Don Bauder 7:58 a.m., Dec. 13
The wind feels like its coming from the south, but what do I know? My knowledge of directions is anecdotal. The Pacific is west, Baja south, the desert east on the other side of those rocks, and L.A. Is north.
This is the kind of wind that whispers, wind chimes disturbed but not constant, flagpoles on houses creaking as the breeze shifts, but not enough to slap against the stucco.
My beautiful wild Pittosporum Silver Sheen bends horizontally, the springs back up waving at the crows and the hummingbirds and my friend Bill sitting at his dining table watching the world and the UPS guy, go by.
I watched the Oprah Master Class episode with Laird Hamilton last night- using fear to your advantage, ruffling feathers if necessary, living your joy not your pain.
Surfing is poetic. I'm not much of an athlete, no desire. but watching the surfers- that's been my life long sport. As a teen, and well into my 30s I worshipped on the sand. Waking at dawn, slipping into a van, bundled up, down to Baja, trestles, Huntington Pier whatever, there to set up my little viewing station or the campsite
Always burgers and fries or strips and A&W, or chicken tacos and beer on the way home after a day in the sun, hours dodging the smoke from the campfire, cheeks burning, sand everywhere, smiling, kissing, smiling, dozing, surfers.
Over the years when I'm feeling restless I'll take myself down to a bluff, or a rest area, overlooking the ocean and just let my thought drift. This my own yoga technique, my own personal meditation. Pelicans swooping and sailing on the jet stream, graceful and awkward at the same time.