I remember when Charles Schultz suggested that security was “a thumb and a blanket.”
For me, security is still closely related to touch and sound.
Things soft–my lambs wool robe, downy slippers, Italian cotton blouses, and silk pillowcases.
Things consistent—ocean swells, one after another, crashing in on a breezy Aptos beach; Tahoe snowflakes falling silently, dusting my ski hat white; rows of Sonoma grapevines awaiting their September due dates, their harvest swelling, ripe, and heavy; hummingbirds in the summer sun, whizzing close to my ear, a two-ship reverie.
Our olive trees- capricious teenagers across the creek, swaying in the East Bay winds, their silvery-green hair decorated with budding fruit; the little creek chitchatting with the rocks as it heads downhill,as it has for 100 years, toward a brackish Bay
Security is five new cameras, like film directors, capturing all movement outside my fences, inside my house, recording license plate numbers, hikers, gawkers, loiterers, and sadly, those up to no good.
The cameras, fresh out of their sterile boxes, introduce themselves to the fertile walnut, the stately sycamore, and the feminine locust tree who have reluctantly agreed to host them; three lenses perched high above the human eye, three Big voyeuristic Sisters, recording all movement, from squirrel to Jeep.
A new clinical layer adds itself to the soft texture of the Rancho.
Life moves on.