Back on the beach again, the sun is brighter than last time. The air is warm. It is days like this that I wish I knew how to surf. Nothing is more satisfying to me than snorkeling in warm water looking at fish. The water is not warm in northern California, so that does not happen here. I have faltered at ever putting on a wetsuit and embracing these cold waves. That doesn't prevent me from putting my feet in or truly loving this beach. 

I have lost a camera to the salt water on the East Coast. I've had one stolen from me while out taking photos on my bicycle. It was a crime that I was never able to report. I like to believe that young man is now a photographer, even though I know he probably is not. I've dropped other cameras with frequency enough to cause dings and scrapes, but not enough to hinder my picture taking ability. Today, my wrist strap gives way and my camera hits the beach in a fit of clicking. Sand permeates the lens and that is the end of this all too delicate picture taking device. At least I had already been looking toward getting a new one. 

Due to the constraints of social distancing during the virus, the lingering, the mind wandering, the carefree enjoyment is short. These things are cherished to the extent that I am able to cherish them at this point and time. I continue to hang on to hope for what knowledge and good can be gained from passing the crossroads of pandemic and protest. 

My legs feel wobbly and my knee aches. I crisscross the streets and sidewalks to keep the distance. This distance weighs on my mental state. I fight this and keep walking (limping), disposition in tact. Eyes darting left and right, up and down, I take pictures, breathing through thick fabric. There is an absence of activity that usually fills these summer months. The humans are getting restless. 

I get lost, but not so lost I cannot find my way back. Adrift, in place and state of mind - this is how I process being. I find beauty and darkness and the balance between. Vibrancy of color imprints on my mind, saved for when the fog rolls in. 

The cool morning salt air is healing. The beach is wide and familiar. This is where I come to visit the ravens. They are always here and don't know about social distancing. It is consistently easy being in this place. I pick up rocks and shells and later find sand lining my pockets, the treasures squirreled away in backpacks, jackets or purses. Over the years, I have carried beach rocks and shells from location to location. I mostly forget their origins but never the enthusiasm with which I declared them unique and worthy of holding dear. 

When I was in grad school, I would take the N Judah to the end of the line with Ocean Beach as my destination. I would stroll until the sun sufficiently shined through the rolling fog, I could taste the salt on my skin, and I was heavy with collected charms. I would eat a hearty lunch at a beach cafe before the long ride back to my apartment. 

In more recent years, I would ride my bicycle here, along the Great Highway, stopping to document feeding or frolicking birds. I frequented my favorite coffee shop and occasionally stopped for art supplies at a shop next door. 

In times of uncertainty, this ocean, this sand, this salt air has done me an immense amount of good. The vibrant painted walls nudge my creative brain. The birds win my heart. The Cliff House on the hill and the ruins of the baths below remind me of the picture postcard aspects of San Francisco that I have examined and dissected in order to better understand my own desires. Over and over again. The horizon reminds me of the vastness of this planet earth. It is a heavy weight to put on a plot of sand and body of water. You don't choose your gold. It chooses you. Never worry if it is of the fools variety, if it is what makes you shine the brightest.  

Venturing into a neighborhood not my own, I find quiet and space. But first, I look to the water that drew me to California so many years ago. I would never let go of my love affair with this state, despite the earthquakes, fires and high cost of living. What it has given me is more than what it could ever take away. It is important not to take this for granted, even when it's hard to do much outside of the house these pandemic days. For now, these walks are simple but satisfying. 

The houses in this unfamiliar neighborhood remind me of visiting my relatives in northern and southern California. The variety of plants and house colors are a different palette than were in my home state. After each vacation, I would dream of a future home painted vibrant colors that glow in the pacific salted sun. 

Here, I try to avoid the few humans I do see. I hear rustling beside me, thinking I was going to be caught unaware.  I look over my shoulder to see two deer staring at me, curious but cautious. We watch each other assessing the closeness. Am I hindering their peaceful feeding time? Are they wondering what my next move will be? It is always the camera, my tool of unforgetting. 

I wear a homemade mask. As I walk, the mask feels hot, and I long to breathe the fresh air, the way we did before March. I look around for a window of no humans, so I can inhale and exhale, unencumbered - even if just for a moment. I pause in the new reality and accept the strangeness. It is in the uncomfortable moments that we learn the most. 

Wandering through an open field, redwoods surround. I admire their proud stance. I follow the connecting road and attempt making friends with a crow. I think about the fox that visited the backyard, three times now, and wonder when he will return. I pretend I am a butterfly. 

I walk though the honeysuckle sweetness of childhood innocence and feel great comfort in this far away but deeply implanted memory of place. Over two thousand miles and decades from my hometown, I am planted in my old backyard watching sticky droplets fall like jewels from open mouthed flowers wanting to sing. Wide-eyed under the glow of flitting fireflies, I climb to the top of a tree. It is here that I do my best thinking.
  
Middle-aged, I wear a mask to protect myself and the passersby from what still seems ill defined but frightening nonetheless. I zigzag swiftly from one side of the street to the other remembering hating how aggressive dodgeball used to be. I much preferred the parachute we fluttered and raised, giggling as we ran around underneath. I was too young to understand this parachute was a remnant of war. I just knew I liked it as much as any kid could. And if this was gym class, it was about as good as it was going to get.

I sweat through my shirt as the camera clicks. The sun is high and bright; the sky is bluest of blue. I might cry about things I cannot control, but I am also smiling. This is my natural state. At home, hot water is temporarily cold, but my shower is refreshing in its briskness. I plow through pictures and stay up until night turns to early morning. 

Now, I post these pictures but they insist on picking their own order. They fall oddly and nonsensically into places I do not put them, as if someone else is shuffling my deck of cards when I am not looking. I decide that the spontaneity I seek is also seeking me.

Note: I initially created this blog post on another platform. On this one, I honored the order the images had fallen there. This time, my text deleted itself over and over again. Something is trying to grab my attention here. Is it the crazy dog? Whatever it is, I'm listening. 

​Since March, my world, like most people's, has gotten pretty small. I spend all of my days at home, wondering when I will wake from the very tumultuous nightmare I have been having. Except, it is not a bad dream any of us can wake out of. It is a global reality with so many complicated layers. We can be vigilant about protecting each other from the pandemic and from the hate that grows faster than the virus we fear. It is a time of reflection with many true catalysts for change. We are in the overwhelm together, and my hope is we will come out the other side with more hope, compassion and knowledge. 

I gave up my art studio recently and have been grappling with how to express my creativity outside of the designated space I had gotten so accustomed to. Having planned the studio move-out pre-pandemic, I had been hoping to give painting a break in favor of a return to photography. Photo never leaves me, as I use my own source images in my paintings. I was looking forward to the immediacy of the camera over the brush and ready to dive right back in again. Not able to freely move within the urban environment I like to document, I played with beads; I drew; I toyed with watercolor; I wrote a thing or two. I stirred and wept, feeling like I couldn't find my voice and wondered what place it held in a world turned upside down. 

Finally, I decided to stop spinning and started taking photos on my neighborhood walks. (My current locale is a bit more rural). At first, this was just with my phone, until Monday when I dusted off the camera. With my camera in tow, I am quiet, reflective, aware and the most myself. 

If you blink too lazily, you can get caught sleeping, so why not move through life with eyes wide open?