A peaceful place within oneself

I’M sitting in our new gazebo under an oak tree on an afternoon as still as a sleeping baby. I can hear the buzz of a lawn mower far off, which interests me because I had not been aware that anyone had a lawn in Topanga. It is the only sound that intrudes on the silence, except for radio music that plays in the background, and music is rarely an intrusion.

It’s rather a strange day for what is supposed to be the middle of winter. Even close to 6 o’clock, the temperature is probably in the 80s. A weather front is moving in, but this particular afternoon has the feel of velvet, and the pale blue sky bears the look of a late summer day. I’m at peace out here, removed from the news and the noise, although I wish the person with the lawn mower would finish up. Then it would be perfect.

I named the gazebo “Cinelli’s Dream,” because it was my wife’s idea. Barry, the Topanga troll who built this magnificent Walden’s Pond in a corner of our yard, made a sign that hangs near the door, bearing the gazebo’s name. The structure isn’t quite finished, but I couldn’t resist sitting out here in the dimming light, sipping a martini and thinking about nothing in particular, and everything in general. Everyone needs a place like this.

I referred to it as Walden’s Pond because I could image that Thoreau had the same idea of wanting a peaceful retreat, where crows fly and small animals rustle in the bushes. There’s a kind of spirituality to this spot, as though it had been destined to be a place for reflection, the way Thoreau’s pond was.

The lawn mowing has stopped, and now the silence lies over me like a dream. It’s very quiet where I live, which is life-sustaining for me, because inside my head it’s very noisy. I turn the radio down, even though I like the kind of retro music played on KKGO-AM (1260), songs with real lyrics. Gary Owens is the DJ. He has the soothing kind of voice that can lull a tiger to sleep. It goes with the evening hush.

I am taking time off because I have just finished writing a book. It’s about the last trip that Cinelli and I took with Barkley, the wondrous dog who enriched our lives for nine years. It was an emotional journey, both in actuality and in the writing, which is why I needed a few days to rest. The trouble with writing is that one must devour words to create effective stories and, in turn, be devoured by them. We are eaten away by our own imageries.

When I finished the book, which will be called “Barkley: A Dog’s Journey,” I felt as though I had just made it to shore ahead of a large predator that was snapping at my feet. I sat on the shore, my heart pounding, staring at the thing as it turned away from the land and headed back to sea.

I mentioned to my cardiologist on a routine visit that when I’d finished the book I felt a tightening in my chest. He questioned me intensely, knowing that I had a history of heart disease and insisted that I begin taking a tranquilizer. I said OK, but I have no intention of swallowing anything that is going to turn me into one of those drug-dulled people who go around smiling at the moonbeams in their head.

I read the label that came with the tranquilizer and it warned of possible side effects ranging from a yellowing of the skin to dry mouth, blank eyes and babbling idiocy. I can see you shaking your finger in the manner of a fifth-grade teacher and warning me that martinis can probably do the same thing, but at least with a martini, you enjoy crackers with a little pate and a fat olive. One takes pills alone, staring in the mirror, waiting for the skin to turn the pallor of lemonade and the eyes to go white.

A slight chill, winter’s warning of the intruding cold, has become a part of what is now the approaching night, rather than the fading afternoon. There are lights available in the gazebo that spread out toward Cinelli’s incredible garden, but I prefer to let the night come in darkness, as well it should, without the annoyance of illumination.

Those who pass, and they are few, probably think me a fool, sitting here by the light of the computer’s monitor, staring off at the trees and sometimes up at the sight of overhanging branches, their outlines diffused by the latticework patterns of the gazebo.

I am taken to put into words what I see and hear in this tranquil moment, wandering an existential pathway, compelled to share the vacancy of a walk through my own soul, the way a blind man pokes along a garden path. There is freedom out here and regeneration, and a tendency to meander. That’s what time off sitting alone in a gazebo does for you.

The lawn mower is going again. One of these days, I’m going to find out who in the hell has a lawn around here.

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He’s at al.martinez@latimes.com.