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 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.

It doesn't always matter where I am if the sky is that mesmerizing hue that makes all things sing. It is not the deep grey blue of melancholia but a clean, bright blue I want to jump into and swim, diving deep, toes pointed, fingers outstretched. When I tire, it carries me, weightless, floating and serene.  

I visit an area of the city where I worked when I was in graduate school and was living in the Bay Area for the very first time. The shops are empty now, devoid of tourists. It is nice but also haunting. In regular times, I still come here to visit the birds that eat the seafood behind the facade of fanciful fisherman themed trinkets and sourdough bread. I also come to drop coins in the machines at the Musée Mécanique and to visit the sea lions. 

I want to venture to all my favorite places in San Francisco, but I don't; I won't. I hang mostly on the edges to be in but also out. I find myself looking in locations I have not looked before. The sense of discovery delights me. We are at the height of the pandemic and in lockdown again. I have not faltered in my cautious state, and this is my logging of time until we see the end. After the end, it will continue. 

I am walking around in an area that exudes incredible wealth. Even though my mouth is covered, it is agape, as I cannot fathom living in one of these grand houses. The funny thing is that I have lived in the Bay Area a long time, and I have never truly studied this neighborhood. It is largely residential so not one of my regular destinations. I have, however, frequented these types of neighborhoods for walks during the pandemic, and they tend to be quiet and calm. 

I stand in awe of one very modern house that looks like a New York gallery. I have my camera aimed at it as a gentleman walks to the car in the driveway. His uniform indicates he is an employee rather than a resident, and he looks at me uncomfortably. I try to casually ask if an art collector lives there. I am not sure why the words come out of my mouth and now feel like a stalker creep. I turn to walk away and spot a well endowed robot sculpture across the street. The absurdity of it in this rather buttoned up neighborhood makes me laugh. 

One house that I find particularly intriguing is adorned with a placard from the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition. Many of the tourist destinations of San Francisco are from that time. I wonder what purpose this mansion served and daydream about the sights and sounds of that era. I come back to earth, with one toe stuck in the past. 

When I encounter animals on my walks or in the world at large, I like to imagine we have an understanding, a feeling of mutual respect. I know the world has leaned heavy toward the greed and unquenchable thirst of humans, so I am in a sense just appeasing my own desires. 

Walking down the street I spot a deer checking me out, waiting to see my next move. As always, I step slowly and push the on button on my camera. The deer makes its way to a front yard garden which is nicely curated. Spending little time there, the deer sneaks behind a fence to a neighboring backyard. I want to follow but don't. I don't know the house inhabitants, after all. 

Two other deer prance down the road in my direction. Like the other, they are cautious around me and watch to see what I will do. Like before, the camera gets wielded. I am sure this moment exists more purely without documentation, but I am compelled to keep clicking. 

I watch as the two young deer find their way around a low fence to accompany their companion. My time is done here and I walk on. I turn back for a moment just to see them again, to send them a mental thank you. I hope they find the food they are foraging for and make their way back up the hill, away from us two legged lunkheads. 

I climb a set of narrow stairs to get  to the peak. From here I can see the city from above. If I zoom into each area, there is a memory of past steps, rolling around on two wheels, aiming different cameras at what strikes me. 

Colors are different here in California, more vibrant, and at times almost electric. I remember the first time I wielded a camera in this place and how elated I was at the vibrancy of the images I collected. In my home state, everything looks as if it has a dull brownish filter. On the east coast it is a slight hint of grey, the remnants of a winter sky. Here, cool blues mash up against golden light. All images can be doctored to have the same appearance, but standing here and now, my eyes don't lie. 

This day I feel anxious. Is it the height at which I stand? Is it the pandemic woes? Is it nothing at all? I am not sure. Beauty overtakes my bewilderment, and I am present in this place. I am happy to be here now in spite of all that is troubling in the world. Comfort is found in the the bluest of blue, eschewing meandering melancholia.  

I kick the walk button at the corner and wait to cross. Everything is set up for hand control, but I have started to think we should set more things up for feet. When the light changes, I venture into the street a little distance from the actual crosswalk. Fellow humans are walking from the other side and I am just playing it safe. A man turning right at the light has to wait for me to reach the other side before he can press on the gas. He leans toward an open passenger side window and hollers at me. I can't quite decipher what he says. "You know that mask isn't helping. Why don't you go to hell? Why don't you go help them? Hey, nice skull mask."

He maybe said one of these things or none of them. I rearrange the sounds in my mind to make some sense of what words went with his urgent expression. I have no idea and am not interested in asking him. I frustrate myself by wasting anytime trying to figure it out. I walk on, returning to my daydreams. Then his 1980s machismo car drives by, and I hear him shout out the window again. I am walking the opposite direction of his previous turn, so he had to have changed course to get his mumbling point across to me. Too bad for him, his words are lost on me again, and I am almost home. 

I see Frida Kahlo in a window and imagine us as friends. I wonder if she can see my subtle limp, as hers is not so subtle. Together, we paint the day.

A bottle of used hot sauce is weary, worried it is responsible for the larger heat and fire.
Tea cups are arranged for a party, but pebbles promise to get stuck in eager teeth.
A blue bump tries to remove itself, leaving a gaping wound.
A fence bulges and bends, containing the invisible. 
A child's hand reports the air quality to those looking for clean inhalation.
Wayward white paper has been crying, its message lost.
A tree strapped tries not to waver from the growth it has before it.
Caution cones are weary as their job is never ending. 
A tiny stage begs for its performer and audience on an empty lawn.
Jagged and scraped, orange and white attempt to emphasize yellow.
A strange man makes a moldy announcement, mouth agape. 
Behind the fence, this is where the fire sits.   

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.