The books that heal us
The books that drag us up and out of the pits we’ve fallen into are not always pulitzer prize worthy
Everyone had been telling us to visit Ojai since we first moved to Pasadena three years ago, yet somehow we never made our way there until this past weekend. It was a simple drive, simpler than I imagined since Los Angeles traffic is never predictable, also never friendly. But we drove along the coast and into the hills with ease, the wild grasses dotted with bright flowers from all the rain this past winter.
Our hotel, with a saltwater pool and summer camp aesthetic, had one room still available. Room fifteen. I felt nostalgic when I saw the piney log bed frame, like the one from my childhood bedroom, made by a local logger. At least I think. Elsewhere in the hotel, burnt yellow and pink tiles decorated the bathroom walls and floor, a nod to past generations with more interesting styles. A cute kitchen. Dimly lit scone lights. Outside our window, a circle of motorcycles parked next to the small shack that housed a late-night bar and fire pit.
I was sic…
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