Tuesday, September 6, 2011
I've woken up literally every morning this summer, here in Los Angeles, and walked outside to the usual glorious weather -- sunny, clear skies, a bit of a cool breeze, temperatures near seventy degrees, no humidity. And every morning -- in fact, throughout the day, I've either remarked to someone or said in my head how utterly fantastic the weather is. How beautiful. How perfect. How grateful I am for it. How fortunate we are. This morning I opened the door and was greeted by a blast of humid heat. The skies were a bit gray, yellow, really, and the breeze was hot. And the air was weird -- both still and stifled and rippling through the palms. I felt uneasy, unsettled. Earthquake weather, is what the neighbor said, and I nodded as I leaned over and picked up our paper. Sophie had just had a seizure and was her post-ictal clammy self and despite the fact that she has seizures nearly every day, multiple times a day, I worried that it was indeed earthquake weather and that the strange barometric pressure or whatever you call it was affecting her, too.
I'm still unsettled. Anxious, looking up into the sky and down to the ground.