|From top of stairs leading down to the arroyo.|
This is a beautiful place. The sand is white and fine, the ocean turquoise, the sun bright, the humidity low. Palm trees sprout from the sand, and gnarled trees shade the walking path along the ocean. Be on the look out for celebrities shopping, says my brother.
My eye is so caught by the show and beauty, that as with a magician distracting the audience, I miss at first what is in plain sight. The homeless woman stretched out on the grass in a sleeping bag. The man sleeping behind Santa Monica's camera obscura, a blanket over his face to keep the sun from his eyes. The young man who mentioned where he lives when we checked out. On the far side of Los Angeles from this upscale shopping center.
From the bottom of the stairs leading down
to the arroyo. Math Man on the right, Mme.
Artiste on the left.
This morning, after an amazing brunch in a nearby town, we walked the neighborhood, peering into front gardens, admiring the architecture. Madame Artiste was the driving force behind the neighborhood's official historic status, and did the architectural survey, so she is full of details. We walked down the eight flights of stairs to the arroyo, and checked out a terraced back yard, then I turned around to see that the very ordinary concrete steps we had come down, were not so ordinary after all.
I wonder what extraordinary beauty, which person dearly beloved by God I missed asleep on the grass in Santa Monica. Can I learn to turn around?