Pandemic

The streets are quiet

A silent riot

Perhaps I'll stay inside

It's like a test

The worst and best

Of humanity magnified

The sun still shines

In trying times

Somehow it doesn't mind

So sing a song

And call your mom

But most of all, be kind

Mind Your Garden

Be sure to mind your garden, for it is the source of life. There are trees that bear fruit to feed you, and plants that grow beautiful flowers that bring you joy. Each plant is different, and you must research and observe it to understand how to care for it. You must understand the composition of the plants in the garden to ensure that one tree doesn’t block the sun from another, or that its roots don't become invasive and hoard all of the water. You must understand the soil - is it too acidic? If so, you have to replace it with new soil. Strong, healthy roots are necessary for any plant to thrive.

Don’t ignore the weeds; it is a constant practice to remove them thoughtfully and thoroughly. Don’t use chemicals; they seem efficient and thorough, but they harm more than you know, and everything is in a delicate balance. Most of all, spend time in your garden. You learn the most when you observe, and the more time you spend, the more you appreciate the beauty of what it’s become. It’s always had this potential, it just needed some care and attention. It just needed you to understand it.

An Abstract Tapestry

I've been thinking a lot about consciousness recently, and what it means to be alive. The moments where I have the most clarity and peace are the moments that I feel connected to something bigger; moments where I think life might have meaning. As a realist, I question this, of course. Humans want clarity. Humans want peace. And wouldn’t it be convenient if those feelings could be found in a belief – belief that there is more to the world than what we see, belief that there is a deeper meaning and purpose to all of it, that our lives aren’t meaningless. As I mulled this over in my head at 2am, I had a thought that summarized it all: when you connect to your own spirituality, life goes from being a chaotic shit-show to a beautiful tapestry; everything has a place and purpose, and all of it together might just make sense.

If everything means something, suddenly you start paying attention. Maybe you didn’t pay attention before, but now you notice the trees, and the birds and the buildings. You notice the way the wind makes small ripples and waves across the bay. You notice how the paint is chipped slightly on the white railing that you’re leaning on, to reveal an older coat of light green paint. You notice that if you dig your nail into that little spot of missing paint, you can chip the white paint away a little more, or even chip the green paint away to reveal the naked metal of the railing. Then you notice that you feel a little guilty about chipping the paint off, but it also made you feel good in the moment. As you lean against the railing, looking out across the bay, your hands tucked in front of you, you can pick at the paint without anyone knowing. With that thought, you rip another little piece of white paint off and watch it fall into the bay below. It almost disappears during its descent, but you manage to keep an eye on it as it lightly touches the top of a small wind-whipped wave. You start to notice things like this. You notice that writing is the only thing that keeps you sane somehow. So you write. You write about the little things that you notice.

Love is not Attachment

The river flows to the beach

But she traps it with a dam
Her own pool within reach
Will soon become grand

But the still water seeps
To a spring underground
And looks for the beach
In the dark, til it's found

Paris is in the details

I live in a city of views; with 42 hills, San Francisco boasts a vista at almost every turn. Some views are popular and well-known, like the breathtaking view atop twin peaks. Others are hidden and little-known, like the view at the top of my very street - at the intersection of Lisbon and France in the Excelsior. It's also breathtaking, but quietly so.

Paris has views too. My favorite, at the top of the Arc de Triomphe, is spectacular. You can see how the streets all fan out from that one location; you feel like you're at the center of everything.

But this is not how you get to know Paris. The soul of Paris is in the details, and the details get lost in the views. It’s best to appreciate the city by walking down the narrow, cobblestone streets, and seeing the intricate stone facades of the many historic buildings. It's best to get a little lost, and find yourself at the door of a charming cafe, or vibrant little bar. It's best to warm yourself over a cup of coffee and watch as the obnoxiously attractive and well-dressed city-goers pass you by. Some will stop and come into the cafe to warm themselves as well, and take a pause. Paris is a city that tells you to take a pause. It's necessary to take a pause to appreciate the details.

Picasso

I woke up feeling sick this morning; my head and throat hurt, and my body felt tired. I wrestled with whether or not it was a good idea for me to go out at all today. This trip is supposed to be about no obligations or plans, after all. However, even though my apartment is bright, and charming, and comfortable, there is a darkness that would creep in if I stayed inside all day. I needed to leave, even if I felt sick, just for a bit.

Yesterday I had the idea of going to the Picasso Museum, so I decided to do that. I never understood Picasso, but I also never really tried to. 

“He paints emotions,” I’d heard.
“His paintings go deeper/further than the physical - they portray the metaphysical,” I’d also heard. 

So perhaps, since I believe I’m currently going through a spiritual awakening, I would see something I hadn’t seen before. Perhaps I would get it. 

I left the apartment and fatigue set in immediately; my legs were tired and my body felt sore. I decided to walk slowly and allow myself to take as long as I needed to get there. I am a habitually fast walker, so this approach to walking was honestly new to me. I took my time down the grand boulevards, down the small, winding cobblestone sidewalks, until I reached the museum. The sun was out, and it was warmer today than it had been yesterday.

Once inside, I took a look at the first painting. 

“That looks like a Picasso,” I thought.
“So does that one. And that one.” They looked the same as always.

So maybe my approach wasn’t right. 

“What do I feel when I see this one?” I thought.

“Anxiety.”
And this one?
“Anxiety.”
And this?
“Fear…and anxiety.”

Maybe I was getting at something. Maybe I wasn’t. 

With the anxiety, I felt something else: I felt like laughing. Maybe it was the absurdness of the figures or the expressions that they appeared to have. The only thought I had that could summarize it was, “humans are so silly."

I felt like the paintings almost mocked humans. Not the individual model or the emotions that specific person was feeling, but all of it. This wasn’t an ill-intended, cruel mockery; it came from a place of compassion for the human race. Like when you can’t help but laugh at a child’s emotional outburst over something trivial, like spilled candy. Your laughter is not cruel, it’s meant to put things into perspective. Whether we cry or laugh, the world will still be the same. 

I stopped at a picture of a yelling woman, or maybe it was just colorful shapes, and smiled. 

Maybe I was getting at something. Maybe I wasn’t. 

Lists

My first day in Paris I allowed myself to live like a child: I walked without direction for almost 15 miles, ate when and what I wanted, and only went home when I felt like it. I followed no lists, had no plans.

Today I woke up to pudding, cheese, wine and stale bread in the kitchen. I'm allowing myself to make my first list: a grocery list. Perhaps tomorrow I won't wake up with a stomach ache.