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 24th 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 1st 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.
