Untangled

   I took this picture yesterday after I decided to slightly stray from where I usually walk in the morning. Interestingly to me, I pass this place almost every day in my car, reiterating to myself my belief that it is never possible to see closely while moving in a car in a car. This is even more true when I am the one driving.
   As I walked by the place seen below, the mass of thick trunks and branches immediately captured my attention. The shaded and protected area they provided looked like a wonderful place to lay down. I've always liked secluded spots in nature where I can relax and listen to the sounds around me. I especially enjoy it when I cannot tell where the sounds are coming from.
   Although I have certainly thought that my interest in these kind of spaces could easily be seen as a desire to return to a womb-like environment, I don't know that this idea is particularly alluring to me, as the one I occupied previously did not help me to feel secure outside of it.
   So, I think that rather than having a wish to return to some place, what I would like to find is a state where I can venture from from truthfully and in confidence.

Secretive

   During the past month or so I've noticed that the Mallards who live around Stow Lake have been spending time in places that I don't recall having seen them. I surmise that it must be about the time when their chicks will soon be born, but I don't recall from previous years them behaving in a way that appears secretive.

   Of course, I  may just be noticing things a bit more closely now. I  may also be viewing their behavior through my my own paranoia.

   Often, when I am rounding a corner of the usual path that I  traverse during my morning walks, I come two or more of them wandering around in the bushes and thickets near the water. If I should stop when I see them, even if only for a moment, they begin to quickly move around and call out. I imagine that there is a nest somewhere near to them, at least at some of these times, but I never see anything there.
   I would think that at least one would stay behind to protect the eggs if one were there, and I am quiet, still and stay from where I spot them. Perhaps these are the very things that they find frightening.
   I'm perplexed that these Mallards should be so concerned that a species and person such as myself should see where their eggs are hidden. It actually saddens me.

   Last year, I saw one of these animals sitting on an abandoned egg on top of a large mound of rubble completely out in the open here. It touched me, as it must have been mourning this cold specimen, but why would that egg have been laid there in the first place, so inconspicuously, while they seem so bent on hiding things now?

   It just seems like they are up to something.
   Although not a gossip, and being a person that very much values a kind of mystery, I wish that those Mallards would trust me to know their secrets, what they're doing there, in those tucked away places.
   It's not that I want to be in on their secrets. It's just to know that they see in me one that appreciates them fully as they are.
  

The perfect Christmas for me

    I really dislike the four weeks or so leading up to Christmas, and although I wish that things were different, they are not. I feel badly for having these sentiments.
   As a non-religious, but proud ethnic Jew, I tend to feel a bit slighted and unseen during December, as the winter festivity of my tradition, Channukah, seems basically invisble to those that do not in some way acknowledge it. Obviously, this is not true for Christmas, which means really nothing to me, yet I feel forced to see it everyday in the days that begin after Thanksgiving, and continue past New Year's. This includes,, unfortunately for me, wonderful Stow Lake, where I go every morning to escape busy San Francisco and focus on my own thoughts.
   During the holidays, someone or some people take it upon themselves to decorate a particular bush there as if it were a Christmas tree, and it irks me. I go there to try to clear my mind, but have found it difficult to do so as I pass those ornaments every time I complete a lap. I have tried for quite a while to find ways to not be bothered by it, but have until recently been unsuccessful.
   Then, last December, something just presented itself to me, and has continued until the present.
   It is dark this time of year when I arrive at the lake, but as I walk, at the roughly halfway point around the north side of the pedestrian path, I am treated to something wonderful; I can see, faintly in the distance, the red, white, yellow and green lights of the cars and traffic lights on busy 19th avenue. From far away, they look to me like holiday lights.
   The quality of those colors remind me of when I squint my eyes to see something in a different way. Sometimes, a lack of visual clarity can help to reorient me differently. It can soften, or rather blur out the things which I find displeasing or unpleasurable.
   Those colors in the darkness, blurred by the distance and my human eyes, are a gift which helps me to see December differently. Unlike Christmas, they will be on display as long as I am willing to venture out into the darkness.

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?