The only time you can really breathe deeply in Los Angeles (outside of “soul opening” breath-work workshops) is after the rain. After our recent storm (very Old Testament-y) I find myself filling my lungs with whatever lies above the normal cloud of smog, relishing its relative clarity. I had also just completed my bout with some respiratory virus that slowly made it through every member of our family (except, I think, the cat) so my airways were feeling particularly rejuvenated.
To celebrate, my progeny and I tootled over to the playground by The Reservoir. The whole neighborhood had flooded outside, desperate to re-up on the sunshine that keeps the SoCal vibes chill and groovy. Without sunshine, who knows what might happen to this city. People might stop pretending that everything’s okay and then where would we be?!
At the playground, dirty rainwater pooled in the grooves of the slide, which my daughter found absolutely irresistible. Wondrous liquid, fallen from heaven, sullied by earth! After twenty minutes of her trying to drink and me trying to keep her from drinking it, we ruled our task complete and headed back to the car. On the way, I ran into a couple of friends in quick succession. We remarked on the day, the beauty, the sunshine.
By that evening the rain had resumed and my adult tap lesson loomed. Leaving the house seemed Herculean. A cozy glow flickered from the television, showing the soothing images of Vanderpump Rules. My cursed knitting project sat in my lap, demanding fixes to ten thousand mistakes I’d recently made. There were cookies to be eaten.
But I am committed to my art (dance) so I put on my leggings and left. After class, friends and I grabbed a drink nearby—we were out, so might as well stay out. Our usual spot, normally a smattering of single men and first dates, was full of people who actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sun had long disappeared but we still felt its warmth, its memory dodging raindrops and slinking its way into our psyche, keeping us SoCal.