Affected by the rain

   We have been getting quite a bit of (much needed) rain recently in San Francisco. There has been so much that I actually managed to be annoyed by it a few days ago, which is unusual for me. I hadn't prepared properly for it, got quite wet, and had to go to work. I normally love it when it rains here.

   It feels like it's been a while since we've had regular and steady showers, and besides the obvious signs that there has been precipitation in my beloved Golden Gate Park (such as the shininess of the green leaves and the darkened-by-moisture soil), I've noticed some other ways that the life there has been affected.            

   For one, I have twice seen Canada geese that were absolutely soaking wet. I never recall having seen that before.

   Also, after each day's steady rain, the leaves and smaller branches from the trees seen below have lowered incrementally, apparently wilting from the weight that the moisture had added to them. The lower they sank, the more of an arch they formed, becoming a sort of gate that I looked forward to each time I neared it.

       

   As I passed through this ever-changing and narrowing entryway and exit, it was pretty impossible not to jostle the branches, no matter how low I bent. When I did, a light sprinkle would be released, though I never minded being a little wetter because of it. 

   It seemed like a minor inconvenience in relation to this wonderful thing that the rain had created for me and others to enjoy. 

    Two days ago, as I exited one side of this passage-like narrowing, a man that also walks in the park regularly commented on it, expressing annoyance for the "showering", as I believe he put it.

   For some reason, his pointing that out made me appreciate what I found beautiful in it even more.

   Walking in the park today, I noticed that I had more clearance above me than I had just recently. I didn't think much of it at the moment, but as I passed through it a second time, I realized that it had either retracted somehow, or one of the park staff had trimmed it. Maybe it was a hindrance to some park visitors.

   I had some special moments there, both in anticipation of, and walking through it. These memories are now mine to keep.

   Writing helps me to ensure this. 

Shadows, groups and gait

   There are very few people around Stow Lake, walking or doing anything, when I am there in the early morning hours. It is almost completely dark, and most of the people that are there use flashlights to. I'm guessing they use them to both see and be seen by others.

   I recently noticed as I passed a few of these individuals that they seemed to have a more difficult time recognizing me than I did them, and although I know that this is partly due to their lights (light makes it harder for me to adjust my eyes to the darkness), I think that there were other things taking place, too.
   It got me thinking about the idea of recognition.

   I began to realize how much the ways people are grouped, their gaits, and how they held or swung their flashlights in movement helped me to determine who they were from far away, in almost complete darkness. And while it's true that there are not that many people walking at the lake in that early hour, there are enough that each one's identity is not a given. 

   Thinking about the things mentioned above and how they have helped me to make determinations. I wonder about some of the many other conclusions that I have come to, and why..
   It has started to become apparent to me that many of my ideas, and the reasons behind them, might not be as deductive as the ways I am able to determine people at Stow Lake.
   If I assess people and situations based mainly on experiences from long ago, often wounds, then my contemporary observations and perceptions are probably not as clear as the people I see on these dark mornings.

Memories of the harassers

   I pass by the below shrub, bush, or whatever it is, at least three times a day during my daily walks around Stow Lake. Besides seeing it with my eyes and using my brain to disseminate that information, I hadn't given too much conscious thought about it  now.
   Located on the colder and windier side of the lake where I walk (an area I have written about in other blog posts), it wasn't until recently that I saw activity there that reminded me of some wonderful things that had happened there some time ago.
   It was then that I would regularly see a flurry of activity made by perhaps eight to ten small blackbirds, who would swoop down and attack the tops of people's heads, including mine, as we walked by this greenery.
   At first, I found these attacks a bit shocking (as you can imagine it might be if suddenly something surprisingly pecked you on the top of your head!), but then grew to  appreciate the way these animals protected what I imagine must have been their chicks hidden there. These birds didn't seem to claim a lot of space as their own, but the bit that they did seemed vital to them. I found this thought beautiful, though I don't understand exactly why.
   I am thinking about all of this now because these birds haven't yet returned to this area, and perhaps never will. Because of this absence, I am remembering these events with some melancholy.
   It's perhaps not difficult to see clearly that I have to sometimes be reminded of things that I find sad.

Where are my friends?

