Posted by on Jul 8, 2013 in Blog | Comments Off on Topanga


I’m perched upon an iron chair, elbows on a table, a rocky plateau on the edge of a cliff.  In front of me are the miles and miles of scrub covered hills of Topanga Canyon, California.  There’s a breeze that carries the steady buzz of the bugs in the dry brown grass, the sound of heat and dust punctuated by the short chirp of a songbird or crow of a rooster.  The bees work from lavender to flowering cactus, every crack in every rock boasts a home for seed or stalk. Here is a savage energy, everywhere filled with the pulse of life and death and the ether between, a sleepy tinderbox canyon on the edge of feral flame.

We climb up the derelict road ornamented with wooden totems, dissected fallen trees and no trespassing signs and instinctively lean forward, magnetized by such imperfect wild beauty.  Pomegranates in their infancy suckle the branches while swollen grapefruit thwack to the earth.  From the window a Yellow Hooded Oriole, a Blue Grosbeak, a hummingbird, and of course the lizards, the hurried sprites of the light.

These days are reminders.  The ocean tugs at my feet (going, going, going…), the air in the hills sweeps out my head.  My primordial ears awaken to a rhythm so easily drowned out by busy.  Without the clutter, with the space to breathe, I’m reminded.  Breath comes in, breath goes out.  We reach for the sun and we dry to our roots.  We sip at the nectar, join in with the dust.  I need to slow the space between or maybe fill it more completely with less.  We all know what happens with perspective, though.  Without tending, it slips away and we end up back in the mud.  I know I’m not above this.  And so I’m taking my last few minutes now, after I sign off, to sit and listen and remember.  When I need another waking up, I know just the place.

All content by Lisa Veronese. Please do not publish or copy my material without my consent.