Exploring steps untaken
Spots familiar
Lead to ventures new
One corner turned
Another skipped
Looking with fresh eyes
A heavy chest breathes deep
Energy renews
Houses dance in pastel hues
Flowers bloom from recent rains
Cardboard tightly bound
Empty of yesterday's sustenance
Clues to the ones still waking
Quiet now
Danger signs ever present
Cannot untether the excitable soul
Inquisitive mind
Propels a hungry heart
Out in the avenues
The sky so blue
Voluptuous clouds 
Afternoon rainbow
Colorful grin of the sublime

Little birds nest in the sand while a vulture spreads its broad wings. Two humans walk maskless when others are far enough to be the size of ants. Behind the dunes, the sand is mushy and feet sink. An elephant seal calls out sounding like gurgling water in rusty old pipes. Barnacles cover cement and wood pushes itself into sand. Salt and grit whittle away at the skull of a whale that has found eternal rest.  

Sky and water reflect, blue on endless blue. 

I venture off to take photos of a hole in the ground, one I had stumbled upon once before. Finding the previously empty reservoir now being turned into a park, I am pleased but also a little sad to see the emptiness filled. 

I wander around the neighborhood near my old art school. I knew the area was affluent, but it is amazing how that affluence can go unseen and untouched by a scrappy young student. The affluence is no more attainable now than it was then, but when noticed is more amusing than disturbing. The older one gets, the more one learns that money makes daily life easier but happiness is found by more simplistic means. It is not constant but is important to celebrate when clearly present. 

This week we have a lot to celebrate. It is hopefully the beginning of the end of the horrific path our country has been on. We may have to continue to maneuver around in masks for a while to come, but at least there is hope for a semblance of somewhat normal life again. Basic human decency is nothing to be taken for granted. Fragility of stability is to be on constant watch. We are and must be stronger now. 

I zig zag and climb up and down, circling around and repeating. I can feel my legs working and my breath deepen. I remember and create anew. I step and pause to reflect and see my shadow looking back at me. A hummingbird flutters near my eyes, not taunting me, but bringing me peace. This day is a good one, but never more important than all the rest. 

I drive around in circles, looking for a place to park. I have no agenda other than to walk and take pictures, but today I am off kilter and a bit sad. I wander somewhat aimlessly, arriving at a hill. It is like a cartoon exaggeration of a steep street, but a perfect representation of my emotions at that very moment. I turn around before I reach its peak, adjust my temperament and start again. Riding the wave between is the balancing act of these pandemic days. 

Finally parked, I head to the ocean, my steadfast friend. Here, the ravens dance as they always do. I am calm in their presence. The spirit finds solace in moments of simplicity. I cannot untether my connection to this place, even though I sometimes still feel like a tourist. The magic never ceases to surprise me, but I am easily wooed. 

After a perfect amount of wandering, I return to the car and remove my mask. Contented and smiling, I wipe away the salt from the tears that dried on my sun-kissed cheeks. 

Walking between two towns in the East Bay, I am pleased and also puzzled how quiet it is. I stay between two shopping districts on the residential streets, eventually landing in a cemetery up on the hill. Here, among the gravestones, it is calm and the view is sweeping. 

I spot a headstone bearing my name, and I think, "Damn you! I am not done yet." I look back over the water to the vastness of the Bay Area and I am thankful. I see the cranes that rise their heads one block from my old art studio. I see the mountain that rises above my current home. I flash to my grandmother's back deck and how blown away I was the first time I saw the glorious view. In the decades of my adult life, I have stepped into and out of this coastal land many times, to visit family, friends and to make a home. I wish I could sit with my younger self, to grab a cup of coffee and have a long chat. She would have a hard time believing what we have gone through in recent days. She would also tell me to stop fretting so much, to live fully and completely, no matter the sometimes uncontrollable parameters. I would hug her and say thanks. 

After strolling around the grounds of many lives lived, I turn back to where I parked. Along the way, I spot a ball in the grass, boldly printed with the name Wilson. Oh, I remember him! He starred in a movie with Tom Hanks where he played the best friend. I slyly take his picture and introduce myself. I have plans on how we can now be best friends. He is somehow immune to the virus, so we don't have to worry about masks. He is staring at me unflinching, and I realize he is unamused. I scurry away, laughing at my own goofy fantasy. 

Most of the cemeteries in San Francisco proper have been exhumed, moved or hidden beneath new facades. All around the city one can find evidence of this. Gravestones and monuments show up on odd and unexpected places, in golf courses, along seawalls, in between freeways, on well trodden trails. Many bodies were moved to the fog drenched town of Colma, but many lie unannounced and unmarked, under the most popular tourist spots in the city. Often these are the workers, the immigrants and the orphans, the forgotten. Undoubtedly, their blood sweat and tears went into creating this place we celebrate but also take for granted. 

My meandering mind mulls over the push pull of our government crumbling, the chaos of a broken system. I also pause to appreciate the work of warriors for real and positive change. It is often hard to find peace within the noise, the room to celebrate what is actually good. It is hard to understand the hate, dressed for battle in a theater of madness. The clock keeps ticking and we remain. Like a sweater with one loose thread, a slight pull in the wrong direction causes it all to unravel into a tangled mess. We will stitch it together again but we might need some safety pins, tape or glue to keep it from unraveling once more. 

I stand now where Joan of Arc keeps watch over the museum, and where The Thinker has found a friend. The art inside waits for the watchful eyes it once knew. If art hangs in a gallery with no one there to see it, has it lost its vision? I once was told by a respected art professor, to make my work as if no one was ever going to see it. It was good advice for a young artist, the brightest shade of green. I still approach my art that way to some extent, but I hope not to be the tree falling in the forest, into a dead echo of silence. 

For the ones that lie beneath, your presence is deeply felt. I greet you with an openness reserved for those I hold dear. Whomever you once were, you are no more, but your mark was made, your sweat filled brow turned into the dewey mist that falls upon the bay. I close my eyes and can hear your footsteps, the ones that created the paths of future generations. We spin in our own dust, carried like glitter in the wind, yesterday's stars.