As the smoke clears for the morning, I head into San Francisco. I park on the end of California and venture up a hill that takes me to a golf course. In non-covid19 times I might have wandered deep in to explore what I could find on the carefully maintained grounds. Now, I follow the rules for reasons of safety and social distancing. The designated walking path takes me to the other side of the golf course where the land meets the water. The view is amazing and the depth of feeling it evokes could never be captured in pictures. Vividness of color (or lack of), beauty of composition, and luck of timing can never come close to expressing what happens in my gut when something touches me deeply. It can, however, be a reaction or retelling of what is seen, a new story that exists on a different plane of reality. 

Down the road are homes of great wealth. This is a unique world which is somewhat foreign to me. It is beautifully manicured, full of caretakers and builders. The facade needs constant maintenance. Walking through is free. I wonder who lives here and what their lives are like. A quick search reveals a few well known celebrities. I doubt I'll ever be their neighbor but no harm in pretending. And yes, this is a frivolous, empty kind of joy, but it is entertaining. 

Further in, I spot a sign that says "public beach". Of course, I have to follow it, and I land at China Beach. There is a road down which is wide enough for social distancing. There, I find a lone fisherman, a swimmer who obviously does not mind the cold water, and two young men enjoying the view from above. Beyond that, it is me and the birds. I feel gleeful, because in all my years living in the Bay Area, I had never been here. I had seen it from above, but just assumed it was inaccessible.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands tall in the distance, an icon of this joining of land and sea. Seagulls rest in the sand, only slightly hindered by my human presence. I hop over the water that reaches the rocks to see the other side of the cove. I am filled with delight and know this is exactly where I need to be at this second, on this day, in this very strange and difficult year. 

Grass coats my boots. I wore them knowing I would be avoiding any designated pathway in favor of what lies adjacent. I remember that as a child, I cut the grass barefoot. The cuttings slowly gathered between my toes. I ducked to push the mower under young trees as junebugs flew into my forehead. When my brother mowed the yard, he talked to himself loudly. I could hear him outside through the closed windows. He seemed happy, so I never bothered to ask him what he was talking about. 

Today I am close to the beach but do not linger for that is a popular destination. I long to lazily linger again, to lollygag among the masses. Maskless runners pass by as I hug the trees (not in the literal sense, but in terms of my close proximity). 

I wander into the private part of the parking lot, where I know the great blue herons nest. I have missed the spring when they are in the tops of the trees. I still am lucky to see two fishing, one in the marina and one in the pond across the street. 

At the tourist destination close by, there are normally newlyweds getting their pictures taken, but not today. It is a relic of a 1915 exposition and is an iconic destination in San Francisco. It holds a certain magic and I fall for the facade and fantasy every time I see it. Wandering around its artificial lagoon, I admire the birds that call it home. 

Beneath the bridge that carries me back across the bay, this city gives me pause. It adds to my character, and on very rare occasions takes it away. Wherever I land, I will always be fond of San Francisco. Like New York City, many people long for what it once was. I understand that inclination and believe many things in both places have been lost. However, the more you explore, the more you find the hidden corners, the stories untold, the grit that holds it all together, the more you appreciate what it is today. Having lived on both coasts and in between, I lean toward the sunny side, even when the sun is covered in the summer fog.  

Good morning ocean. Someone has left you flowers. Did you happen to notice them? The wind has battered their delicate petals but it makes me love them all the more. I have a feeling that they may not actually be for you but for someone you took. They could also be in honor of someone who held you dear. I will never know, and you can't answer, so I will leave it to wonder. 

Good morning seagulls. You are lucky you do not have to be socially distant. Thanks for letting me join your gathering for a moment. I know no one hired a photographer, but lucky for you, I currently work for free (for birds anyway).  

Good morning ravens. You and I have been friends for a while now. We pretend to ignore each other, and you do that silly dance of trying to get away, when you clearly want to be close. No, I did not bring a picnic, and will not be leaving any garbage for you to collect. You do alright though. Your numbers have grown and you show a vastness of age and agility. There are some scrappy ones among you, but aren't there always? I dare say, I find them charming.  

