Hoping to recreate a bit of yesterday morning’s bliss, I went for another morning walk. I didn’t leave quite as early as yesterday because I didn’t sleep well and woke up about an hour later. I had also spent more time reading and writing before the walk, which put me in a poetic, if not observational, mood. Unlike yesterday, I took my phone out several times to jot down notes, and take a few pictures. With frequent views of the Bay, the Bridge, the Palace of Fine Arts, and stately homes with tiled staircases and bright pink and purple Bougainvillea forming arches above doorways and garages, I live in one of the more picturesque parts of the city.
Walking past one of the restored marshes along Crissy Field, a flock of Elegant Terns stood on a patch of sand in the middle of the marsh. I learned the name of the birds from the Merlin app on my phone. Every few minutes, they’d all take flight. I couldn’t tell if they flapped in unison or not, but it was a spectacle to watch – like something from a safari in the Serengeti. Naturally, when I tried to get video of it, only about half of them were taking flight.
As I walked past the Palace of Fine Arts, it was hard not to notice the beautiful homes/mansions next to it. I began to wonder about what it would be like to have that view every day. I feel fortunate to have it within walking distance of my place, but to open your curtains or walk out your door every day and see it… I began to wonder if people even live in some of those houses or if they’re second or third homes? Do they take their view for granted? I also thought about inequality – how there are some people who never (or seldom) get to see this type of beauty. From there, my mind jumped to the alleyway murals in the Mission. How maybe when there’s an absence of natural beauty we find other ways to create it. How colorful graffiti often appears on the drab concrete and rusted metal of overpasses and trains and our more industrial neighborhoods and landscapes.
When I began my walk, I was once again thinking about quiet and solitude as I passed by people talking on their phones. I was thinking about how I don’t want a lot of talking in the morning or that I might only be willing to tolerate conversation from a few select people. It seems like the start and end of the day are sacred spaces. The note I wrote on my phone was: “being in love might be little more than an eagerness to start and end your day with the same person.” I suppose the same thing could be said for how one defines home or sense of place or anything that is so familiar that it becomes a welcome part of our daily routine.
I ended my walk by walking along Chestnut Street. I wanted to see the strange busy-ness that happens before the shops and restaurants open up. I wanted to see the delivery trucks that block traffic, the hand trucks and dollies loaded with boxes. I wanted to hear the rattle of the roll-up doors on the backs of box trucks and the hydraulic lifts that unfold and clang against the road. From the coffee shops I could smell the aroma singed toast and fresh, strong coffee. This is, in part, what it means to be present in the world where one’s senses come alive and one’s thoughts meander. It’s easy to fall into the trappings of routine or the bubble of one’s podcast, playlist, conversation, or mental worries. As I neared my apartment I recognized my own transition. It was, perhaps, best defined by the act of fishing for my keys a half block before I reached the building. A moment of anticipation for what comes next, a theft of presence by unthinking expediency. The premature arrival of something else.