God's green earth

The other day it rained. It didn't rain much, and it didn't rain hard, but it was enough to clear some of the smog and dust and haze out of the air. Dark, moody clouds ambled their way along the mountains and the hills, with "God light" gleaming through in patches. It was so beautiful--the urban forest, the shape of hills not obscured through grading and terraces and rows of houses, the sky blue between the clouds.

That was driving to school along Colima between Hacienda and Azusa. Driving home on Fullerton Road, cresting the hill into La Habra, i could see the Coyote Hills, Catalina, the ships in port, Signal Hill, and the valleys--from the Cleveland National Forest to the ocean--again pastoral and lovely.

And it made me sad, because it so often doesn't look this way, but it was a reminder of how lovely God's creation was, how beautiful it can be, and the paradise that drew people to southern California. But then, discontented with what was here, somehow it was decided--whether a deliberate design decision or simply the cultural vernacular--that this semi-arid place should be something else. And i wish that i didn't have to drive everywhere, which contributes to the problem, and could instead use a reasonably efficient public transit system.