Early morning Manor...

The piercing blue sky catches my eye even while in sleep. The brightness of July is in full tilt, as the unpredictability of any San Francisco summer graces us once again with her presence. It is not even 7 am, yet the excitement of the day causes me to peer between the curtains at the day's offering. I lay in bed in the semi-conscious state between sleep and wake – the time in which the previous nights dreams may come dancing through the mind like an impromptu parade of colors, memories, emotions and activity. I look out my 2^nd floor window onto the streets below, telephone wires streak the scene, but the big blue backdrop bursts through. I smile.

Today is Wednesday, my little slice of mid-week 'deep breath’. The day in which I have elected to dedicate, on a good day, to writing, biking, yoga, farmers markets, coffee meetings, exploration, growth discovery – the Year of Passion. Many weeks have past that I have not written a complete entry, however handfuls of half complete, mental downloading and ranting dot the hard drive on my computer. Days and nights where the meaning and search and musings of the YOP have been so clear, it would be a crime, and a self hindering sin, not to transcribe – even if their fate is to remain as they are; fragments of a life of passion in California.

I’ve returned to old stomping grounds, Haus Coffee. The 24^th street gem which holds the birth of one of my first YOP entry from SF. I sit in the window box facing the street on a tiny, simple wooden bistro table. Only a thin layer of glass and 2 feet separate me from the commuters, bottle collectors, coffee shop go-ers and others on their way to their lives pass in front. Part puppy in the window, part goldfish in a bowl, even above the hypnotic electric rhythms that ring through the space inside, I can feel the pulse of street. And I like it.

With the clarity that mornings often bring, after having ‘slept on it’, I recall the last few weeks and the dialogues, observations, notable moments, sights, sounds and people of inspiration that encapsulates the Year of Passion. Although the defining 12 months of the Year of Passion have come to an end, I’m left wondering what to entitle this journey to continue to prolong this thirsty search for a life of joy, excitement, love, peace and passion. A life with a healthy, abundant daily dose of gratitude for the simple things: a fresh peach, kindness of strangers, inspiring friends, riding bikes at the beach, the beach, the scent of eucalyptus in the air through the park, among other simplicities that which if left unrecognized for their understated blessings, fly under the radar in our enchanted lives...

One aspect of the YOP that has often drawn out a deeper contemplative, introspective side has been the colorful, inspiring, diverse people who populate the one’s universe. If home is where the heart is, and the heart is where love and passion begins, the creation of a home where inspiration, passion and love reside seems to be of the highest order, and one in which I have been particularly particular about. Having “lived” in more than 4 homes in San Francisco, surfed couches in 3, and resided in another 3 hostels, in the 14 months I’ve been here, my arrival to my current home, the 22nd Street Manor is truly a blessing.

Three months ago, Keith, the sustainable food loving, fire escape gardener with a passion for smart, sustainable urban planning, mapping his dog walking routes on an oversized map of the neighborhood, was accepted to MIT for a coveted spot in their urban planning masters program. The beloved household lady-mutt pooch, Ros the dog, and Keith departed the city almost 2 months ago – his 1990’s Toyota Previa mini-van loaded up with his collection of worldly possession and Ros sitting atop the mound as they set out for a 2 week journey across this vast country.

A bus pulls up and stops in front of the café. It is half full; I look up at the bus riders. They look back. Many have iPods in. I wonder what they are listening to. Where they are going. And following the breath in which our lives come in contact, they are gone. Carried away to their days.

Amy, the hard working half Canadian, half American science teacher with an infatuation with snowmen also moved out to live in a studio apartment in upper Haight.

Although only 2 months into living at The Manor…

….I now became the longest resident and the search for 2 new souls would be the task of Anne and myself.

Anne, the Chicago transplant who swims in the Bay (no wetsuit), speaks fast Chilean Spanish, and works for a non-profit helping to empower 1^st generation college students succeed in their education, is like a fire cracker of energy, motion and source of inspiration. She lives in the room with a wall of mirrors that sits next to the Spanish Pentecostal Church next door and our kitchen, both of which can be an audible force to reckon with. She bikes, is a feisty lady of anarchist beliefs, and cooks up a storm like a flash in the pan…pun intended.

