Welcoming and being welcomed... again and again

We had the most abundant rain this year, the true gift from nature in this high-fire-risk mountain. Now that we are approaching the spring season (which feels rather quick), I wonder if the torrential rain we had two weeks ago might have been the last one I might see for a very long time. Maybe that’s why this season feels so immensely beautiful. I mean… It’s absolutely gorgeous in the Santa Monica Mountains right now. Wildflowers have returned, and Ceanothus is in full bloom while creeks are running at a steady pace.

In the particular force of my life’s path, this place, coastal chaparral in the canyon where we have lived for the last five years, has become the most familiar ecosystem for me. With fascination and admiration, it was easy for me to begin learning the names, personalities, bloom colors, and roles that various native plants play in the unique topography of the canyon.

A few weeks ago, a mature ceanothus tree at the entrance of our garden started blooming in full force, creating a beautiful natural archway as we walk into our home. Heavy with flowers, the branches hang low, so we have to bend down each time we walk through it. I sometimes (all the time) stop to smell the sweet fragrance of their flowers alongside the bees who are busy with their heads deep into the flowers. I see your return, and I welcome you back.

A month or so ago, the elderberry tree’s new leaves started to come back on empty branches that looked more like forgotten bones for many months during the heatwave season. Fresh leaves are now all over. I see your return, and I welcome you back. I am anticipating elderberry flowers… with it, tea, and hydrosol, which I might be able to make right from our garden.

Then there is the chorus of frogs that fills the darkness of the night sky, which started seemingly out of nowhere a while ago. I see your return, and I welcome you back. After dinner, as each of us settles on our own project in the family space (me folding papers for notebook binding, Frido working on a map he is creating for the kids’ school, and Coco learning how to spin a pencil - at least that was what she was doing last night…) The frogs are so loud (but not in the annoying way…), that we can hear them through our closed windows. It’s like the best natural white noise without being anonymous.

I’m heading out to Japan for a few weeks, with my departure day approaching. I am so curious to see what changes might happen in those short few weeks in the chapparel. Could the Hummingbird Sage I planted last autumn, at the onset of the rainy season, finally bloom in our garden? Will Elderberry flowers be ready for some harvest? Will Canyon Sunflowers, which is my absolute favorite amongst many wildflowers in the canyon, fill more crevices of the ravines and the undertone of the oak trees? It’s comforting to know that I will be showered with “I see your return, and I welcome you back” when I land back. Yes, from my kids, Frido, and our beloved friends…, and also from all these plants, rocks, creeks, and mountains I frequently have a dialogue with in our garden and on the trail.

Perhaps this sense of connection and comfort is what home feels like.