One of my favorite things to do here, in a growing list of favorite things to do here, is walk (and sit, and read, and watch and write). I walk to the beach, I walk to the park, I walk to the bay, to the wharf, to the Ferry Building, to the Italian neighborhood, to the Latino neighborhood, to the bar, to the concert, to the spot in the sun where I can hear the gulls screaming and carrying on. I walk, quite often, with only a loose plan of where I’m going and what I’ll do.
Yesterday, I walked to the bleachers by Fisherman’s Wharf where I sat and read and wrote. From there, I walked to the Ferry Building where I sat at a small picnic table in the sun and drank a beer. On Sunday, I walked to the farmers’ market, not because I needed anything, but because I wanted to be at the farmers’ market where I could see the people and the brightly colored fruits and vegetables, and smell the chicken cooking at the stall that sells roasted chicken. Last night, I detoured from my normal evening walking circuit and went to a bench by the bay near the sand where I watched the sun set over the bridge. There, a guy taking Polaroid pictures of tourists and selling them approached and asked if I’d like my picture taken. Normally, I’d say no (I’m no touristy sucker), but in the spirit of solitude building generosity and openness, I said yes and gave him ten bucks (it was pay what you want). The picture is blurry. By most practical standards, it’s not worth ten bucks, but I kinda like it and I enjoyed the few moments we spent talking as he explained why he walks around taking pictures of people. It’s not terribly different than how I spend my days – walking around taking pictures in my mind.
I am, in a sense, trying to let go of “utility” in favor of presence… trying to be less practical in an overly practical world. I’m trying to write for the sake and joy of writing as opposed to having an end-product or a publishable poem or a cogent argument. In a sense, I’m trying to continue on in the spirit of my road trip out here – to have fewer end destinations in mind and fewer concerns about the stops along the way. I’m trying to say yes to more things, even when I have my doubts about the anticipated results, or worry about what other people will think. I’m trying to spend less time anticipating results. I’m trying to spend less time worrying about how the outside world perceives me. All of this has been liberating. I’ve worked on four or five new poems these past few days. I may hate them later, but I wrote them and filed them away to let time and perspective work it’s fermentation magic.
This form of discovery (both self and geographic) is slow and contains many relapses into old and comfortable habits and patterns – old and comfortable ways of thinking and being. Even in my walking, I have a tendency to stick to the streets I know – partly because in doing so, I’m relieved of the thinking that’s required for navigation. As such, I also haven’t ventured much outside of the city… and I’d like to do more of that. But much like I was mulling over in my mini treatise on comfort vs. novelty in the dating world, I’m learning that exploration is balancing act between holding on and letting go. It’s a process of expanding and contracting within the concentric circles of my discomfort. I expand a bit, I get comfortable and familiar in my new territory, I fall back into old routines, eventually, I expand out again.
In this process, I’ll often get frustrated with myself and how small my vision is. I’ll often wonder why I chose to spend a gorgeous day in the city when I could have been in the woods or the mountains… and I have to remind myself that joy is joy – it’s not meant to be measured or compared or chased or coaxed. Joy, in any shape, size, form, or gravitational weight, is a fantastic outcome. It’s more than what most of us get to experience in the everyday trenches of commerce and disappointment. In this process, I have to remind myself to once again shake loose the daily shackles of judgement and conditioning that frame my thinking in logic, analysis, practicality, and comparison. Yes, I may prefer the view from the mountain top, but perhaps I’m not ready to climb the mountain and I’d do well to recognize that the view from here more than fills my cup.