Red Rocks Legacy

"I like your Tshirt," I say as this fellow walks by with friends. "My friend designed it," he replies, and introduces me to the man and woman beside him. And so begins a delightful interchange and a brief dance by these red rocks beyond Las Vegas.

"It's my legacy... Love."

Shared Embrace

Visiting with a 90-something woman brightens today. As we talk, she shifts from grieving loss of identity cuz her body functioning is declining. What shows up is an amazing smile, tears in her eyes, as she recognizes that who she is comes down to whom she has embraced. 

When I get up to leave, she says, "I'm sorry I can't walk you to the door." I reply, "you're with me every step of the way right here," as I place my hand over my heart. I see the tears and her smile once more. "Thank you," she says softly. I feel the simple, full beauty of shared embrace.

Free!

"Free!" says a bright yellow paper hanging off a wooden set of drawers as I wander beside this driveway on Potrero Hill. 

Hours later, returning with my car, I also see some potted plants. Just then, a 30-something couple with their six-something son get out of a car. Man says, "oh great! I'll help you carry whatever you want."

I thank him and explain having just moved and wonderful to discover their gift! His wife says, "oh yes, I see your NY plates!" Spotting again the pots in the corner, I ask, "the plants stay, I'm guessing?" He says, "yeah, they stay." 

Minutes later,  as I'm adjusting placement of the drawers in the car, I look up and see a bright-green, potted jade-like plant in his hands. He smiles and says, "welcome to California!" Then he adds, "If you pinch off these large outer leaves and stick them in the ground, they will grow." All at once, I am home.

Wandering on Potrero Hill

Wandering on Potrero Hill, I become fascinated with juxtapositions of this world in transition. One side of the Hill is pure pleasure: beautiful, smart, serene. It attracts me from the first moment arriving here last week as I meet likeminded and upbeat folks. Then someone tells me of the other side of the Hill, the one housing the projects where gets unsafe. 

Today, up top by the park, I see a young couple wearing grey sweats with a baby held in the woman's arms. They enter a ramshackle one-story apartment building. I look downhill and see what must be the projects. I turn and exit the park.

Added to the mix in this neighborhood are signs of its history, the wealthier side anyway, having been a working class neighborhood. Traces of this remain as if time traveling, subtle in spots while noticeable. 

I am reminded of Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land." Then something remarkable happens. I'm walking downhill, a steep hill, in bright while crisply cool sunshine. I hear an old woman's voice cry out, "Can someone help me?" As I turn around to assess where it is coming from, I hear her cry out again and again.

I walk back uphill a few steps and look into her open doorway, a Victorian home several steps up from the sidewalk. A woman with long, unbrushed, grey hair is sitting in a wheelchair holding what appears to be some kind of housecleaning spray bottle. The interior seems ancient and neglected. In the distance, faded light grey carpeting in what looks to be a messy bedroom stands out behind the worn wooden floor in the front hall. Hanging on the bannister leading upstairs are clothes drying. The musty smell is palpable as I walk up the few steps to meet her.

I ask what she needs. She asks me to unscrew the bottle top. Takes a few tries yet I manage to do so. She thanks me. I introduce myself and ask her name. She tells me. I tell her just moved and am exploring the neighborhood. She says, "yeah, I don't know why people want to move here." I reply, "sounds like you've been here a long time." She says, drawing out the words, "oh yeah." I ask, "what do you like about it here?" She pauses, sighs as she smiles then says with a trace of melancholy, "Oh, I'd be lost anywhere else."

We chat for a minute more and I turn to go. She thanks me again, I reply, "my pleasure" and head down the steps. As I turn downhill, I hear her door close and see a 49ers flag flying from someone's rooftop with the stunning cityscape shimmering below. I see a couple of boys throwing a ball back and forth. I take a deep breath, cool and clean. Not knowing what street I'm on, I do the only thing that seems natural. I keep moving.

Seeing Shelter

Sitting quietly tonight, this nearly overwhelming tightness in my chest keeps me awake and intensely uncomfortable. It's hard to stay with this. I want to run as the pressure builds. 

Images appear. The client at an HIV treatment center who overdosed and died. I see him. Can't stop him. I see myself as a child, helpless and terrified. Can't stop her either. Can't stop what is happening to her.

