Muir Woods
Our hosts left early for a natal check-up. That first evening when they broke the news to us, I felt a warm rush of happiness. Children. There's great joy in a house of clean emotion and the thought of it growing like a garden is one to hold.
After breakfast, we picked an Asian bakery near Geary and 2nd and went in for some dumplings - bloated, sweet-doughed, pork buns, little soup dumplings filled with shrimp, and balls of sticky rice and sesame seed with red bean paste inside. Umami delights. Tickling my senses and coaxing me to sleep on the long winding hills past Marin City. In fact, I really had to shut my eyes since the turns were making my head reel.
We found our way to the National Monument. The great cathedral for the immortal tree, of the immortal trees. Always, sempre.
The woods were truly stunning, familiar, foreign; immediate, far away. Later, at the beach, I sat cross legged and meditated on it all - and the biting wind - and just the idea of warmth to keep me from jumping up and waving my arms around for the rush of blood, until we packed up and found a little diner in town with jazz music playing. It was a duet, a bass and a piano. Children were flitting around playing games. I could hardly notice anything, except for the curl-your-toes Zinfandel, the bursts-of-garlic oysters, the friends, of course, and those fuzzy, warm feelings.
After the dinner, as dusk even faded to night, we climbed up over those redwoods again. From the back seat, opening the window, and watching the towns far below twinkle, we also thanked God for a squeaky set of brakes that nonetheless performed with admiration.
The big, orange bridge, steel, living like a redwood, towering and guarding and comforting the people in that car and the magic, sweet bay city folk, living on dumplings and weed, it welcomed us back, and I was blown away with the fog and drifted down to foggy dreams as I waited for the morning sun.
After breakfast, we picked an Asian bakery near Geary and 2nd and went in for some dumplings - bloated, sweet-doughed, pork buns, little soup dumplings filled with shrimp, and balls of sticky rice and sesame seed with red bean paste inside. Umami delights. Tickling my senses and coaxing me to sleep on the long winding hills past Marin City. In fact, I really had to shut my eyes since the turns were making my head reel.
We found our way to the National Monument. The great cathedral for the immortal tree, of the immortal trees. Always, sempre.
The woods were truly stunning, familiar, foreign; immediate, far away. Later, at the beach, I sat cross legged and meditated on it all - and the biting wind - and just the idea of warmth to keep me from jumping up and waving my arms around for the rush of blood, until we packed up and found a little diner in town with jazz music playing. It was a duet, a bass and a piano. Children were flitting around playing games. I could hardly notice anything, except for the curl-your-toes Zinfandel, the bursts-of-garlic oysters, the friends, of course, and those fuzzy, warm feelings.
After the dinner, as dusk even faded to night, we climbed up over those redwoods again. From the back seat, opening the window, and watching the towns far below twinkle, we also thanked God for a squeaky set of brakes that nonetheless performed with admiration.
The big, orange bridge, steel, living like a redwood, towering and guarding and comforting the people in that car and the magic, sweet bay city folk, living on dumplings and weed, it welcomed us back, and I was blown away with the fog and drifted down to foggy dreams as I waited for the morning sun.
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