Neither a closed window nor locked door kept me trapped inside. I roamed my godparent’s neighborhood at midnight or stretched out on the crabgrass and watched shooting stars. Imaginative thoughts found their way on paper. Music, any kind of music, was mine to hear. Eye makeup. Long hair. Fashion boots. Tight jeans.
Yesterday, with a friend, I walked along the beautiful the Central Coast bluffs. A magnificent display of wildflowers spreading color up against the cerulean blue sea was breathtaking. My friend shared her story about a recent whale watch trip. “It was great. We saw seven gray whales. But there was a baby whale that was alone and swimming south instead of north. That bothered us.”
And life’s serendipitous imp flew with me from the California coast to our landing in the Sonoran Desert last October. The objective was to physically heal. I’ve spent the last four months among saguaros, palo verde trees, wild coreopsis blooming next to chaparral and creosote shrubs. The massive structure of the Mayo Clinic outlines the horizon to the east. Westerly is the opened desert where coyotes and rabbits play hide and seek, and concludes my days in neon orange and purple sunsets.
The Muse Pallet 