At this moment in history, where many assumptions I'd made about reality are being rapidly discarded, it's valuable to identify those few constants to keep me tethered (however tenuously) to the world.
The regional pillars of my world come down to two individuals and one species.
Shirtless Keith
I didn't know it at the time we bought our home, but we live in one of LA's cycling destinations thanks to a combination of hills, switchbacks and ocean views. This naturally attracts a lot of cyclists with a lot of wealth.
It's common to see neon-themed, lycra-bound dudes with ripped calves and mirrored Oakleys zipping all over the road in packs like velociraptors. I don't know much about bikes, but my friends who do say that many of the cyclists have outfits that weigh slightly more than a paperclip, computers that accurately calculate the muscle tone in each glut in real time, and easily cost more than my car.
Against this backdrop, I enjoy my 7 mile morning ride up a few decent hills with pants tucked into my socks and no visible lycra. One of these things is not like the others.
Turns out, I was wrong. Two of these things are not like the others - and the second is awesome.
I first noticed Shirtless Keith (alternately known as jean-shorts Keith - which, for those of you fans of the cable series Arrested Development, is eerily reminiscent of the nevernude outfit) five years ago.
Every afternoon, in the heat of day, I saw this same fellow charging up a huge hill on his single speed hybrid bike.
To clarify, every day Shirtless Keith takes on the sort of hills that most athletes save for their weekend warrior challenge. Short, spiky Rod Stewart haircut circa 1978, only less deliberately stylish. Denim cutoff shorts. Big work boots. Permanent sunburn. Maybe he was a longshoreman in a prior life.
I now see him all over the area during daylight hours - inevitably on a steep hill and often putting to shame those decked-out cyclists on their featherweight, two-wheel Ferrari equivalents with his humble Yugo bike and his calves of steel.
One Keith to rule them all!
Our Lady of Perpetual Bedazzlement
Four years back, my wife and I encountered a couple taking an evening walk. The wife confided that her husband had just graced the age of 90. They were vibrant, tender with one another, and our interaction gave me one possible vision for graceful aging.
Fast forward to a year ago when I began taking early morning bike rides - I noticed an older lady who seemed familiar, often taking a brisk walk with two or three friends as I was finishing my ride.
I can spot her from blocks away thanks to a sky-blue sequined cap she always wears, like a Vegas showgirl who can't break her bling habit.
Since the lockdown went into effect, I take some solace in seeing Our Lady of Perpetual Bedazzlement during my (almost) daily ride. We don't stop to chat, but we wave and smile from our respective orbits to reassure one another that universal physics remain in place despite the disruption on our particular planet.
I can't help but suspect that this might be the same lady we met so many years ago - perhaps freshly a widow, still active and engaged in the world. I worry what robbing her of the social support of her walking group might do in the long run.
Needing to implement social distancing near the end of life, when one most desires company, could be a social variant of sequence of returns risk.
I hope Our Lady keeps walking.
The Neighbors
The final constants are those that pay me no heed, and refuse to acknowledge social distancing even as they continue to shelter in place.
I've mentioned previously that I'm a bird watcher. As such, I've always thought of the birds in my area as my neighbors.
House finches, males with gaudy red or orange breasts, have begun building nests in the eaves of our home once again.
Our resident mockingbird, scrappy and aggressive, takes up his territorial post on the street sign at the corner like a brawler waiting for an unsuspecting crow: Just try me, buddy, I dare you.
The black phoebe darts from railing to apple tree and back as it picks off gnats above a small patch of lawn.
A scrub jay screeches in a bush to announce my arrival, outdone by the peacock mewling from the pine trees above.
A pair of California towhees rustle the litter of leaves on the ground beneath the bushes to scare insects out into the open, where they feast along the trail.
Allen's hummingbirds buzz past a flowering vine near the outdoor weight set like a near-miss arrow reverberating in my ear.
Dark eyed juncos with their black hoods and brown napes flit away as my bike approaches their hunting grounds, white outer tail feathers flashing as they dart for cover.
A Cooper's hawk sits astride a chimney silently scanning the field below as I huff my way up a hill.
Rounding the corner where we live, a pair goldfinches hop between our guava tree and an ornamental banana tree next door.
Red tailed hawks ride thermal currents as I walk back from shooting baskets with the kids at the abandoned school down the road.
The highlight of my week: a hooded oriole, feathers ablaze in golden-orange, announcing that spring is officially here. This is the bird my father and I would spot, first nesting in a tall palm tree, later visiting a giant bird of paradise in our back yard.
Dad can't join me for walks like he once did, but I call to share the news of the sighting, and there's something beautiful about envisioning that bird together that overcomes distance and solitude and makes us part of a shared sense of wonder, a rekindled memory of joy.