As we set out to fill the 2 rooms, our Craigslist posting yielded many a reply for its affordability and prime location in The Mission (a rare combo in SF). With the luxury of an abundance of interesting, inspiring applicants whom in their response to our ad we asked what they would bring to a potluck, in true SF spirit, we decided to host said potluck party with all the applicants, and make it a social gathering of interesting souls. That night as the 10 “goodies” and their goodies piled into our tiny kitchen/living room, new connections were made, commonalities found with 1 or 2 degrees of separation and our 2 new housemates made themselves clear: Orlee and David.

Orlee, a Brooklyn transplant, moved to the city with her boyfriend last fall. They lived together in Noe Valley for some time, and now apart for some time for reasons in which my blogging efforts would do no justice to its complexity. A quiet, gentle soul with fiery edge, rides a single speed, is staring a gig at a tech company in SOMA (South of Market) in a few weeks and has an ever-present composed, collected vibe to her. She is grounded and grounding in her soft, contemplative mannerisms and has feng shui-ed the front room with a simple layout and cozy office nook in the bay window.

David, oh David. The man with the plan. David is a tall, fair boy from Texas, with the soul of a Moroccan and recent affair with New Orleans. A Fine Arts Masters student at USF in creative writing, David set-up his room, life and presence in The Manor like jumping jack flash. Within 2 days of moving in with not much more than a few suit cases and a couple of boxes of books, record, Moroccan tapestries and memorabilia from days abroad and Nola, his room became a complete home complete with Bob Dylan and Frank Sinatra spinning on the record player. His growing collection of short stories, poems and writings for both school and play, appear in email inboxes, kitchen tables and in spoken word while cooking. Free styling rhyming while cooking couscous and veg, bike riding to free concerts @ Sterns Grove and late night chats on the blue couch have made David a fountain of inspiration to the house.

The house is also now veggie, and mostly gluten-free (thanks friends). When possible, we cook together, bike together, buy in bulk together @ Rainbow. In the absence of blood family, and in wake of the ‘new family’ of friends coagulating Gen Y's across the world, we attempt share our lives in this household of perfect strangers gathered for our common lust and love for this city, this journey and this life of passion.

SIDE NOTE (which I could not, not include)

As I put the finishing touches of links and photos into the entry, a woman of about 70 years slowly passes on the sidewalk. She is moving inch by inch with a cane in her hand and a bus pass that drapes around her neck onto the soft rolls of her stomach. She looks at me and smiles while saying something to herself that I cannot hear for the jazzy piano saxophone music now playing in the café. I smile back in acknowledgement of her stopping to acknowledge me. She then lifts both her hands, cane attached to her left, to the sky and for a moment, what I assume is her giving thanks for this day, this walk, this sun, this warmth. I look up at the blue sky and green canopy of trees too. Yes. Thank you, thank you, thank you for this day indeed. Her hands come down and she continues to smile and send some kisses my way the way loved ones do when saying adieu. Adieu.

A Drummer, a Biker, a Financial Deal Maker*

"A falling star fell from your heart

and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud,

as it tore through them,

and now it's left me blind..."

Oh Florence, how romance and love can make anyone's heart and mind produce such aching images and phrases that cause us to declare the cosmos a mirror of our emotions. And more so, how lucky are we to get the chance to feel such deep love and…passion.

It’s been over a year since the Year of Passion was declared, and I find myself continuing the internal dialogue about living with passion. Despite the writing hiatus in the YOP since January, life in SF has been a rainstorm of activity spanning passion and exploration that would without doubt, fulfill the YOP’s mantra.

March, April and May is known to bring showers, but for this blessed spring of 2011, showers of a different nature have come. Showers of love and romance that come in such starkly different packages that I can not help but share it and yes, document it so that during those times when the tide is out and the waves are at a lull, that it can be remembered that passion is always there, and that the wave of passion and soulful love is indeed alive, all the time…and yes worth the wait.

Indulge me as I lay out this cast of characters who has spotted and claimed moments in my SF days and nights over the past 90 days…

There’s C, the 6’1” music teacher with cocoa skin, dread locks and a lead drummer in a metal band. We met last September, while walking down 16^th street in the Mission, days before my departure to India. We “made eyes” while walking with friends, mine had just come from tacos and Margarita pitchers @ Puerto Alegre on Valencia Street, and him with his friends en-route to a music show.

