Moon's walk

   I can't remember the last time I began my morning walk in Golden Gate Park when it was light outside. Suffice it to say, it's been a while.

   At this time of year, it usually takes at least forty five minutes before the sun even begins to illuminate this part of the world. Until then, my recognition of the people around me is primarily reliant on experience, but also on the sounds that they make.

   This morning, as I walked the western stretch of Stow Lake for the second time around, I heard the familiar steps of an elderly Asian man that walks there regularly named Moon. I knew for pretty certain that it was him from what must have been sixty or seventy feet away because of his particular gait; he drags his feet as he walks, but manages to do so in a kind of hushed way. In my observations, it is particular to him.

   Continuing on, and passing other walkers for the next few minutes, I soon approached Moon again, and decided to tell him how I had been able to recognize him by his walk earlier. Although he seemed a bit confused as to why I was telling him this information, he didn't appear upset, and even thanked me.
   I don't know why, but I felt a little bad after our encounter, wondering if I had perhaps offended him. I thought about why I had told him what I did, and even though it maybe hadn't been clear to me at the time, I realized later that I told him because I was pleased when I saw him. The sound of his footsteps made me happy.
   I thought for a moment about dogs, and how they become excited when they hear their master approaching the front door after they've been out a while. I realized that in a similar way, hearing Moon made me happy, too.

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?