Living Outdoors
As much as we love New York City, several things made moving to Los Angeles enticing. John got a job here, so not unique among American families, especially during recent economic times, we chose to go where the work was. We had visited Los Angeles often enough that, prior to the move, we were no longer exactly tourists. With that knowledge came exposure to differences in lifestyle, which are those of two very different but equally world-class cities: rushed, vertical New York and laid back, spread out Los Angeles.
New York is the very definition of urbanity, where pace and population often crowd out or, to be honest, occasionally trample the kinds of pleasures that flourish in Los Angeles. There is outdoor living in New York, from stoop to rooftop to park to the streets themselves. But Los Angeles has an abundance of space and a gorgeous climate that New York simply does not have, and these inform so much of living in Los Angeles that it only follows that the two places would have evolved differently and engage themselves differently. Space and sunshine are why Los Angelinos shop in malls and along boulevards. They are why we hike, jog, or find any other reason to get outside as often as we can. And they are why nearly every dwelling has a patio, balcony or yard, or all three.
Even in its most cosmopolitan areas, nature is never far away in Los Angeles. Even LA’s few clusters of skyscrapers have plazas with trees. Los Angeles is built not just upon a famous faultline but in and around the terrain that erupted from it: peaks from the twisty streets of the Hollywood Hills to the rustic charms of Big Bear, expanses of sand from the Pacific Coast beaches to the palm desert and Death Valley, fields of produce from giant farms just outside of town to citrus groves that grow in the heart of the city.
Our neighborhood is equal parts urbane and residential. Our pocket of West Hollywood is defined by two of the most famous stretches of road in the country: Santa Monica Boulevard, which is Route 66 as the Mother Road traverses LA, and the Sunset Strip. Cars buzz back and forth along both streets, against the neon backdrop of the businesses that naturally arose along the thoroughfares. The streets that run between them are an equal mix of high rise apartment buildings, Craftsman houses, Deco bungalows, and the small-scale mid-century apartment houses known in local parlance as “dingbats.” It is into one such that we have settled, drawn not just to the opportunity but to this new definition of city, where neon and asphalt meet grass and sky, where nearly every home has a balcony, patio or yard, where the natural world is never far away.
In part, we chose our Los Angeles urban home based on its outdoor living arrangements. We had hoped for a dedicated outdoor space sizable enough for a couple of lawn chairs and a table, with some greenery and a view. What we lucked into was a patio delineated by a California quarry rock wall, a patch of indigenous landscaping including bromeliads, garlic and a baby palm, and a small yard. A grandfatherly California laurel spreads protective arms across the yard, overseeing activity in partnership with the ravens that live in its branches.
There is plenty to watch. A busy streetscape is a familiar sight to eyes used to twenty plus years of bustling New York street culture. I myself often watch like a local busybody as local citizenry of all species make their daily rounds. In this Russian neighborhood, neighbors long since settled from the old country make their dignified way down the street on daily errands, which may include a perambulation in the park. Doggie daddies and mommies are pulled by their robust charges on twice-daily walks that the dogs never consider to last an adequate amount of time. Some favorites include a persnickety Chinese crested whose daddies alternate leash time, a rheumy-eyed but loving mutt who evidences a fondness for snuffling among freshly shorn grass, and a shambling hound dog with floppy jowls whose bay indicates that he is as watchful and protective of his neighborhood as the trees and the ravens are.
It didn’t take long for other citizens to make their presence known. Indians believe that if an animal trusts you enough to make its presence known to you, you should respect that as an affirmation of your character, consider whether you are being delivered a message, and perform acts of appreciation as you are able. I’ve written before about the specialized beauty of insects, from my love of dragonflies to the bees that need our help. I don’t know what it speaks to in my character, but among the first natural citizens who announced themselves at our new urban home were tiny white moths, luminescent as they clustered around the garlic blossoms at dusk. One dewy morning, taking my coffee on the patio, I watched as a brown spider set up housekeeping in the bromeliads, articulating its web with facility, as industrious as a factory worker, as precise as a schoolmarm. I couldn’t help but speculate about which of the moths would be the first victim, and if there is something sad about that, it is also in its way beautiful, and it is this dimension of the natural world that is not our place to interfere with.
As we settled into outdoor living, we found that creatures whose home this was before we homesteaded began to accept us with equal parts caution and charm. That incessant buzzing around our heads revealed itself to be bees, attracted to the blossoms of the tangerine trees that grow alongside the building. Along with the gardenia and the lemon trees, an intoxicating fragrance perfumes the cool Pacific air both outside our home and through its open windows, and makes true the well-known local adage that sunshine smells like citrus. In my role as conservator, I have cautioned the gardener to be respectful of any bee colonies he finds. But no amount of buzzing, feeding, watchfulness or ownership equals that of the local population of hummingbirds. I have learned so much from these little dynamos since they first made their presence known to me last spring. To learn more about hummingbirds and the home, click here.