A forgotten recollection

   While thinking about how to begin this blog entry, I thought of the proverb "absence makes the heart grow fonder", wondering whether it was true or not. I came to the quick conclusion that it probably is, but only insofar as one is able to really hold the person or thing in mind enough continually to be aware of its' absence.
   Often times for me, it is only by being reminded of the missing object that I am able to remember that I have not seen it for some time. I don't know that it signifies it being any less important for me, but I do know that in the case of the people that I feel really connected to in an emotional way, I am very regularly aware if there has been some void.
   Because I walk around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park so frequently and with such regularity, I have the privilege of seeing the small differences and changes that can occur. The variety and complexity of life there is so wonderful, but the depth and complexity also means that some of the parts can get a bit lost in my sometimes spotty memory.
   Consistency affords me more ways to forget, as well as a unique way to experience.
   An example of things that have been misplaced are my recollections of the the dive-bombing attacks of Brewer's Blackbirds. In past years, these animals nested in two bushes on the eastern side of the lake in the park, and would attack passersby, myself included, as we walked by. It was amusing to watch the birds do this, but I probably enjoyed it most because it helped me to mark the passage of time, as it seemed to occur rather annually. It helped me feel that pleasant memories could be durable and somewhat regular.
   Another nice occurrence that established a sense of continuity was the arrival of American Coots to the lake area. They would begin to come a few at a time, again seemingly annually, and would eventually occupy a large part of the bird life there.
   This year, however, there are only three of this species as far as I can tell, and although I see this trio as sort of trailblazers, and have been there for a while now, I wonder what happened to the rest of those that would normally come. The coots that are there remind me that I had forgotten about them, and also evoke those that are absent.
   It seems that those three individuals, as well as the missing attacks of the Brewer's Blackbirds, point not only to the lapses in my memory, but also to the absences that I wish were more filled in.

Where are the dive-bombers?

Aromas and hazy memories

   There is an area of the walking path that borders Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park that frequently has wonderful fragrances as I walk past it in the early morning hours. At times reminding me of something like cotton candy (or rather the jelly bean flavor of cotton candy), at others, of my paternal grandparents home in Queens, New York. I remember there would be a large bowl out in the living room filled with candies shaped and colored like blackberries and raspberries, whose fragrance would permeate the room.
   There are other occasions at the lake where the smell in this stretch is equally sweet, the scent familiar, though I am unable to locate it in my experience.

   I have no idea what tree or bush it is there that produces these aromas, nor do I really wish to. I so appreciate that the things that I smell often feel like they bypass my brain altogether, imprinting only my olfactory nerve.
   I find it quite beautiful that a thing so commonplace can at times feel so exotic indescribable.

Doesn't look extraordinary, does it?

Led perception

   During my daily excursions to Golden Gate Park, I see many animals, chief among them Canada geese. There are lots of them in and around the walking path surrounding Stow Lake, and although they can be aggressive at times, I enjoy seeing them very much. I feel that since it is their home and I am just a visitor, they're entitled to act pretty much as they please, anyway.
   At times, during my three or four mile walk, I choose a slightly different route, and on occasion veer from the pedestrian path to the car path. I usually find it more tranquil there, and it offers me a different view and experience of the area.
   When I take this other route, I usually step over a curb at the southwestern part of the lake, and as I continue walking, the road begins to slope downward.
   Some time ago, for perhaps a week or so consecutively, I followed this slope, and would see from a distance the object shown in the picture below. It became visible as I turned a corner around some heavy bushes, and although I saw it at closer range at least four or five times, on each occasion I always perceived it first as a Canada goose.
   It seems like my knowledge of it being something else was not sufficient to alter my vision and presuppositions of how I chose to see it.
   It makes me wonder how my vision, ocular and as a world view, can be fooled by a prior ideas that I have about things.

Is the proof in the pudding?

Parkland

   For me, the natural world is most enjoyable when I am either in it alone, or as near to it as possible. I love it when I feel like the animals, trees and me are the only things in the world at that moment; if I knew a way to take it all in without actually being there, that might be ideal.

   As I look at what I just wrote, and think about how feelings of inner quiet and physical place may or may not relate, I question whether I actually mean to refer to being surrounded by trees as being somewhere. At these times, I usually feel like I more within them than around them.

