My Own Private Sunshine

There's a shot I didn't post from yesterday's Olvera Street Photowalk. I made several attempts at the picture but with my point and shoot camera and novice skills, it was unphotographable. I stood in the middle of the street, alone, looking towards downtown. It was a gray day. Trying desperately to peek through the hazy skies was the sun. No one else seemed to notice. Where crowds had gathered to watch street magicians or dance to the tunes of one man bands or listen to the Spanish singer who dominated the central courtyard of the birthplace of Los Angeles or pray at the altar in the mission, it was me and my own private sunshine.

It wasn't an uncommon experience on the day. I was excited about the photowalk all week. I'd meet some new folks, do something I don't consider myself very good at, learn a thing or two, and enjoy a part of the city I am very rarely in. Except that once I was there, I found myself tugged away from the group. I followed sounds instead of sights. Children giggling. Delighted applause. Shuffling feet. Sobbing. Anger. Singing. Water gurgling. Dragged luggage.

I misplaced the other photowalkers but never felt lost. Stories began to unwrap themselves from my head and wrap around the scenes I was taking in: The Tale of the Homeless Dancers; The Baptism That Wasn't; The Road to Nowhere; The 31st Avian Brigade; My Father, The Statue.

And, I imagine, the sun watched me from the safety of the cloud cover and tall buildings, enveloping me in a story all its own.

Hello, Sunshine.