The outdoors draw us unto themselves, both for learning from the natural world even as we participate in it and for the simple pleasures of being outside: sunshine and breeze, sky and clouds, fresh air and solid earth. I made filmy curtains of clay-dyed gauze to dance through the open windows that front the patio. LA’s famous sunshine pours in all day long, and with a few steps, one is directly in it. This narrates the rhythm of daily living, as the sunlight burns through the morning’s morning marine layer and lingers through a dusk that takes a long time settling. The transition of day to night and back again is itself magical. This is why twilight and dawn are especially beautiful times: because they are periods of in-betweeness. In this way, they can be likened to the equinoxes, whose power and beauty are pivotal and potent as we live seasonally in our urban homes.
In living seasonally, we open ourselves to experiences that enrich our own lives even as they remind us of the interconnectedness of all living beings. Through reweaving ourselves into the natural world that we are part of, we remind ourselves of the crucial lesson that we are not above or better than any being with whom we co-share Mother Earth’s accommodations. This is why our own fear of natural phenomena from storms, such as the one that battered New York City last autumn, to vital, but alien-seeming beings from bugs to fungi, from bacteria to viruses, proceeds from respect. In California, we earthquake-proof our homes, in practical preparation but out of respect for the occurrence itself.
This is why, along with beauty and respect, the key lesson of attunement with the natural world is humility. One midnight, I stood on the patio as I often do at the witching hour. Traffic was still busy on nearby Sunset Boulevard but our street had quieted for the night. As I contemplated the expanse of starlight through the canopy of laurel leaves, a rustling from the corner of the building caught my attention. Slowly, respectfully – even with, I’ll admit it, a shot of adrenalin to my heart – I turned. From the noise it was a decent-sized creature; could have been anything from a stray cat to a wild one, from a scrambling rat to an easily startled skunk.
I met the glittering black eyes of an opossum, those eyes aglow in the moonlight in that alarming way of the species. It was probably on a foraging visit from nearby Plummer Park or Runyon Canyon. I willed myself still. The possum evaluated me for as long as it deemed necessary, really no longer than a moment. The possum found me uninteresting, except perhaps as a curiosity. The possum turned and calmly ambled away, its curly tail disappearing into the secret world of the shadows. The possum inhabits that world with knowing but without conscious thought, though not without effort. It is a world that I in my striving, clumsy humanity can only understand observationally or through the teaching of creatures, if I am open to the learning and lucky enough to encounter a creature that takes a moment to expose me to it. It was humbling and magical at once. And that is the very core of the lesson of living outdoors.
New York is the very definition of urbanity, where pace and population often crowd out or, to be honest, occasionally trample the kinds of pleasures that flourish in Los Angeles. There is outdoor living in New York, from stoop to rooftop to park to the streets themselves. But Los Angeles has an abundance of space and a gorgeous climate that New York simply does not have, and these inform so much of living in Los Angeles that it only follows that the two places would have evolved differently and engage themselves differently. Space and sunshine are why Los Angelinos shop in malls and along boulevards. They are why we hike, jog, or find any other reason to get outside as often as we can. And they are why nearly every dwelling has a patio, balcony or yard, or all three.
Even in its most cosmopolitan areas, nature is never far away in Los Angeles. Even LA’s few clusters of skyscrapers have plazas with trees. Los Angeles is built not just upon a famous faultline but in and around the terrain that erupted from it: peaks from the twisty streets of the Hollywood Hills to the rustic charms of Big Bear, expanses of sand from the Pacific Coast beaches to the palm desert and Death Valley, fields of produce from giant farms just outside of town to citrus groves that grow in the heart of the city.
Our neighborhood is equal parts urbane and residential. Our pocket of West Hollywood is defined by two of the most famous stretches of road in the country: Santa Monica Boulevard, which is Route 66 as the Mother Road traverses LA, and the Sunset Strip. Cars buzz back and forth along both streets, against the neon backdrop of the businesses that naturally arose along the thoroughfares. The streets that run between them are an equal mix of high rise apartment buildings, Craftsman houses, Deco bungalows, and the small-scale mid-century apartment houses known in local parlance as “dingbats.” It is into one such that we have settled, drawn not just to the opportunity but to this new definition of city, where neon and asphalt meet grass and sky, where nearly every home has a balcony, patio or yard, where the natural world is never far away.
In part, we chose our Los Angeles urban home based on its outdoor living arrangements. We had hoped for a dedicated outdoor space sizable enough for a couple of lawn chairs and a table, with some greenery and a view. What we lucked into was a patio delineated by a California quarry rock wall, a patch of indigenous landscaping including bromeliads, garlic and a baby palm, and a small yard. A grandfatherly California laurel spreads protective arms across the yard, overseeing activity in partnership with the ravens that live in its branches.
