Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky. Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same. Thereâs a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one. And theyâre all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.
Thoughts and impressions are arriving in packages that are way too small today. I need a bigger picture. I put on my Merrells and find the shortest path up to Franceschi. I start on residential streets because the canyon would be too tortuous today. I pass by stately homes and funky California cottages. I concentrate on loosening the suspension joints in my hips ..and experience a more cushiony ride. The street gives way to a woodsy trail bordered by pine, oak and eucalyptus. Feels spongy. I reach the top of Franceschi where I get a panoramic view of the coast ..from Rincon to Gaviota ..then out to sea where white clouds are beginning to roll over the tops of the islands. South of me the fog has already breached the coastline and filled Sycamore Canyon. I inhale .. like a wave crashing ..and exhale .. washing away the debris. No quarrels or nagging doubts here. Like water seeking itâs own level ..I listen to the narrative in my head expand to fill the space available ..both inside and out. Calm and undisturbed. I throw the packaging material over the edge and watch it sail away.