   When I saw this old, hollowed-out tree trunk in the picture below, I found its' dark, shaded interior inviting and warm. It felt like the areas of parkland that I visit and covet the most; parts that seem hidden and unexplored.
   It dawns on me that I may be drawn to such locales because they represent a kind of physical realization of those places within me that feel equally unknowable and concealed. Perhaps this is so, yet if those places are repressed, why should I seek them out externally with such regularity?

   When I am listening to the sounds of birds calling, hearing leaves rustling on their branches, or seeing the clouds moving overhead in the early morning, I can be unaware of my own presence there. At times, I feel like there is nothing coming between us.

Tree tags

   I have been thinking to write about trees with these tags on them for a while. I see them regularly in Golden Gate Park, and my level of interest in exploring them further has oscillated between pretty interested to not-that-interested. Perhaps this lack of fascination has led to me not exploring the question further, and I'm happy with that at this moment.
   I have experienced that knowledge of a thing can rob it of its' mystery for me, and while I very much enjoy information, I find what I don't know to be much more intriguing; it leads me to ponder, and as long as I don't do so too intensely, there is a mystery and beauty in that space between familiarity and enigma.
   I couldn't with good conscience begin writing this blog entry today, after having the idea to write about it more than a month ago, without at least trying to find some information on it. I searched the internet a bit, but could not find the information I was looking for on these things (seen in the picture below), so I just went ahead and began writing on the subject anyway. If I made myself a reminder to ask someone at the park tomorrow about them, I could probably find out what these numbers meant, stamped on what looks like tin and then hammered onto the base of certain trees.
   Instead, I'll just finish writing about them here, publishing it before I have the chance to know differently or why.
   I keep looking for one that will have my birth year on it, as most seem to begin with the numbers "19" on them, but have yet to find it. The one below appears to be the closest so far.

Beautiful and nearly unseen

   On my walks in the Golden Gate Park during the last few weeks I've noticed a Muscovy duck, often sitting at the southeast side of Stow Lake Drive, a place I had never noticed it before. These animals are usually found here quite close to the lake, only seeming to venture further away to feed on grass across the drive. When they do, they move very slowly, and their leisurely treks across the road always frightens me as cars often drive too fast there.
   Perhaps seven or eight days ago, I again saw this duck at the same location, and realized that every time I've seen it (or one that looks just like it) it has been either on, or directly in front of a rock. I had not given this much credence initially, thinking that the animal must simply prefer this spot for some reason or another, or that it wasn't a very intelligent animal and was stupidly wandering near car traffic because they were a bit dim-witted (I have since read that they are in fact rather intelligent).
   I then realized that it must be sitting on an egg.
   This thought came as a surprise to me at first, as I've never seen these ducks with offspring, but then struck me as a bit obvious; I was surprised that this hadn't occurred to me earlier.
   I was moved as I pondered it sitting there. They generally seem to me so relaxed and deep in their thoughts, and even though I had not previously thought of them as being very intelligent, these two beliefs had never occurred to me as contradictory (I have similar thoughts about the bison in the paddock located further west in the park).
   During the last week or so, I have spent some time exploring the area more in depth, and have on two occasions noticed that there were broken eggs located nearby, one on each occasion. I wondered what had happened, and why the eggs had ended up that way.
   It made me sad, but I also felt proud, seeing something valiant in this effort to produce something in what seemed like an area filled with danger.
   Two days ago, while sharing my discovery of the small drama unfolding here with another dedicated walker from the park, I noticed that the duck I had been seeing was actually there to guard a smaller one, a female, who appears to be laying these eggs in an opening in the shrubbery, to the left of the duck in the picture below. I only became aware of this one when she poked her head out for a moment. The fact that they were a couple made the scenario even more beautiful to me, as the duck that I had seen for weeks had obviously taken the job of protecting her and her eggs.    
   There are many newborns in the park right now; Canadian goslings and Great blue heron babies in particular, and many people in the park take pictures and spend their time gazing and talking about them. Among the obviousness of these animals, the trials of this Muscovy duck couple seems to go nearly unnoticed.
   There is something precious to me about my little find; it is like a special secret that only me and perhaps a few others are special enough to be privy to. Although they are a part of the entire continuum of the park and the greater world, I feel like this story-in-process is just for me to. I'm so glad that I looked closely enough to be able to have this experience.

