Talent Hidden in France

When the sun is early in the sky as it is late in the afternoon horizon, you can hear the heat. This is only known to people of the north who can 'hear' the heat. Their ears are in tune; sensitive to summer weather. After the winter. The long winter, they have this ability. It is a quiet stillness; heat bugs hissing, making electrical wire sounds that echo from yard to yard and bounce off the leaves of the old maple trees. She can hear the heat in this California garden. She can feel the texture of the succulents and greenery that spill over the flagstones. She feels the concrete under her feet. A bit dry, just shy of irritating your skin, but tender and familiar at the same time. The cement is hot. The pool is velvety wet and cool. A can of ivory paint sits beside the one with brilliant white dripping down the edges. If it were not for the sound of distant L.A. traffic, you'd swear you were Hidden in France. The fragrant scent of lavender sifts through the air and beyond the door is her studio. Her world. Her magic. You must visit the talent.