After we both did a triple take, he turned around to give me his card accompanied by a “please call me”. I did. Live music shows in the TL, cooking @ his place, art auctions, board games with friends, tea @ The Summit and misc. drinks around The Mission, C’s deep seeded love of teaching, learning, practicing and performing music it’s crystal as to what magnetized me to him – passion.

There’s R, the compact, small and lean SF native, whose fair hair skims the same height as me, manages the non-profit bike shop down the street. Having been the apple of my biker eye for a couple of months, our conversations about bike rides, bikes and handle bar wrap finally progressed to him asking me to go for a bike ride…and dinner. That was almost 3 months ago. R has been the most consistent of the bunch – with a weekend trip to Santa Cruz to watch a bike race he was in, then ride the Sierra foothills, an unknowing trip to his parents place, also in SF, on his birthday (yes, you read that double whammy correctly) and even a hair cut on the back porch with a cup of morning tea and freshly sliced oranges, R’s passion for biking and bikes (he has 11 of ‘em) unknowingly has inspired me to start to race myself.

Then there’s B-dig dig, the newest addition to the equation. A few weeks ago, while replacing a tire @ the Bike Kitchen, B and his friend, both newbies to the BK, left without a peep or hello, then came back to introduce himself and exchange numbers…hopefully. It worked. The tallest of the bunch, B hails from NY, has a rad white and blue vintage Nishiki, and spends his days in the concrete jungle of the Financial district in downtown SF. He’s sweet, uncomplicated and with an open-to-anything approach, is refreshing, even in this town of liberal minded, open hearted souls. What’s more, is that the teacher of newness in me can’t help but dance with excitement as each one of our meetings have included a new food type or activity that either he or I have tried before, including Pupusas in Bernal Heights, a trip to my fav organic, vegan resto Gracias Madre, South Indian and being apart of his first yoga class ever.

*Then there's CL, the freckle faced, Southern Cali native with a growing sleeve of tattoos, whose boundary pushing mentality, simple, conscious life choices to be vegan, yet also raise chickens at their coop house (for the egg egging non-vegans) near Golden Gate Park in SF, and active participation with the city through his work and volunteer time, has on numerous occasions, taken my breath away entirely. As I sit contemplating why, why, why this boy still has his spirit swirling around in my soul and mind, despite our decision to end the 6 months of on and off interactions, I feel perhaps there are no words for it, except, passion.

With each soul whose quasi-name has graced this post, I offer up the gratitude for their presence in the YOP and my life. One of my favorite aspects of this simultaneous exploration has been the absolute playfulness that we share. A return to the way in which children seek playmates for after school trips to each others houses, where the option of staying for dinner was never assumed, but rather an unexpected extension of a few hours together where getting lost in time with picnics in the park, climbing trees or riding bikes, I am FILLED with joy to say not much has changed since those days. Thank you for that.

So what is the common denominator with the Drummer, the Biker, the Financial Deal Maker…and the Vegan? Is there one?

Is it passion? Is it love? Is it me? Is it that each are pursuing passion in their lives in some way? Is it perhaps just coincidence that my interest is strongest for those with the most passion in their lives? I don’t think so. Everyday we have the gift to decide what kind of passion we invite into our thoughts and actions. Imagine a world where passion leads us all to in making almost, if not all, of our decisions. A passion for joy and happiness and love and gratitude for this abundantly blessed life we get to live everyday. Last week a yogi offered up a small nugget of guidance when it comes to how we can choose to make choices (and I certainly paraphrase here) “What kind of world would we live in if everyone was doing the same actions as the ones we make.” Interesting.

Taking a peek now at the YOP timeline, March 30, 2010 was my first entry and took place day dreaming about a fulfilling life, far away from the stale air of that 43^rd floor cubicle. When I think of all the places in which I remember life pre-YOP, it is that moment that serves as “The Beginning” image and thus resonates in my mind the most. They say words are only as powerful as the image they conjure-up in your mind. Perhaps this is why the art and love of a well-told story can capture anyone’s attention. So, thank you for listening to these stories of mine. And in the inspiring words of the indie flick “Happy, Thank You, More Please”….more please.

