out of the rafters came the barn owl

"The breezes taste of apple peel. The air is full of smells to feel..." - John Updike

And barn owls, Mr. Updike. Don't forget about the barn owls, who swoop down into October, defining it.

Or steaming cups of coffee, which come into their own on October mornings, as if the rest of the year, those black sips are lent to us from the crisp tribe of days they more naturally inhabit.


While I was in San Fran for a wedding last month, I ended up at Sightglass coffee roastery with good intentions of using their warehouse + token coffee shop as a place to write.

The writing progress was not significant, but this picture of my Americano and Owl's Howl espresso blend spilling out of my bag ended up being the only serious photographic evidence of my trip.


Which made me realize something. Something that I knew, but this was the Exhibit A - Z that sealed it: San Francisco and I - years have not stirred up my fondness for a spark that went cold and grey. No. That place. It's all hills and food and diversions. A veneer of sites I've already taken a million pictures of, only now, along with the endless wind, there's the alarming smell stagnation.

Yet when I got home and had October rising in my backyard, I was so pleased to have this brown paper bag with an owl on its tag, filled with decadent beans to grind and savor. A souvenir of where I'd been, of what season was ahead.

There's something to be said for the pleasure of noticing age; of feeling the sharp drop in temp following day after day when the fluctuations smoothed out over each other like endless pavement. Where coffee matters beyond its single varietal notes and you need its warming; need its native company as you get grounded and watch the leaves flush their sugar; burn for a vibrant flash. Of being able to settle into a turning that asks for more gratitude than enjoyment, where owls brave the night instead of children, and their song marks the ushering in of wisdom.

"everything sings and dies,
but it could be, too,
everything dies and sings."
-Galway Kinnell

Basking in the Glow

In life, you rarely comprehend an instant while you're still living it. Experiences wash over us like flash floods, mostly without our acknowledging their coming or going. But there are times, while deeply embedded inside a gratifying moment, you can see its dark outer edges and say, "Wow. Look at where I am. I'm inside this ephemeral cocoon and it's warm and cozy in here. And there's no need to ruin the mellow equilibrium by clutching at the walls, trying to prevent them from falling down. I can relax, because this is going to last long enough for me to check back on this thought and still be here."

Last night, wrapped up in a blanket of crowded candle-lit tables woven together by strains from folksinger Dar Williams' guitar, I had such a moment. A very long luxurious such moment. It didn't qualify as happy. Happy is too trite, joy is too manic. It was more satisfying than that, less fleeting, like the last surmounted step at the top of a hill before you stop to enjoy the view.

And as I lingered in this place I thought, "How can I be here? Where is the Everest I needed to climb to merit me such an experience?" Since already, I believe life has been so good to me. "Is this another summit meant to sustain me when I traverse unimagined perils found on my horizon?"

But maybe its less karmic than that. Life has to dole out its experiences, and we are the recipients by default. Ms. Williams put it well in one of her last songs of the night: "Cause when you live in a world, well it gets into who you thought you'd be. And now I laugh at how the world changed me. I think life chose me after all."

And every once in a while, life chooses you for an experience truly worth realizing as you live it.

Scenes from an Old Haunt

What I always find interesting about visiting a city where you once lived, is that it inevitably feels the same. There may be new buildings, old landmarks may have disappeared, but no place evolves so rapidly that it is rendered unrecognizable. There is a persistent familiarity that stamps out all the nostalgic crabgrass that's grown up around your rememberings. Nostalgia can only really take root when it's filling in for something that's gone forever.

But when you're walking on the same street, hearing the same sounds, smelling the same smells, essentially experiencing a place just as you did hundreds of times before, there's no romanticizing it. It is as it always was.

This week I'm re-experiencing San Francisco; one of the many cities that's let me reside in it for a spell. I left its foggy views and steep streets for LA exactly two years ago. Though I've been back since, this is the first time my return is the result of following a newly discovered thread, rather than the usual wrestling with loose ends. Yet even though I'm here for strangely different reasons, San Francisco still feels the same.




Yesterday I made a pilgrimage to my old neighborhood, simply because I'm sentimental about things like that.






I felt silly taking pictures of things I saw every day as I lived here. I did it mostly for my sestra, since it'd once been her neighborhood too, and I knew she'd like some current images to put with her wistful memories.





And after my departure, so will I.








View from the top. My once-upon-a-time flat.




Kasey and I've actually sprinted portions of this hill. It's amazing what you're capable of when you're desperate not to miss the #1 bus.









Whole Foods, how I miss thee, let me count the ways.




I think the park near Grace Cathedral may be the only place in SF where a person can feel perfectly safe on a swing in the middle of the night.