by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

This morning, I woke shortly after dawn to loud music. At first, I hoped that it was from a car that would soon drive away, and with that I would fall back asleep. When it didn't drive away and, in fact, got louder, I threw on some clothes and went out to investigate.

I've only done it a few times, but every time I've asked someone to turn down their music, I've gotten good results. Three months ago, the workers building the house down the street complied immediately, and haven't been heard from since. Some people just don't think of others unless they are reminded.

This morning, still coming to consciousness and buttoning my shirt, I went down the stairs (I live on the second floor), arranging my hair with my fingers, and out onto the front patio where the music was much louder and I could tell from which direction it came. Crossing the patio, I opened the street door and looked up to the end of our virtual dead end. (There is a very rutted, bumpy dirt "road" that connects ours to the next street over.) Gazing, I saw the offensive altavoz (amplified speaker) and two rows of funereal folding chairs set up in front of Catalino's house.

Also in sight were a couple of men with bottles of beer and a smallish fire built right where the cobblestones end. Unseen myself, I closed my door and retreated. I've learned not to send emails when my blood sugar is low. It seemed a good idea to have a bite to eat and wake up a bit more before speaking with the noisy, grieving neighbors. In any case, there was zero chance of me going back to sleep, which was a shame since I need more than six hours of sleep. It was just 7am and I had gone to bed at 1:00.

Underestimating the labor required to accomplish a task is a survival mechanism. If we knew before starting how much effort would be involved in finishing the work, many times we just wouldn't start the job. In this, and in many other things, I lie to myself.

At 9 o'clock last night, I told myself, "I might be done uploading the events [to Lokkal's calendar] by 11:00." As it was, I finished a little after midnight. Not a big fib. But after that, I still had to finish uploading content to Lokkal's Community Wall (and the same content to Lokkal's Facebook page). And then after that I needed to unwind a little while eating a piece of sourdough bread topped with almond butter and banana; ergo 1am.

Making my way back up the stairs and into my apartment, denied further slumber, I accomplished my toilette, brewed a cup of tea, and got to work. What else do I do?

Catalino, recently deceased at 72-years-old, owned the last house on the street and, more importantly to me, the garden lot several doors down from that house and immediately across from my home. Some very few months ago, after observing him regularly coming and going from his garden, I went over and introduced myself.

My mother's family were country people. I not only get along with campesinos, I like them. After a few visits and "tours" of the smallish lot, Catalino fulfilled my wish, presenting me with a key to his garden. A New Englander, where there is so much water, I'm a little snobby when it comes to nature. They call California's hills "golden," but they're really brown. Still, even in this semi-desert, the sheer density of plant-life in Catalino's garden makes it a very special place. At this season, it's dried out. But with some regular watering, it would be a lush nursery.

I told Catalino that I wanted to perform my morning yoga in the garden, on the earth, among the plants; to take a daily nature bath. As it was, my go-to yoga spot was the roof of the building I live in, above my upstairs neighbor, who is only present two weeks a year. But that all changed when I "accused" my neighbor M's daughter of taking my shoes (Lost Shoes). At that point, the neighbor locked the door at the top of the stairs blocking access to the spiral staircase that leads to the roof.

I understand now that M did this not to punish me, but to protect her position with my rarely present upstairs neighbor. M has the keys to maintain the apartment, but neither she nor I have permission to use the space. Still, M and her large family, two divorced daughters plus grandchildren, who all also live across the street, next to the garden, were using the upstairs apartment, sometimes quite regularly.

My second-floor apartment seen through the trees
*

Anyway, my banishment turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as it has encouraged me to do my yoga in Catalino's garden, which I have every day. This morning was no exception. Around 9:00, properly coiffed and with a level blood sugar, I went out. The music was still blaring. The two men were still drinking beer. The fire was only smoldering.

When the man who was still periodically monkeying with the music, turning it up and down, saw me approaching, he turned it off. Coming up to him, I started the conversation by asking, "You are the son?" When he acknowledged that relationship I told him, of course all in Spanish, "I am sorry for your loss."

I knew who had died. Catalino suffered for years with a painful abdominal condition. Just by a fluke I saw the ambulance taking him away a few days ago.

There is a time for sadness. The rabbis say, "You should not comfort mourners when their dead is before them." But, verbally acknowledging that proviso, I went on to state my increasing certainty that consciousness is most real, the ground of existence. In the entire universe, mind is present and primary. Matter, time, space and energy are not as real as our experience of them. And our experience does not just evaporate when the body finally fails us. (After the object has fallen into a black hole, information remains.) Death is not the turning out of the light, but illumination. "There is another world," I testified to the son, whose name I learned was Jesus, "and Catalino is in it."

Then reaching in my pocket I produced my keychain, and, fingering the key in question, said, "Catalino gave me a key to his garden..." Jesus, quite drunk from his long night vigil, but holding it well, adamantly refused my offer to return the key: "No, it was my father's wish for you to use the garden. He told us, 'He is my friend. I gave him a key.'" We took some photos, and I went and did my yoga, feeling Catalino smiling down on me.

It's now mid-afternoon. The music is silent. I'm going to seize the moment and take a nap.

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, our local social network, the community online and off, Atención robustly reborn for the digital age. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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