Perhaps that’s why the Drummer, the Biker and Financial Deal Maker (and Vegan) have captured more than just a piece of the YOP. Beyond a telling story of how we met or where we came from, lies inspiration and passion. Although the future of these characters in my life and their place in the YOP is certainly unknown, like children playing in the forest with the juicy remnants of wild blueberry on their cheeks, fingernails and jeans, I am choosing to approach each of these romances with the continued pursuit of joy, love and most importantly...

passion.

xoxo

V

And we're live...

As my eyes slowly open, I turn in my Hot Sexiness sleeping bag, my newest comfort of choice and treat to myself at an Alite sample sale in December, to see the bright blue of a California sunny day peering through the off white cotton curtains of my newest abode. With soft orange walls that are spotted with uneven texture and a certain vintage feel, the 15 foot ceilings make the small-ish room seem almost spacious.

I moved into this, my second home, and fourth bedroom of 2011 last Saturday, as I had been staying in a variety of rooms at the Goddess Vortex (see "Home Sweet Yogi Home" the summer) since the clocks struck midnight for this new year.

New year. Happy year. What will it hold? There’s something that has shifted. Since the YOP blog has been on hiatus for almost 4 months, first for logistical reasons (internet joys in India) then upon return, a myriad of reasons which span a touch of laziness to perhaps the more truthful reason being of lack of inspiration, or dare I say….passion?


I am musing to myself about the fate of the YOP in a new neighbourhood café, Atlas Café on Alabama and 20th – just 2 blocks from my new orange lily pad.


Somewhat industrial, yet with the unique San Francisco, Mission bike cultured charm (I’d like to say half of those that have come in have their right pant cuff rolled up to mid calf level and a few Mexican workers hold down prep work in the open kitchen that doubles as pull-up bar seating, its casual atmosphere and bright single paned windows which line the corner it occupies offers a welcome infiltration of sun into the space.

At American Thanksgiving in late November, a true gluttony fest anchored in over sugared yams and cranberries for all reasons, I was asked by a former bon bon at the vegan (gluten-free) Thanksgiving potluck I hosted on the Friday of the holiday weekend, “What happened to the Year of Passion?” By that time, I had been back in SF for 1 month since my return from India, and had given very little thought to writing. Much of my time in India was spent writing, although in the earthy ink to paper way, in various locations around the city, countryside and waterways, in an unfiltered, uncensored way that we only write when knowing there is a slim chance that it will ever really be read…in life or post mortum. So when returning to land of the YOP, SF, the writer (and photographer) in me, was, like much of the rest of my senses, exhausted. With a hot hand, and hot shutter, I put down the laptop and the Nikon, and took in the moment, captured in my mind alone. The outcome? A twinge of guilt for neglecting the Year of Passion, but now even more of a desire for the introspective dialogue that only the YOP harvested in me...

It was during the beautiful, vegan Thanksgiving Potluck dinner, peppered with dim tea lights, warm smiles and many handles of Carlo Rossi vino tinto, it was my former Bon Bon’s sister who brought something quite clear to my attention about the state of writing: “I only seem to write when I’m upset, or unclear, or struggling with something – and much less, if ever when truly happy”

Mmmm. Had I stopped writing because, dare I even toy with the idea: I was truly happy? Had I achieved the year of passion? Here I was surrounded by some of the most inspiring, loving, warm, interesting, engaged, engaging people I’ve met and whom I care deeply for in a city I love for its consciousness, adventurous spirit, openness, vitality and living a life under a hot, liberal sun where outdoors and casualness is king. Had I arrived?

The idea was almost too novel, too real to handle. I had been 7 months since I had embarked on the YOP, tucked away in a cubicle 43 floors up in the glass jungle of full piece suits, dreaming about the freedom of sailing away on a little dingy in the sun on the lake. A lot has happened since then, and a lot has changed, but was I, am I, living the Life of Passion?

???

It's almost noon now, and am about to go for a lunchtime loop bike ride around SF with Denny, a new friend whom I met at a Clif Bar RSVP Facebook event in October (yes, I think I got that right & thanks Todd) and smile as the coincidence that this re-awakening entry about the destination and journey of the Year of Passion is at the ATLAS cafe, a place literally seeped in the idea of maps and charting of paths, routes and journeys.