The barking tree

   The other morning, I heard what I thought were dogs barking loudly and aggressively as I took my morning stroll. The noises didn't seem to be too close to my location so were hard to make out, appearing to come from Strawberry Hill, a small island located in the middle of the lake I was walking around.
   As the sounds continued, I changed my assessment, wondering instead if the sounds may actually be from coyotes, which I've seen in the area, Thinking again, I felt like they may in fact be human sounds.
   I've seen people during my walks, usually young, coming from the hill, where they sometimes camp at night. I thought that maybe there was an argument up there, but then surmised that the ruckus didn't quite fit those sounds either.
   The commotion stopped, and so did my thinking about them as I continued on.
   Perhaps ten minutes later, I came upon a tree laying across the water on the south side of the lake, and considered the force of the heavy rains and wind that must have brought it down. I stopped for a moment to look at it, then continued my walk, until perhaps five minutes later, when it dawned on me that I hadn't seen this when I passed the area before. I then remembered the noises of a few minutes earlier, and was awestruck by the thought that this tree had made those sounds. I'm pretty sure that it had.
   Living my life moment by moment but saddled by my own history and presuppositions, I am often certain that I know about the people and things that I encounter. These ideas of mine are often quite rigid; I believe that they are so in order to protect me from what I perceive to be a chaotic and frightening world. They shield me, but from surroundings that are as much ideas as the defenses that they guard against; they are not representations of the real world.
   The realities of my environment, especially when I was a child, were anxiety producing and terrifying, the future unknown and mysterious. As an adult, unfortunately, what is difficult to describe is one of the aspects of life that really make my life feel worthwhile.

Western Snowy Plovers

   I hadn't been out to the beach here in the western part of the city for a while when my friend Jim and I met nearby for a coffee, and took a walk there afterwards. Although slightly warmer than normal for this time of year, the beach was nearly empty (it was a Friday afternoon), save for me, Jim, one or two people jogging, a guy fishing, some Sandpipers, and lots of Western Snowy Plovers.
   I have always been very fond of these birds, primarily because of the way they move and forage, which they usually do in large groups. Although I do not consider myself much of a joiner when it comes to groups (or anything really), I do find watching these animals quite beautiful. I see nothing negative in their group mentality.
   While not all completely moving in unison, large portions of them do, and when the waves of the ocean subside, they quickly scamper to eat up what they fancy before the next waves comes in. These movements always make me smile, and remind me of the opening theme to The Monkees television show from the late sixties, which I loved watching as a child.

Although I've seen this occur perhaps hundreds of times, it always makes me feel better about the world and myself. It adds some brevity to my too often feeling of heaviness, and I find there is something about their seemingly frantic movements that I find comical, heroic and endearing.

Monkeying around

Moon

   There is a man named Moon that I see during my daily walks around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park, a man with the biggest, most genuine smile that I can recall. As we walk in opposite directions, I pass him perhaps four to five times per day, and on just about every occasion his expression emits to me the look of a man at peace with himself. It makes me feel a bit jealous as I think about it now, but when I am seeing him it makes me smile, and feel that I am completely accepted in his eyes.
   Because my walks are daily, and don't feel as emotionally balanced as I imagine Moon to be, I sometimes feel less-than-ideal in this beautiful place, and can be quite self conscious when in this state. It is during these times that I have the sensation that Moon can actually see how I am experiencing the world. It's not that I see him as being intrusive or judgmental, only that he seems comfortable  enough in himself as to be able to see me fully. I imagine it to be much the same way as I can at times experience the beauty of the nature. It's probably very similar, but I find it more difficuly seeing people in this way.
   While the notion of being completely seen by another person makes me feel scared and naked, I also feel like Moon truly cares about me as a person. That's a good lesson to keep in mind.

