Where I live, it is summer. In San Francisco proper, the fog calls the seasons into question. The beach is blustery and cold. My hair whips around in a way I am not used to. Since the pandemic, I have yet to get it cut. It blows in my eyes and into my mouth. The dry grasses dance around, mocking me, but I don't mind.

A young cormorant is taunted by a dog. It seems the bird cannot yet fly or is injured. Youth seems more likely, as the escape is a bit clumsy and awkward. I lean in to see if the bird is ok but refrain from getting too close. I don't want to cause the bird more anguish. 

I venture out from the beach to find a place with less wind. I park and walk around an area of the city I had never explored. I step onto an empty college campus. It is well landscaped, and there are amazing views from here. Palm trees wave and sway. I wave back.

A man in a dark suit wears a covering over his head and face. I am self conscious about being maskless. I am still not used to walking with a bare face. At first, I think this man is campus security, glaring at me, wondering my intent. Later, I see him strolling with a paper sack. He is just a regular guy getting lunch. 

It is an odd day, where the sky is hiding its blue. I get a bit lost before returning to the car. I enjoy wandering without paying attention to any specific direction. Driving back over the bridge, the temperature rises, the sky clears, and the sun shines bright. I appreciate the foggy days no less; they are just a different mood, an alternate (but temporary) state of being.

Slowly of the world again, I venture into San Francisco's Chinatown and North Beach. The air is misty from fog and has that chill that happens when June is soon to arrive. There is a lightness in my step that has been lacking these past many months. I let strangers get closer, and I say a hearty hello to many. 

Many Chinatown businesses are still closed but the groceries and fish markets are a flurry of activity. This is really good to see. I meander down to a parallel street with the tourist shops, and more doors are shut. I watch as a shopkeeper removes the wood from his long shuttered shop, ready to be open once more. A smattering of wide eyed sightseers flit about seeking direction. 

Venturing up the stairs into the park, hearing a nearby boisterous cough sends me back to the sidewalk. Taking the next available stairwell, I expect to see the type of activity I always see here, but it is quiet. One group of men play cards, and there are scattered individuals resting on benches. It is missing the music, the laughter, performance, food, exercising elders, wandering visitors and general bustle of the days before. A bench sitter, bedraggled and toothless, calls out for my attention. He is cheerful and wants me to turn around. I don't mind his eagerness and give him a friendly nod. 

The bookstore that is a landmark of North Beach is not yet open, so I peer longingly through the window. Whenever I stand there, I think of the time a friend from New York asked me to hide his poem somewhere inside. I put it in the wall near where poems are read, to be found by someone, sometime, eventually. Its words were written, read and will wait, like most art, to be (re)discovered and celebrated. 

Returning to my two hour parking spot, I remove my mask and look in the mirror. The mascara I put on earlier, to look more alive, is now smudged well below my eyes. I look ridiculous and drive home laughing while looking like a sad clown. 

Spring pretends to be summer, while I pretend to be carefree. Happiness is a wave that before it peaks is glorious. Once it curls overhead, it is exhilarating. Then one can be found underneath, kicking to swim back up again. The trick is to kick hard and fast enough, to not take in too much water, to rise again, laughing. 

A masked face breathes hard and sweat drips. If anything, the last year has left us all with either a high tolerance for discomfort and chaos, or with an extreme lack of patience and ill will. The boundaries created have allowed us to redefine or reestablish what is true and what is full of falsehoods. 

As I walk, I spot a woman down low, arranging trinkets around a tree. I know this to be a 'gnome home' or 'fairy garden'. I shout out to her, "I will pretend to not see you, because I know I am supposed to believe the gnomes built that". She laughs and makes a joke about not really being there. I can almost see her fade away. 

I float away on my own daydreams, enveloped by the waves that carry me forward. No matter how deep I might venture, I always swim back up to blue. 

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. 

I have a couple different paths I normally follow when walking in the town where I live. These are not designated paths but repeated wanderings that are now routine. On this day, I veer off onto a hill that normally only gets a bit of side eye. I turn any direction that sends me further up. The landscape gets a bit more wild and the homes more hidden. My legs get that wobbly feeling they get when I am at great heights. To me, this is not a fear but an involuntary reaction, my mind just reminding me not to stumble into some great unknown crevasse. I imagine my legs like rubber bands when this happens and giggle quietly about it. 

Navigating these narrow, no shoulder, roads can be a bit tricky at times. Mostly it is just me and the trees, but when it is not, I am an awkward walker. To create distance, I trespass into strangers driveways to let other parties pass. Other times, I am trapped, too close to an oblivious unmasked individual. Then, I can be found, back turned, staring into some shrubbery, hiding my disgust and shielding my masked face. The higher I climb, the less people I encounter. Redwoods create a feeling of otherworldliness and calm that I welcome.

As always, I prefer to find my way without a map. This works until I want to attempt to get home. I do get out my phone and ask the map lady to send me down the hill a different way than I came. In the spot where I stand, there is a narrow hiking path, a driveway, a residential street and the seeming end of the street I am on. I do what the map lady tells me and the dot runs along the wrong street and shows me eventually back up the hill. I turn another direction and hit a dead end. I return to where I came from and look for what I might have missed. Ultimately, I backtrack, taking the long way home.

One thing that this pandemic has taught me is that the slow, long way may seem cumbersome, but in the end allows for greater reward. I've always been one to lose time due to wandering, but what I gain is invaluable. It's never dilly dallying if it is made of dreaming and delight.

I don't feel much like exploring but know it is for my own good that I do. I have a particular destination in mind but find parking to be sparse. I drive around until I find an easy spot, then set out on foot in a bit of a mope. The longer I am outside my mood is lifted and my spirit less blue. 

I walk down the hill all the way to the Great Highway. It is closed to traffic now, with four lanes open to pedestrians and cyclists. The wind is gusty, so the humans are hibernating. So many times I have come here by bicycle and had to fight traffic to enjoy my ride. It is wonderful to have so much space here now.  

Just over the wall at the beach, there is a dog playing chase with a raven. The dog leaps high and the raven dips low. They frolic, both willing to dance with danger in order to have a little fun. I can almost hear them laughing. 

When I turn to go back up the hill, a strong aroma penetrates the four layers of my mask. It is ham, the kind we used to eat during the holidays when I was a child. Oddly I savor it, even though I have not eaten meat in over thirty years. It is a comfort I will not partake in now, but it is the feeling that it evokes that is my keepsake. 

I get out my phone and record some thoughts. It is not something that I do. I am alone on the street and no one is listening. Is this what I have become? A wanderer who babbles nonsensically to herself? Whatever the reason, I am laughing for now. This is what matters most. 

Fires recently engulfed the area surrounding this beautiful beach. I watched the progress and air quality daily and expected to now see it charred and withered. Instead, there is evidence but not ultimate destruction. Nature finds a balance as long as we don't stand too headstrong in its way. 

As we walk, a raven is in lockstep with our movements. We say hello as he skips beside us. It is delightful and quite charming. As I reach for my camera, he doesn't exit the scene like most of the corvids usually do. Seeing my curious glance, he does a little dance and pauses for a snack or two. Every time I look for his wings to be outstretched, he is just strolling at a safe distance. 

The beach is sparsely populated, so we are able to breath freely at least part of the time. The salt air smells good and my lungs fill, crisp and clean. Various sea birds flit about feasting on what washes ashore. This is a good mid December morning, in the year 2020.