Good morning humans. For all that need to hear it, we must do better. 

Hummingbirds are natural at social distancing. It is rare that I can capture a photo of them as they flit about. As I raise my lens, they look back at me and quickly move away. They collect the sweet bits and abandon confrontation. On the rare opportunity a hummingbird is caught still and resting, the iridescent feathers of neck and chest appear to glow from within. In these instances, I am still, breath held. The moment will quickly pass, and I must take full advantage.   

Once a hummingbird found its way into the empty storefront attached to my art studio. The confused bird flew up near the rafters of the high ceilinged warehouse space. My studio mates and I gathered around in hopes the little creature would return to the outdoors. We made sure the doors were open wide and we talked to the bird as if it understood. He found a resting spot on a chain that was pulled tight to hold the room's industrial lighting. Meanwhile, we all looked to our phones and computers to tell us how to lure the hummingbird outside. 

The color red was touted as a color for which the bird would be fond. We gathered red buckets, a red quilt, red paintings etc. We stood outside waving them around foolishly. The hummingbird was as still as I had ever seen one. I took a break from the red dance to take a few photos.

When our sea of red failed us, we turned on the HVAC system in hopes that the wave of air would send the bird flying in the right direction. To our surprise, he continued to sit watching the harebrained humans. We gave up and decided to leave him to his own devices. As we buried ourselves in art making again, he eventually flew away, on his own terms. 

The overwhelming quiet can be incredibly loud. The slightest bit of activity can jostle the senses, but not enough to wake from the surreal state we all live in now.  For many, self awareness has gone out the window in favor of the selfish pact of one. Others form community in attempt to stay connected, but their connection may ultimately do them harm. Many fight for justice, while our so called leadership is a dumpster fire of absolute madness. 

The blue sky and birds chirping are simple pleasures which call for one to pause and take notice. I hear you birds, and I will not knowingly harm you.  

A pine cone has fallen into an empty parking lot, lost from the tree from which it came. I bend down to visit it. This lot, once full of cars, is now abandoned for the summer and indefinite future. This is the summer that time has new meaning, and our understanding of relationships with one another will be forever changed. 

Fishermen stand quietly waiting for a bite, a sign of other life. The foggy morning air is cool and comforting, and humans are few here. My mood is lifted immensely by this old place, near to the city that sings to my soul when I let it. The hills surround, hugging what is often hidden from plain sight. Rust and ragged show age and story. Boats tell stories of sailors and water wanders. It is beautiful as beauty can be, but I still see the broken bits that tell the true tales. 

An act of recording is a means to not forget, to be present and also remember. I am here; I am alive; I stand in this place and my heart is open. Pelicans fly by, majestic. I click away but their pace is quick and their spirits not easily captured. The prize is their presence. 

Tracking time seems entirely arbitrary now, but I still try to remember the day, the month, the year. Spring and summer pass in isolation from a once known reality. Everything is called into question, for good reason. Patience is a virtue most desired, and, for many, newly nurtured. 

This day reminds me of days spent on my bicycle, and how I once landed here by happenstance. The world is entirely different now, but my essence feels secure and constant. I stand where I stood then, taking some of the same photographs. I challenge myself to look in different directions. There is always something new to see and a deeper measure of understanding. I look out; I look in. 

A bee finds refuge inside the carcass of a crab. Seaweed morphs into the shape of a bird. Masks are worn only briefly when nearing humans, few enough to be counted on one hand.

Wanting to feel the calm the beach can bring, I smile a true smile, with teeth revealed. But I am not truly calm. When time is so ill-defined and days turn into months of on hold, one wonders when idyllic days will return. Recognizing that no time is free of complications, this point in history is an endless series of chaos, destruction and bad behavior by questionable humans. Greed brought us to this state, and now we swim in the muck of our own making. We take our oneness to mean self, when the planet and humanity requires us to humble our own egos in favor of healing what has been so very broken. 

Pelicans glide low and fast on their way to or from sustenance. A deer runs to the hills like a jackrabbit, nimble and appearing to fly. The fog slowly clears revealing a steely blue.   

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. 

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.