The scene shifts. I see a weathered photograph in a fragile metal frame standing on my grandmother's bureau. I am age eight or nine. In that photo, a little girl a few years younger than my child self is staring out. She is naked to the waist, standing barefoot, wearing shorts in a forest somewhere in Poland. Wavy brownish hair down to her chin, her expression neutral yet piercing in its innocence. Her eyes say everything that matters.

My grandmother does not say much, just a long, disgusted sigh followed by, "she was killed by the nazis." She quickly turns away and heads for her favorite room, the kitchen. I hear the sounds of cookware in motion. But those eyes keep me locked in place.

Now I see my girl self with this forest girl out of time. No longer frozen, two become one. I'm crying, my tears falling in that forest. Grown up me wants to hold this forest girl close, now able to face the horror and see what pierces it. Autumn rain is falling on the branches through layers of canopy down to her hair and naked chest.

The tightness releases in my chest as tears continue to fall. My breath opens. We are safe. I know what I must do - keep facing this fear, this pain, facing while standing in that forest beside her.

I am determined to turn towards those I have hurt. Determined to stop though have failed many times. Now I see the trees all around, feel the bodies sitting upright beside me. We are awake. We will not fail.

I adjust my posture, leaning forward.

"A" True Story

This morning stepping into our apartment building elevator, I spot a little red-haired boy and his strawberry blonde sister beside their mom. He's wearing an SF Giants cap and his sister a Yankees cap.

I say to him, "You're a Giants fan?" and his mom says, "actually, he has a collection from lots of teams." Just then, the boy shining a bright smile looks at me and says confidently, "actually, I'm an A's fan."

Without hesitation, his sister chimes in, "me too!" Mom is chuckling silently. "OK!" I say, "Go A's!" and the kids now go, "A's!" The door opens and the three of them step off. 

The boy quickly turns back to me and we stand there smiling as the door slowly closes.

Heart of You, Heart of Me

I'm walking towards the South Ferry subway station down in Battery Park when I hear guitar strumming. I stop, turn back and see a guy wearing a sky-blue sweatshirt and softly faded blue jeans. He smiles as our eyes meet. The melody is soothing while invigorating. I stop and listen. My eyes are drawn also to an older fellow with a scraggly grey-white beard sitting at the other end of the park bench. He's wearing a baseball cap that says in bold yellow, "Vietnam Veteran." 

When the song ends, I introduce myself and sit down between them. "I'm Jesse," says the guitar player. Jesse tells me he's been walking and hitching around the country for a year now carrying only a guitar and some clothes. Originally from Ohio, he arrived in NYC a few days ago.

Writing and singing songs as he goes. Says they are "prayer movin' through me." When he plays, people stop, people smile, can feel the good vibe. The other fellow on the bench says, "Hey, I'm Jimmy. Man, I like your songs, makes me feel good." Then he tells us he's a Vietnam Vet. Tells us about working down here on 9/11/01. He says, "There were ladies high heels everywhere. They were from the ladies who kicked 'em off, running barefoot." He sighs and pauses, then looks away in the direction of tall buildings for a moment. 

Just then, Jesse starts strumming his guitar softly. Jimmy turns back towards us and tells a few more stories of a more hopeful note, about his wife and son, about moving on from hard times including the Vietnam War and Iraq and Afghanistan where he says his son has served. He says, "nobody knows how it hurts unless they've been there." Jesse and I nod our heads, "yeah." 

When Jimmy leaves, Jesse and I talk about travelling, about getting lost in a good way, about walking in the mountains. He asked if I'd ever been to Nederland, CO. "Ha!" I said, "Been closeby, Boulder last month." And so we talk some more. I say I write songs also.

He smiles and hands me the guitar. I play a song and tell him wrote it when in a Cancer Center "playroom" with a boy in pain sitting in a wheelchair who wouldn't speak. I say, "I looked out the window up many stories and saw all these windows. And the song came through me, called it, 'Look Out the Window.' And as I played it, that boy came to life." Jesse smiles and nods his head like he gets it. When the song's over, I hand him back the guitar. He says, "you have a real sweet voice." That inspires me to sing harmony as he plays a song. 

After a few rounds of this, as we're singing, the wind picks up. Rain drops started to fall. I ask, "what's the name of that one?" He said, "dunno." I say, "I like the refrain: 'Heart of you, Heart of Me'." He smiles.

I hand him a wondercard and invited him to stay in touch saying, "wanna hear where you land next." He laughs and said, "OK!"