Walking around one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in San Francisco, I ogle the many mansions. They astound in more ways than one. I know I will never live in one, but this is a pastime I enjoy when I am feeling frivolous. I spot a few empty ones and laugh at one with celebrity cardboard cut outs in the window. From a distance, they do look real, but I dare say they would not deter an intruder. 

I find a wide set of stairs and wander up to see where they lead. Around a short wall, a cow greets me, still, and of concrete. I admire her for a short while. There is nowhere to wander from here, so I return to the street. Tagged in the sidewalk, is TOFU. I picture a block of tofu wandering the streets at night looking for wet cement to scrawl into. 

A tree has two elbows. Is it a professional contortionist when it is not standing watch over the sidewalk? A blue light beckons on an adjacent wall. To what or to whom does it signal or summon? 

A rose adorned skull is painted on a bright yellow sign, marking the dead end. Orchids catch the afternoon light and their softness comforts me. They are much more unwithered than I. 

An abandoned coffee cup makes me want to sit in a cafe and mindlessly whittle away the hours, but I don't. I won't. I see a mustache shape on the sidewalk and try to align it to the shadow of my face. It is all askew. 

On a ramshackle stoop, a policeman is talking to a woman in a wheelchair. He grabs hold of a large painting of a tiger that festoons the steps. The tiger is wearing glittering accoutrements. He tugs and pulls until the tiger meets its demise. I wonder the reason for this altercation with the imaginary. 

I have been reading a book that reveals much of the history of San Francisco, its wild years, its untamed land and heart. It is hard to imagine what it would have been like back then, when women were few and the sand blew briskly along a totally different coastline. Ships lie beneath parts of the city from a time when gold brought prospectors by the thousands. 

The gold that brought me here is of the sun. It is of the golden gate that is not really gold but 'international orange'. It is of paint that adorns the victorians sprinkled about town. It is of fresh baked bread with the slightest hint of sour. It is the sight and smell of ripe lemons. It is flowers dotting the hills in springtime. It is the ginkgo leaves my grandmother collected to help her hang on to her memories. 

I walk in lines and loops, exploring street after street. I become parched and spent, but I keep walking. Today, the earth vibrates under another magnificent blue sky. I step until my feet sting from stepping. This day is golden like all the rest. It is simply a matter of following the light. 

Up in the Berkeley hills, I look for a different perspective and point of view. I pull over to walk next to a park used as a practice site for rock climbers. A few hang precariously, fingers and toes hooking into this hard earth. The view of the Bay is vast and wants to bring tears to my eyes. This is an involuntary act. I am on top of the world in this western landscape, ocean salt covering my shoes, wrinkles growing around my eyes. 

A sign beside the sidewalk begs, "don't give up". I feel strong, but worry wears itself on my brow. It is beautiful up here, houses of varying styles with plants aplenty. Every home has a glorious view, and I peek between them, straining to see what I am not meant to afford. 

Two midcentury modern homes stand out from the crowd. I imagine myself living within them, one for art making and one for entertaining an eclectic group of friends. I fall into fantasy of what the life of an artist should be but never is. I am thrown back onto the street where I stand, to continue walking. This is the artist's real life. It is not luxurious or full of absolute whimsy. It is a drive that goes on in spite of anything that would try to stop it. The maker makes, no matter the circumstance. 

Lost in self analysis and willful wanderings, a doe approaches from the adjacent slope. I stop in my tracks and gasp, for chance encounters such as this should be cherished. I am quiet and watchful, camera up to eye. I know the moment will be fleeting. I think to those who hold guns up to such beautiful creatures, and no amount of explanation will allow me to fathom why. In a residential area, this animal passes through what once belonged to it. Run away friend, find a place of refuge. 

I wander the hills wanting to get lost but knowing I will always find my way. The more I step, the more ground I cover. The more ground I cover, the more I am firmly planted here. 

The camera is bored, its human repeating known steps. Vision is always new, but some days lacking energy borders on disillusionment. Movement is necessary to progress forward, to swim through the incessant slog of this strange time. 

Of all my days painting indoors, being out in the world with the camera is where I am most at home. This is what I have found. This is what I am reminded of, time and time again. It is a continuous conversation. My surroundings speak to me and I speak back. We speak in quiet whispers, not necessarily needing to be heard. It is the act of doing that is required at the moment. The image acts as artifact, a reflection of experience in color and form. It is much more than that, always so much more. 

I must forgive the quiet, savoring the contemplative. I walk, slow mile upon slow mile, never tracking distance or time. I am a wanting wanderer looking for a sign. 

Walking on a hill amongst the dead, I picture myself on the bus. I passed this place hundreds of times on the way to my art studio. As the bus drove by, I could see glimpses of gravestones and thought, I would like to visit. For some reason, I never did. 

The pandemic brings me to locations I have neglected, or places of which I was previously unaware. I love cemeteries, however inappropriate or odd that may seem (but not a far stretch for most artists). I enjoy the peaceful, natural setting. Surface patina and flower fade are my muses in the garden of the departed. The statues are an outdoor museum of angels and saints. 

Now here, I am gleeful, albeit not quite sure if I am "allowed". Alone at first, I finally notice some dog walkers. These aren't just any dogs, but seeing eye dogs for the blind. The training school is not far from here, another place I have previously seen from the bus window. I wonder if the dogs realize the good service they provide, and the undeniable companionship. 

This cemetery is charming but poorly maintained. Many gravestones are in ruin or disrepair, fences fallen. Enamel portraits are cracked or have evidence of bullet damage, faces obscured. Were these individuals purposefully targeted, or is it just haphazard hooligan shenanigans? The grounds are left mostly to the elements, not overly planted with that golf course green grass. 

Recently there was a murmuration of starlings here. It went on for several days with much excitement and observation. One would think the birds would have brought me here then. Instead I chose to come at a time when the gatherings of those staring at the sky are absent, and the birds have flown away. 

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. 

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.