I have not been flying; I have not been writing. Neither endeavor creates revenue, at least not enough to pay for the occasional sushi dinner, and to some extent, because I am in COVID-business-rescue mode, I have been busying myself with revenue-generating activity.
Both endeavors—flying and writing that is, generate pleasure, or more accurately, satisfaction.
But as a few of you have noticed, I have not been terribly motivated to write this blog. Only 3 (4 at the most) of my loyal and faithful readers have mentioned in any way that they missed me. It hurts, but I’ll get over it. I know where I stand, and the few people who might miss me should I disappear forever see enough of me already.
Through my own generativity, my own desperate sparks of desire and insecurity, I am fortunate to be sheltering in a rather beautiful, luscious place. Avian life surrounds me, and despite the very sad demise of one of the largest oaks on my property succumbing now to the ravages of the Thomas fire, the vegetation surrounding me is lush. I am writing this now on my back porch, the acrid air not yet stinging my eyes or constricting my lungs.
Human sounds, such as the one presently being made by the asshole who can’t imagine that the sound of his or her chainsaw at 9:20 in the morning rattles insomniacs such as I to the core, or more likely doesn’t give a damn, annoy me. But I am not complaining. Really. I love my nest in Ojai. Being fairly well-traveled, I can say with confidence that it is one of the most beautiful places in the world. So when I can hear myself think over the sounds the humans are making, I am truly grateful to be here.
Soon I will get back up in the air. That will be good, if not a bit nerve-wracking. I will return to this blog as the mood dictates. I am grateful to those of you who read it. It is an odd thing; not unlike the radio disc jockey or the sports announcer who speaks to people he or she never sees.
Once, I sent a bunch of these posts to my literary agent—the one who helped me get my book on family feuds published, hoping that the concept of applying the aviation metaphor to a kind of self-help genre might be appealing. She wrote back that I should forget about the psychological component and just write about flying. I love reading about flying, so maybe she was right. But I have spent a lifetime as a psychologist, trying to “repair the world” (as the West Coast Jews say) one life at a time, and I just can’t seem to rid myself of the temptation. Today, however, there will be no self-help aviation metaphor. You’re on your own. Get over it.
So, as this bizarre, apocalyptic-insinuating world twists and turns around us, I will for now continue to metaphorically suck my thumb in this very sheltered existence, grateful to be alive, grateful that the person with the chainsaw seems to have accomplished the task at hand (or is pausing for hydration), that the big nasty black bee hovering around me hasn’t died from the polluted air, that George the feral cat still comes for her food in the morning, that I haven’t run out of coffee, and that I am alive to see another day unfold. Soon, perhaps, I will get back up in the air. Soon, perhaps. (This post was written some time in the middle of the first wave of the pandemic– perhaps about a year ago now. I had intended to post it but never got around to it.)