There is plenty to watch. A busy streetscape is a familiar sight to eyes used to twenty plus years of bustling New York street culture. I myself often watch like a local busybody as local citizenry of all species make their daily rounds. In this Russian neighborhood, neighbors long since settled from the old country make their dignified way down the street on daily errands, which may include a perambulation in the park. Doggie daddies and mommies are pulled by their robust charges on twice-daily walks that the dogs never consider to last an adequate amount of time. Some favorites include a persnickety Chinese crested whose daddies alternate leash time, a rheumy-eyed but loving mutt who evidences a fondness for snuffling among freshly shorn grass, and a shambling hound dog with floppy jowls whose bay indicates that he is as watchful and protective of his neighborhood as the trees and the ravens are.
It didn’t take long for other citizens to make their presence known. Indians believe that if an animal trusts you enough to make its presence known to you, you should respect that as an affirmation of your character, consider whether you are being delivered a message, and perform acts of appreciation as you are able. I’ve written before about the specialized beauty of insects, from my love of dragonflies to the bees that need our help. I don’t know what it speaks to in my character, but among the first natural citizens who announced themselves at our new urban home were tiny white moths, luminescent as they clustered around the garlic blossoms at dusk. One dewy morning, taking my coffee on the patio, I watched as a brown spider set up housekeeping in the bromeliads, articulating its web with facility, as industrious as a factory worker, as precise as a schoolmarm. I couldn’t help but speculate about which of the moths would be the first victim, and if there is something sad about that, it is also in its way beautiful, and it is this dimension of the natural world that is not our place to interfere with.
As we settled into outdoor living, we found that creatures whose home this was before we homesteaded began to accept us with equal parts caution and charm. That incessant buzzing around our heads revealed itself to be bees, attracted to the blossoms of the tangerine trees that grow alongside the building. Along with the gardenia and the lemon trees, an intoxicating fragrance perfumes the cool Pacific air both outside our home and through its open windows, and makes true the well-known local adage that sunshine smells like citrus. In my role as conservator, I have cautioned the gardener to be respectful of any bee colonies he finds. But no amount of buzzing, feeding, watchfulness or ownership equals that of the local population of hummingbirds. I have learned so much from these little dynamos since they first made their presence known to me last spring. To learn more about hummingbirds and the home, click here.
The outdoors draw us unto themselves, both for learning from the natural world even as we participate in it and for the simple pleasures of being outside: sunshine and breeze, sky and clouds, fresh air and solid earth. I made filmy curtains of clay-dyed gauze to dance through the open windows that front the patio. LA’s famous sunshine pours in all day long, and with a few steps, one is directly in it. This narrates the rhythm of daily living, as the sunlight burns through the morning’s morning marine layer and lingers through a dusk that takes a long time settling. The transition of day to night and back again is itself magical. This is why twilight and dawn are especially beautiful times: because they are periods of in-betweeness. In this way, they can be likened to the equinoxes, whose power and beauty are pivotal and potent as we live seasonally in our urban homes.
In living seasonally, we open ourselves to experiences that enrich our own lives even as they remind us of the interconnectedness of all living beings. Through reweaving ourselves into the natural world that we are part of, we remind ourselves of the crucial lesson that we are not above or better than any being with whom we co-share Mother Earth’s accommodations. This is why our own fear of natural phenomena from storms, such as the one that battered New York City last autumn, to vital, but alien-seeming beings from bugs to fungi, from bacteria to viruses, proceeds from respect. In California, we earthquake-proof our homes, in practical preparation but out of respect for the occurrence itself.
This is why, along with beauty and respect, the key lesson of attunement with the natural world is humility. One midnight, I stood on the patio as I often do at the witching hour. Traffic was still busy on nearby Sunset Boulevard but our street had quieted for the night. As I contemplated the expanse of starlight through the canopy of laurel leaves, a rustling from the corner of the building caught my attention. Slowly, respectfully – even with, I’ll admit it, a shot of adrenalin to my heart – I turned. From the noise it was a decent-sized creature; could have been anything from a stray cat to a wild one, from a scrambling rat to an easily startled skunk.
I met the glittering black eyes of an opossum, those eyes aglow in the moonlight in that alarming way of the species. It was probably on a foraging visit from nearby Plummer Park or Runyon Canyon. I willed myself still. The possum evaluated me for as long as it deemed necessary, really no longer than a moment. The possum found me uninteresting, except perhaps as a curiosity. The possum turned and calmly ambled away, its curly tail disappearing into the secret world of the shadows. The possum inhabits that world with knowing but without conscious thought, though not without effort. It is a world that I in my striving, clumsy humanity can only understand observationally or through the teaching of creatures, if I am open to the learning and lucky enough to encounter a creature that takes a moment to expose me to it. It was humbling and magical at once. And that is the very core of the lesson of living outdoors.
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