Right Under My Nose

For Christmas my mother gave me this book:



Written by Charles Fleming, it lays out 42 walks around Los Angeles, up and down historic steps. The day after Christmas my mother and I did a walk that starts a half mile from my house. I take pride in knowing my 'hood, knowing the secret staircases, and knowing the local history. I did not know ANY of this. We did walk #35, Temple Hill, 45 minutes, two miles, 2.5 difficulty (out of five). The walk went right by our piano teacher's house, a street I drive every week, but most of what I saw was new. Or else I got a story I have been searching for, but never found.

The walk begins with this explanation:

This is a most spiritual walk, a hillside stroll without too many stairs through an area once dotted with temples, monasteries, retreats, and church buildings.

I won't give it all away, you have to buy the book and do the walk yourself, or come and do it with me. But what joy, to finally find out what all those houses with the onion domes were from (Theosophists!) or to walk into a tiny incense-filled chapel practically under the freeway (Vedanta!). Walking, rather than driving, these hills I could feel the spiritual energy. The power is as strong as Ojai, Sedona, Esalen, Big Sur, and other places in the West (you know them, if you live here, you have been). I drive it, I move through it, and most of the time I am blind/unmoved to/by it. But when I got out and walked, I felt it. I wondered if that is why I am drawn to this place, as to the others. I am not even conscious. But I feel the pull of the earth, and its power.

I am in a sacred place.

We can pave it, cover it with neon, but the power is still there.

This morning after my run I dropped by the Monastery of the Angels and bought some pumpkin bread, baked by Dominican nuns.




Not fresh. But I toasted it and nibbled while I drank my Illy coffee. Yum.

Have You Ever Been to Oz?

I don't mean the place over the rainbow.

I mean the secret garden in the Hollywood Hills, constructed over many years by a woman with a passion for tile and Dorothy and Toto.

I had heard of it, and then a potter from Silverlake invited me to a peace ceremony there with some monks, to commemorate the dropping of the bomb on Hiroshima, and pray that no horror like that would ever take place again. After the ceremony I was presented with a key. The only rule: you cannot write about it, take pictures, or go after dark. I agreed to the conditions instantly.

I couldn't believe I had a key of my own.

It turns out the key passes through many hands, and you never know who you will meet and where, who will have been to Oz, or who will hand you a key of your own. It is a like a secret society of cool people. At least that is what I tell myself.

The place is magical, whimsical and a little girlie. There is a yellow brick road and a million broken pieces of tile and mirror and heads of dolls. It is reminiscent of Watts Towers, and a true urban treasure. I have heard it will go to the Smithsonian when the owner dies. (and I confess I do not know her name...)

She makes you want to tile your own hillside backyard, in odes to Ella Fitzgerald, Rumi, Louis Armstrong and Dorothy, to build blue glass thrones for yourself, and your own private yellow brick road.

Well, imagine my surprise today when I walked into my favorite tile store in Atwater Village, Mortarless, and saw an actual photo of Oz. Not one, but two. Not labeled, but blown up.

I ran to the man at the counter and I said, "Excuse me, but is that Oz?"

"Yes," he said. "It is."

He said the owner has bought her tiles at his store for twenty years and always promised him a picture, but never gave him one. Finally he gave her an ultimatum: "If you don't give me a picture, I won't sell you any more tiles."

She said, pleeeeeze? He said no.

So she handed over the pictures, but she made him promise, no labels, no addresses.

He said fine, but he wouldn't lie either.

The final deal was this: If someone like me came in and said, "Is that Oz?" he could answer. If people wanted to know where it was, he would not answer.

She got her tiles, he got his pictures, and I got a little giggle and the thrill of feeling like I am a real L.A. insider for an afternoon.

I'd post a picture, but that would be against the rules!

But, reader, if you want to go, email me and I will be your personal guide.

It is meant to be shared on a magical afternoon with a friend like me.

Grace

This morning I went out to move the car for street cleaning and it was misting, so that it felt like another place, not here. The world was quiet, muffled and wet.

I parked the car in the Hollywood Bowl Parking Lot and looked up.

There in the mist, flapping noiselessly by, was a gorgeous pair of herons, on their way to somewhere.

Just two slender silhouettes, shooting across the grey sky like stars, en route to a wild place, touching us with their airborne grace.

The Evil Eye

On Sunday I went early to the park to meet the bouncer guy and set up for the party. I drove down in the mini-the car packed full of strawberries, whipped cream, table cloths, napkins and party favors. I was a one-woman party mobile. It was drizzling and we prayed it would not rain. We had lost track of who we had invited, and in an effort to make sure no one felt excluded, had invited far too many people. We had canceled once and could not cancel again. There were too many people to fit in our house. It was a rainy birthday party, or nothing. At least the picnic tables--two of them--were under a shelter.
I walked in and there was a homeless woman sitting at one of the tables. I told her hello, and that we had reserved the space for a birthday party. It started at 11. She made no sign that she had heard me. She had a walkman in her ears. I got some more stuff, then I walked around and looked her in the eye and told her again. She started yelling at me. She said it was a public park (it was!) She said I was spoiled (I am!). She said to back off. She was not moving. She looked like she was going to attack me.
I am not easily scared. But I felt like she was going to attack me. She kept saying, just back off. You need to back off. She looked right into my eyes. Deep. She hated me. She was not just a crazy ranting homeless person. She was more sane, and more bitter. She had on nice clothes, nice shoes. She was clean. She had everything in a big, big knapsack. Her hair was long, her face unnaturally red, from either too much sun, or too much drinking. She looked hard. So hard. More like the kind of person who might kill you in a bar with a broken bottle than a homeless woman. She told me she would get my license plate number and go after me. It was ridiculous--and impossible, but also frightening.
I had so many conflicting emotions. On one hand, I didn't want to back off. I felt my pride and animal defenses rising. I was not going to let her push me around. On the other hand, it was raining. She had nowhere to go. Everywhere the homeless go in Los Angeles they are just chased to the next spot. When the police sweet Hollywood Boulevard they flee to the parks.
I am spoiled, I thought. It is a public park. And yet, my liberal guilt does not mean I want to be sworn at by a homeless woman, or cursed by her.
Ironically I was in a park with a police headquarters right there. But when I went to check if anyone was there, there was no one. I was on my own.
So I just started setting up. Right next to her.
At 10:55 she started packing up all her stuff. She walked by and I said thank you. She said I was not welcome. Then she threw down a piece of paper on which were scribbled the words: Federal prison Assault Harassment. By then the boys had arrived.
"I hope they take your children away from you," she said.
I felt a chill go down my spine. I felt cursed.
Then she went over to the car and took down the license plate number. After that she went and stood by the bathrooms (out of the rain) and just stared at me. People started arriving and still she stared. Finally she left.
I was shaken.
Jonathan said to feel compassion. He said maybe her children had been taken away. She was crazy. We are spoiled. It Is a public park.
All of this was true.
And yet, I could not shake a horrible feeling. I felt deeply unnerved. Was it because she looked right in my eyes with such hatred? Did I feel unmasked? Like I am so spoiled? That I have become the kind of bossy, entitled citizen who believes she can just kick people aside to have her child's extravagant birthday party?
Do I just want to be liked? To be seen as a good person, even by homeless people?

I don't know the answer.
All I know is that her curse stuck with me like a poison, or a shadow.
I loved the party, but I couldn't get her eyes, and her hatred, out of my head.

I still can't.

Has anything like that ever happened to you?