This past weekend we visited L.A. and the surrounding area for a wedding. I had forgotten that air can be so warm, that sweaters and socks, even shoes, can be superfluous. There is a different feeling in California, marked by the greying goateed gentlemen in their jeans and jackets, sunglasses, always. In our time there we had to go to Santa Monica for an errand and ended up on the beach and the pier, swinging on the ocean-side swings, eating ice cream under the palm trees. The wedding was outdoors on a large deck, the dinner on the lawn, and the sky was so clear. I went for a run one morning up the ridge-like hills surrounding our beautiful hotel villa, and saw the wine veined and complementary shrubbery stretching out over miles of rolling brown hills, the view crammed in the driveways of multi-million dollar homes. California: dogs, sunglasses, workout clothes, business casual, open air.
Every time I return something is different. Though something somewhat imperceptible. Teaching changes, playing changes, the way that I walk changes. A piece at the bottom has settled or been disturbed, the sacroiliac joint has nudged, something systematic has shifted.
Last night was the ordained night to hang my shodo piece that had been in the exhibit in Japan. Why then? Who can say? This morning I burned some of my Japanese incense and when a quartet-mate walked in the door, saying it smelled like Japan, I found myself reminiscing with her about a discovered common past, streets we both knew well, feelings and generalities forbidden while we were there, but easily breathed and accepted in this new space.
The bride was Chinese. Her parents came from Inner Mongolia and spoke very little or no English. What was that like? A smile, a gift, a "Welcome to China." Yes, it would be nice to visit you someday, thank you.
I don't know you, I don't know anything about you but this one thing.
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