A Momentary Channeling of Ray Bradbury

It’s a gentle Southern California afternoon just a few miles from the coast of Long Beach. The sound of birds calling out in a harmonious sense of discord. The ants in front of me on the hot concrete mill back and forth to and fro, gently greeting each other for just a moment as they continue on their journey.

I look up to see the leaves of my Betula Birch, which I planted some fifteen years ago—it may have even been sixteen. The leaves bristled back and forth quickly, then slowly, and back again as the gentle breeze from the south worked them up into an audible frenzy. Which reminds me…I need to trim Betty a little.

As I look down at the 60-year-old warm concrete beneath my feet, I’m reminded that my father and his father before him may have very well stood here, just like me, looking at this same piece of ground, the same sky, breathing in that same sense of awe that I am experiencing.

They may have even experienced many years earlier, that same joy I feel…Sitting here today.