The Tree

I walk south on Figueroa sipping a venti cold brew. I didn’t intend to go for a walk, I just needed to get some caffeine in my system, but now it seems like the only good option, a refreshing change from being in my apartment. Existential torture floats just above the surface as I get a text message from my friend Brandee. Her encouraging words give me a boost. She knows the value of a good walk.

I dip into the torture for a moment, and think about all of the traumas I’ve experienced without my dad here, my north star, the person I could always go to in crisis, who would make me feel loved and like everything would be okay. Every time a new crisis surfaces - covid, cancer, fires, fascism - I am reminded of what I have lost. The grief hits me quickly, and I am in tears.

I decide to turn left, a steep downhill that leads into an old Highland Park neighborhood. I remember what my friend Liz says about leaning on trees for support. A giant tree sits on the corner and I lean against it for relief, which is nearly instantaneous. It is so strong, so steady. I think about how long it’s been there, all it’s seen, all the people who have leaned against it for relief. I look up into the leaves and all of the angst falls away.

Steadied by the tree’s anchor, I continue down the hill. There’s an old, mysterious house on this street that I am fascinated by. It looks like it’s been here for at least 100 years.

Feeling connected to history makes me feel like a beautiful thread in a woven tapestry, instead of a tiny speck in a collective trauma. The relief of being around old things is palpable. I continue down the hill, taking pictures of the incredible variety of flora.

All I see when I look at this type of cactus is testicles.

I think about the name Fern Edges, something I thought of last night, as I snap a photo of one. I put the name in the notes on my phone, a little treat for later.

At the bottom of the hill I turn left, down a dead end, at the top of which sits my apartment, over a hundred years old, that used to be a hotel. Something about seeing it from this angle feels magical.

I take another left, down a short dead end I’ve never explored before. A woman with a white dog emerges from one of the small houses. I look at him and see god. An old house, dilapidated, sits on the hill. I’ve never seen it before. It’s invisible from the top of the hill.

I make my way back to the through street, walking towards the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the oldest freeway west of the Mississippi. I think about how delightful it is when trees meet over a street, making a canopy. Several different trees have this effect here, deep green Magnolia leaves meeting purple flowers meeting some sort of dripping leaves effect from a tree I don’t know the name of but appreciate deeply on a spiritual level.

I stop to admire some exquisite flowers. A woman nearby pulls weeds outside her house while a little white dog flits around the yard next door. It feels peaceful in this moment, the three of us together separately. As I make my way back up the street I share a warm good morning with the woman.

I listen to the Third Eye Blind self-titled album, an incredible album for angst, one that somehow fills me with warmth despite the dark subject matter and lead singer Stephan Jenkins, a well known asshole. It has been a balm to my soul the last week or so. I wonder if my neighbors have been enjoying my a cappella offerings.

I ascend the hill once again, remembering that I am free-bleeding with 24 ounces of cold brew in my bladder, and think of my mom as I turn right into the senior center parking lot. She’s all practicalities, and is very good at it. I think of her text messages from the day before. She thinks sharing my writing publicly is unprofessional since I am also job seeking. I want to tell her she’s lucky I’ve never been 5150’d, that I’ve never followed through with my occasional, depression-induced fantasies of slicing my arm open, my flowing blood a visual representation of what aches inside me. It’s both my love for her, and my own practicality, no doubt inherited from her, that keep me from ever going down that road. I don’t have time to be 5150’d, to heal from a flesh wound. I have to pay rent. I don’t have the bandwidth for an extra trip to Kaiser. That sharing my writing publicly is a lifeline for me.

As I pass Starbucks, I share a smile with a man collecting cans. I want to give him a hug. I turn right at Jack in the Box, a sight of tumult lately. After someone was stabbed in or near it, they did a full remodel. The finished product is significantly less ugly than the previous iteration. I often marvel at the incredibly beautiful flowers they’ve planted along side the drive thru. Painters have covered the “FUCK TRUMP” graffiti that showed up over night a couple of days ago. I’m sad to see it go.

The more personal, localized graffiti on the wood paneling is still there, though. No doubt a more complicated clean up. I feel a kinship with whoever did it, as well as the bee that buzzes around some purple flowers.

I’m almost home now. The walk has helped. The torture layer is lighter now, almost imperceptible. “Motorcycle Drive By” plays in my headphones as I enter my building, and I feel renewed, at least for now.