Moon

Rain and color at North Lake

  I greatly enjoy when there is a light or moderate rain falling during my morning walks around Stow Lake for two main reasons; the ways that the scents of the plants and flowers seem to perk up from the moisture, and because the ducks, geese, mallards and herons apparent joy at the weather is contagious. There is also a feeling of my defenses coming down a bit as I walk and get a little wet, and although I wear appropriate clothing for the weather, I find it relaxing in some way being forced to accept that I am powerless to avoid looking a little disheveled from being in the wet for an hour.
   Although there are other things too that I like about being out when it rains, there was something that I noticed this day that is by far my favorite aspect of the rain as I think and write about it here; the ways that it highlights the colors of nature, especially the bark of trees.
   I have noticed this phenomenon before, but never have seen it appear so dramatic and beautiful. Perhaps it is because we've had such dry winters for the past four years that the bark has not been able to draw in enough moisture to produce as spectacular results as I noticed that day. Perhaps I had never really been in the right place to see it, nor was it the right time of our winter to see it.  Maybe I was just able to see it more this time.
   Although I had an appointment to attend to after my walk, I decided to return to the park later in the morning. Knowing that Stow Lake can become a bit crowded later, even on a rainy day, I decided to
drive to the North Lake, perhaps a mile further out towards the ocean. It was here that I walked slowly, and saw the amazing colors that inspired to write this blog entry.
   I really have no idea why the rain seems to create or allow the colors of the trees to appear as they did on this particular occasion, but I can't recall seeing colors like blue, nor the kinds of yellow that I saw this time. I imagine that although bark ages and assumes different hues as it ages and dies, the examples that I looked at intensly here seemed as if they had patinated more like a metal than wood.
   Below is one of the pictures that I took, and reminds of the paintings of Clifford Still, an artist whose paintings I have enjoyed precisely because they reminded me of the kinds of surfaces of trees that I saw that rainy day.

The smell of nature

   For at least the past couple of weeks I have noticed something new at Stow Lake. It's not new for what or where it is, but for its' consistency; the smell of fresh skunk scent permeating the eastern side of the lake's drive, just across from a bridge there leading to Strawberry Hill, which the lake surrounds.
   During the two or three years that I have been enjoying my morning walks in Golden Gate Park, I have smelled the scent on many, many occasions, but can't recall the frequency with which I am smelling it now, which is nearly daily. It has become something of a regular thing, but thankfully not so much so as to make me expect to smell it. I say thankfully, because I know from experience that regularity often dulls me to the beautiful in the world.
   As I walk and smell that wonderful skunk odor, I am happy, because I feel like I am somewhere very special, where wild animals live and share the space that I do. Of course there are also other wild animals here such as ducks, mallards, geese, squirrels and even herons, but I have seen them enough as to sometimes (not always) dull me to their wildness. In the case of the skunks however, and even though I have seen them quite a few times, I still don't expect to, and because I smell them so much more than I do see them, their world strikes me as a bit more hidden and mysterious.
   As a man who used to be a regular marijuana smoker, maybe there is a part of me that likes the smell because it reminds me of that drug (I recall there were strains of it that were called "skunk"), as the other people that walk past this area don't seem to appreciate it like I do, or at all for that matter. Although I don't doubt that the cannabis influence is negligent, I don't think it is the only reason; perhaps it is more because both of them are earthy, and I like pretty much everything that can be described using that word.

The earthy area

   I have been told by two people at Stow Lake (one a regular walker there, the other a park ranger) since writing this entry that it is the mating season of the skunks that inhabit this part of the park. I would assume this accounts for their increased visibility to us humans, though this knowledge does detract from my experience in the least.

Mushrooms almost overnight

   A few weeks ago we had a pretty steady rain here in San Francisco, and I noticed these mushrooms sprout up a couple of days later. Perhaps another day after that, the mushrooms seemed to have nearly doubled, growing in size, mass and density. I know that things can grow fast, but the ferocity with which these grew made it seem like they had been saving up all of their energy for a time just like this, when they could suddenly burst forth to show themselves!
   One of the main reasons that I began, and continue writing this blog is to express my wonder for the natural world, a world that I am able to experience daily due to my schedule, desire and proximity to the great Golden Gate Park. No matter what I see here, and regardless of the regularity that I do, I still see so much to fascinate me that I doubt I could ever be interest could ever be exhausted, even if I only walked the one mile oval that I do in the mornings.
   It's hard to tell if this spatially limited environment is continually changing and developing, or whether it is my consciousness that is; at times, it seems like one or both of them is doing so almost overnight