendent and a atmosphere was clean. We were late for a appointment with a Korean feet masseur. I’m happy, though I’m not happy, we told my friends. My wife, my neighbors, and my colleagues in Boston are unequivocally pang right now. we can’t contend we wish to be there, though I’m feeling concerned about them.
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“Ah,” a crony said. “You are experiencing survivor’s guilt.”
Really? The term, that has flitted in and out of psychiatry’s wiggy Diagnostic Statistical Manual over a years, is customarily compared with some-more dire events, such as genocides or aeroplane crashes. But healthy disasters indeed qualify, and Boston has been experiencing this month-long healthy disaster though me.
I’ve missed 3 of a 4 weeks of Boston’s terrible February. we trafficked to Florida during a commencement of a month, and afterwards headed to Southern California, as we always do around this time of year. we roughly positively humour from anniversary affective disorder, though we provide my symptoms with aeroplane tickets and Airbnb stays, not with pills.
So — pardon me — a past few weeks have been positively glorious. Last week, we satisfied one of my dreams, an dusk cruise during Dockweiler Beach, directly underneath a outbound runways during Los Angeles International Airport.
When a Emirates double-decker Airbus 380s lumber out for a antipodes, we can roughly feel a alighting rigging caressing your hair. Yes, I’ve stood on Bayswater Street underneath Logan’s 22L and 22R approaches, though this was like Disneyland compared to a Topsfield Fair.
The day before a picnic, a crony took me sailing in a brook off of Marina Del Rey. Off to port, we speckled designer Frank Gehry during a helm of his 44-foot yacht, a Foggy, puttering out of a same channel. Yes, there were dolphins aplenty, a contested whale sighting, and even a few audacious souls swimming during Santa Monica Beach.
That was a day your gutter fell into your backyard, weighted down by hundreds of pounds of ice dams. I’m sorry. Believe me, my residence is a finish wreck. It’s only that I’m not vital in it right now.
Earlier this week, we checked a daily Los Angeles Times e-mail digest that lands in my inbox. “Record Heat in California,” a title read. Then: “The West Coast continues to suffer a warmest winter on record, while a East Coast stays buried in sleet with record-low temperatures.”
That was a day my mother called to contend there was a energy outage on a block.
That really morning we had sent her a design of a South Pasadena canyon, where we was spending a few nights. Eucalyptus and palm trees ran downhill as distant as a eye could see. we consider that competent as a pointless act of cruelty.
Back in Ojai, we blew off church final Sunday to learn a destiny from a we Ching, also famous as The Book of Changes. The Buddhists had collected to chuck a divinational coins during a start of a Tibetan New Year. “It is time to open a gates and leave a courtyard,” was a summary from a princely book. “This will lead to good joy.”
But a yard is walled in by 10 feet of snow! we objected. Joy postponed, as usual.