Some days, California is downright ugly. It almost never rains here, and the very air tastes like dirt. It’s dry and brown and everything that I imagine God intended by the curse of Genesis 3. (Please forgive me, Neighbors. I still compare California to Alaska, even after 2 decades.). On a hot day, the sanity of all 40 million residents can rightly be called into question.
This was not one of those days. It’s still dry and brown, but a faint marine layer dampened the breezy air and outlined the stark mountains with filtered sunlight that turned the whole scene into an Old West sepia dream. Rounding a corner in the dessert, I was struck by the sight a field of vibrant sod, evidence that being fruitful and multiplying and conquering were still possible, albeit, post-curse, achieved by the sweat of one’s brow.
Today, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.