Dear Friends,

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk in New York, safe. People and a place that I love are in a very different situation. My beloved,

It’s hard to be far away from loved ones when they are in danger. I feel helpless to stop what’s happening or make anything better for them. Of course, that’s crazy. Brave men and women—fire fighters, emergency responders—can’t even stop this right now.

God bless them. May they be safe and may they have what they need, including the help of the devas and elementals to calm the winds, provide the water, and create the conditions for alleviation of the intensity.

I told my friend, Rochelle, that I’m having so many conversations with myself about what’s happening. I can feel that I’m slightly in shock and trying to make meaning. I can feel different parts of myself and even parts of the collective psyche trying to make meaning. But, now’s not the time. Now’s the time to attend to what’s really happening—moment-by-moment—in full presence.

So many people call this place—Southern California—home. Many of them for several generations. So many birds and coyotes, snakes and plants, fish and dolphins, call this place home (though surely, they don’t call it California).

For the past three years, I’ve also been trying to call this place home. I say “trying” because it has taken some effort. I’m a die-hard New Yorker and a native Kentuckian. But, when I met the love of my life and he lived in LA, I knew I was going to have to consider a future in the City of Angels.

We’ve now been in a long-distance relationship for almost four years. I’ve visited the Palisades, where Ari lives, often and I enjoy it. Who doesn’t? It’s paradise. Initially however, I also felt confronted by the glaring beauty and shiny perfection, the consistent sunshine, the unwavering happiness, the easeful lifestyle. (Yes, I had to really look at that within myself: a resistance to the idea of ease in my life.) Ari was incredibly patient, generous and hospitable. He wanted me to love it. He made every visit special. Still, I resisted.

Until last year.

In May of 2024, Ari bought a house in the hills of the Palisades and we began to dream about finally living together; bringing our lives together geographically. The house felt like a step in that direction. And though I ADORE New York and I feel it is my home, I began to open up to Los Angeles. I embraced the idea of being bi-coastal. With his help, I stopped referring to the new house as his home and started calling it our home.

Because my connection to the earth and elements is so essential to my feeling at home anywhere, I began to talk to the land, the plants, the ocean, the mountains. I walked and swam, made mandalas, and harvested California Sage. I burned herbs and planted seeds and listened. I hugged trees. Eventually, the trees hugged me back and the land began to open to me. I felt—for the first time—the Eden I had entered. And I allowed it to enter me. I sat on the earth up on the trails above our house. I spotted hawks, held a funeral for a dead pigeon we found in the backyard (with the 8-yr old), watched countless sunsets over the Pacific, marveled at coyotes in the headlights at night, and prayed under a great big Live Oak at the new house. Over the almost-four years I’ve been visiting the Palisades, I’ve made probably close to 100 mandalas with objects and plants, shells and stones, found there.

My last visit to the Palisades was last week. I took my daughter out for her winter break. We stayed with Ari and his daughter in the new Palisades house, our home, and tended to the integration of our lives; the constellation of our new family. We all took a hike together in the hills where the fire now burns. Every morning, we looked into the beautiful canyons.

It’s hard to fathom—that was then, this is now.

As I write, we don’t know what the situation with the house is. We don’t know if it’s standing. That’s a really intense thing not to know. Many people are in the same boat.

I found some comfort last night in a poem I wrote for Ari about the house and the opening of my heart to the possibility of joining him there to make a home together. This poem was meant to be private, for us. But, I feel like sharing it tonight as a tribute to the place in the Palisades I fell in love with. He also liked the idea of me sharing it here with you.

Thank you to all the friends who have checked in. Thank you for all the prayers. I am saying prayers, too. The energy they generate is real and felt. It helps.

Schuyler

This Must Be the Place
April 2024

Leaving this coast--
my verdant heart space--
seemed inconceivable 
only months ago
But, something shifted
The tide changed
What was perpetually going out, 
came in
Our ship, with you at the helm 
And me, the wind in the sails--
Suddenly, it all feels possible! 
Incredible how providence arrives;
How a house 
can change everything

A bird's nest
for cosmic eggs;
perched on a canyon wall;
well-lived-in
and long-loved
An offering from the ancestors;
a landing pad for God
only knows
A stretch, thank you
A seismic shift of tectonic plates 
without the earthquakes
Buddhist temple vibes
High frequency resonance
Butterfly stained glass 
and dream catchers 
California Dreaming 
is real to me now

A Live Oak 
hangs protectively 
over the roof 
unexpectedly-- 
a Southern tree 
a transplant like me
Not native, but thriving
We will make offerings
never forgetting 
whose house it is;
and where the wood came from;
and what it knows
as we form ourselves into 
family 
As we learn to fly
Always coming home 
Back to the nest
Hydrate and rest 
As we lift off into hyperspace
Our welcome mat says: 
This must be the place