Late Winter in the Bay Area is like early Spring in other climes with real seasons. Not that seasonalness is something that has tried and trueness anymore. Still, I know the world as it was, and the harbingers of Spring are the House Finch people blarbling out their mating song on my front stoop. It’s the tender, heart shaped offerings of Miner’s Lettuce. It’s catkins and birds in pairs, sourgrass everywhere and an internal impulse to move and do that doesn’t have quite enough support yet. An urge that feels like my three year old, who is always ready to go half an hour before her parents, and stands at the door with her hat and boots on, yelling, “I’m reaaaaaady, come ooooooon.”.
Fern and I have taken our restlessness outside the last two days. First, to Heron’s Head.
She was pointing to the water, “Look Mama, look!”. I couldn’t see, I asked What? “The Sun dancing on the water!”
Hi Super Fund site.
I’m not very much fun to be with out in nature right now. That sense of exponential growth and the diminishing wild is dogging me, like San Francisco wind in March, creeping in through the seams of my usually optimistic windbreaker. This is partly what the coming changes require. Grow accustomed to one loss, get ready for the next, celebrate the tiniest of victories. By the way, you’re going to this, right? And if not, then you’re coming to SF to join me in this, yes?
Find the Kildeer.
I realized on our walk that I don’t know my Bay Area marine birds very well. And then I found…A Field Guide to 100 Birds of Heron’s Head.
I am always burgeoned by gentle reminders of other folks who care, and as we came across signs, I wondered if they left these offerings with the same bedfellows of grimness and joy swirling in their hearts.
Then, Princess Godzilla came along.
The next day, we went to the Southwest.
Ok, actually it was the Randall Museum.
Meditate on the softness of Barn Owl feathers.
Corona Heights is lovely on a sunny day.
Fern spotted a wild feline.
And went feral herself.
I am half aware that This is mid-winter blues. The bottom of the barrel of the dark season. Even though our mild weather allows for trees to wake up in January, it is still a time of bare bones and rest, grey thatch on the hillside and cabin fever on the inside. I try to give grace and honor to what feels like the stark reality of OhMyGodWeAreSoFucked and HumansAreDestructiveParasites, while at the same time re-membering that, come April, the wildflowers, those once-a-year dear friends, will arrive for their visit. Barring the extreme pessimism that has hitched onto my coat-tails and asks, “Will there come a time when severe weather will make them obsolete”, I attempt to pull out of my small human mind and into the heart of the Earth. I make room for the unknown, for change and for hope that the greater system at work still has secrets up its sleeve, unbeknownst to science.
We are getting up to Shasta on Friday, where I hope that being with the Spirit of Land will heal what too much time in Civilization can wreak.
Is Spring showing her petticoats where you live?
p.s. So much thanks for your wisdom and insight on my last post. I encourage you to read the comments, as it is a treasure trove of ideas and inspiration. There are some good chuckles in there too. I am about half way through commenting back and hope to get to all of you in the next few days. You people rock my world. What would I do without you? Thank goodness for us all.