Sanctuary

I walk my neighborhood a lot these days. I’m blessed to live in a light-filled townhouse on the coveted Westside of Los Angeles. To the immediate west of me, sits the world’s second largest Mormon Temple, a fortress-like, mid-century, beige building, splayed out on a hilltop, unabashedly surrounded by beautifully lush, rolling green lawns and well-manicured gardens. This church is praiseworthy for owning city blocks of some of L.A.’s most valuable real estate.

Perched atop the Temple’s spire is a golden statue of Angel Moroni, holding an equally shiny, golden horn,pressed to his lips. For those of you unfamiliar with Moroni (pronounced Moreown-eye) Google claims that he was the ancient prophet who led Joseph Smith to discover the “golden plates;” and the rest, as they say, is Mormon history.

I’ve always imagined that if a Zombie Apocalypse took place, and Moroni (it does seem unfortunate that the first five letters of his name spell moron) started blowing on that horn of his, I’d be one of the first to know. I’ve also imagined that if I rushed to the Temple for shelter from the undead, it’s likely that, as a blasphemer, I would not be welcomed into its highly exclusive inner sanctum.

To the east of me is where the single-family homes begin. That’s my chosen direction for walking. It’s filled with pretty houses, pretty landscaping and pretty trees: magnolias, crepe myrtles, jacarandas, and exotic specimens that drop weird, alien-looking seed pods. I recently found one that had the image of what looked like a stick and poke tattoo of an X shaped man — arms raised overhead and legs spread wide, as if he were jumping for joy, a feeling I find hard to come by in these pandemic days.

Lately, I’ve been crying when I walk. A white picket fence, purple salvia that calls to butterflies, handprints in cement or even small, American flags waving in the breeze — a promise unfulfilled for so many — will flood me with a tsunami of emotion. Waves of sadness carry me back to my former neighborhood, back to the cul de sac that cradled our family home. The first time I saw it, I knew it was where we were meant to be. This was the home that my architect husband and I transformed from a 1950’s ranch house into a beautiful mix of cedar siding and stone traditional with glass and steel contemporary. Two complete opposites that, like my husband and I, managed to work so well together. This was a home built to be loved in. To be filled with kids. With friends. With extended family. One of the last construction jobs we did was re-pouring the driveway. The five of us pushed our hands into the fresh cement, staking a Mackenzie Clan claim in what was to be our forever home.

Gardening became my church. A slender strawberry tree with shiny red bark quickly grew to become our greeter outside the front door. Pink hydrangeas nodded a fluffy headed “hello” to guests. A delicate Japanese maple flourished right along with our family.

In the backyard, just outside the new kitchen, I planted swathes of rosemary and French lavender beneath a Meyer lemon tree. There were wildly successful yellow roses, purple agapanthus, night blooming jasmine and tidy hedges of pale green and white pittosporum. Lime green ferns and hostas sat happily beneath a massive Chinese elm, whose long, graceful limbs shaded the wide, green lawn that kissed the edge of the pool. Birthday parties, graduations, pre-proms, anniversaries, holiday meals, fundraisers, let’s-throw-something-on-the-grill-and-drink celebrations were the communions that fed my soul.

Then, in 2008, the economy went from evergreen to deciduous. Over the next few years, my husband’s degenerative heart disease got worse, our marriage became as tenuous as our bank balance and the house grew quiet. The two older kids were in college, where they needed to be. The youngest was struggling with our struggle. We knew we had to pivot. To make a radical shift. We opted to sell our American dream. My husband died a year after we moved out.

A British psychic once told my twenty-three-year old self that I was prone to melancholy. He also told me I would have two husbands and three children. Really? I was living in Swinging London in the 70’s! Best bands! Best drugs! Best sex! I silently told him he was prone to bullshit — he and his Victorian prognosis of deep sadness.

However, fifty years, three children and two marriages later, with my tendency to cry over seeing a picket fence or an unknown family’s handprints in the apron of their driveway, I recognize that Mr. British psychic may, indeed, have had a gift.

Some have suggested medication, but I resist. I believe it’s important to feel my life. The joys and the sorrows. Besides, my daughter has a baby coming. A new, innocent, courageous little soul, who has chosen to be born in the midst of a global pandemic. Her presence gives me courage and hope and leverages the rock that sometimes feels like it might just crush my heart. I want to be present for every moment with her.

I know I am blessed. I’m not on a ventilator. I’m not in a tent under the 405 freeway. I’m not having to deal with any form of oppression or marginalization by virtue of the lucky fact that I was born with vanilla skin.

I am a survivor. A widow whose husband may be gone, whose family home may be gone — I still avoid driving into my old neighborhood because a part of my heart yearns for the unity and purpose that raising a family gave me — but I am alive. My children and I may not be able to have lazy Sunday brunches together, but they are safe and healthy and adapting. My daughter’s belly grows with each new day. Inhabited by this new little life that’s taken the elevator to Mother Earth, she is giving me hope and even moments of joy, just like the X man on the alien seed pod. That is something I am grateful to feel.