Do good and disappear

It's OK to not tell people about stuff, but I will tell you a few things anyway

This is what I planned to look like for a big milestone birthday. Planned.

I’m going to tell you a few things that mean more to me than to you. A whole lot more. You have your own version of these things. You can share them in the comments, if you like.

By the time we returned to L.A. it had already begun to wilt. The atmosphere, the streets, the vibe. It was sagging. A sadness that couldn’t be scraped off to reveal the Old. We recognized the shift of course, because we had been there, in it, when it was still holding the small crumbs of Old Hollywood. Small, small crumbs — if you knew where to go and look for them. We came back for a few days to watch old movies. Movies that are beautiful and show us stories that we humans enjoy.

I think it was when we sat there, at a brand new poke bowl place, on Melrose that I knew I couldn’t and wouldn’t return to live in L.A. The sun was tilted wrong, new soulless places had sterilized the city and voided it. This feeling grabbed hold of me like Firx grabbed hold of Cugel’s liver. Sometimes it travels up to the heart and lingers. L.A. still breaks my heart, even as I write these words. I am forever happy that I lived there many years and saw many things there that no longer exist.

This was my Esther Willimas pool. This was the definition of joy and luxury and the spring of healing. It sat up on a hill in Bel Air. Yes, too good to be true. And it was almost almost entirely ours. I could swim in it every day from morning ‘til night, if I wanted. I would stay under the water and look, through my swim goggles, at the waves and the scattering of the light — and the turquoise delight!

When I learned that my Grandmother had just passed away, the first thing I did was jump in the pool and swim and swim and swim. I breathed out gratitude for the lovliest person I had ever known and asked God to keep her in his hand. And I was pretty sure he would, because she was entirely good.

Somewhere deep beyond Downtown L.A. in his artist gallery, Yuroz drew this for me on a T-shirt. All of it still holds, except I have pressed pause on wine but may take it up again when I retire. Sometimes I take out this T-shirt and look at it. I try to find myself in it.

The emergency backpack? Could it be it? The earthquake kit? When life becomes so scattered and overwhelming that you decide to put a reminder note on top of a backpack that already stands next to the door. You know, so you’ll remember to grab those bags on your way out when the world cracks open.

Or could it have been placed on top of a box of cookies? Hey! Take these with you when you rush out in an emergency, so you can keep your blood sugar levels OK.

This is about the farthest down Grand Canyon I have been, and most likely ever will go. I have always loved reading about mountain climbers (used to follow El Cap climbers and the yearly Everest teams), race car drivers, and astronauts. You have to know your limits, but sometimes it’s good to test them a bit. Other people sometimes leave warning signs, but not always. That’s when things get interesting…

Let’s take The Wishing Tree as an example. Located up on a hilltop in Marin County. A wide branched old oak tree that had weathered storms and finally, in its olden days, became a symbol for humans. Hikers would leave little rocks on its branches, and leave a silent wish. This was California, you know. Wishing trees work there.

Until one day. One day a branch was cut off and left on the ground next to the trunk of the grand oak. An amputated limb, bleeding sap, bleeding wishes. A day later a distraught hiker left a long letter pleading for the oak’s rescue. A week later the tree was cut down. Tolkien would have cried. The Wishing Tree helped me prepare for my life altering surgery.

What I was going to tell you is that it’s OK to STOP. Chances are you’re in motion right now. Where to? I have no idea. But you’re on a path somewhere, and it might be preplanned. But then again, it might not. You might be drifting. Drifting is comfortable, and we should all drift now and then. But those cliffs, they will pop up and prick a hole in your rubber dinghy just when you’re at your most relaxed.

I can’t be more specific right now, but you need to know that it’s OK for you to STOP. And then look up and turn your head in all directions. Set everything up correctly. Course correct. Do the difficult and boring and infuriatingly annoying prep work. And then GO. Do it. Do it soon. Those cliffs, you know.

“Do good and disappear.” – Genevieve Hennet De Goutel.

Then, if you can dream, find a little corner of the world that is good — and set course towards it. Don’t worry if you don’t find it right away, that’s part of how it works. For me, it’s a foggy coast somewhere where tall trees grow and the air smells clean and crisp and mysterious.

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