A crusty on Haight Street asks me if I need any trees. I tell him “Yes, please! Give me the Douglas Firs. Give me some redwoods. Give me some relief. Some humble giants. That’s what I’m working towards. That’s what I live for.”
Another one a few blocks down asks if I want weed. I tell him about the scrub they cut down in the lot that they’re “turning into a farm” next door to me. Right now it looks like a giant mud pile compared to the subtle greenery it once was. I tell him I was worried, but the scrub jay still visits me. I hear his excited call first thing in the morning even before the engine of the bulldozer starts. I tell him about the other song bird I’ve noticed but not spotted yet who rises with the sun and continues throughout the morning singing it’s salutation to the new day happily and hopeful, sounding like a nightingale but displaced maybe not only from it’s normal scrub home into the tree in my neighbors yard but also from night and moon worship into day and the grand melody of being reborn.
An old hippy in a tie-dyed t-shirt asks me for some change. He’s got half a sandwich and a bunch of trash lying next to his bare feet. I give him what I’ve got but tell him I’m feeling pretty grounded. I’m feeling as steady as a mountainside with a glacier cliff face. All that alpine mind of a high yogi. There’s still change, but not as quickly. I got a couple dimes to my name, but that’s all you need when your dream is to soar like the red-tailed hawk of last week in Mendo county.
Ain’t nothing like meditating with the step of your feet. Place one foot in front of the other. All the other stuff follows.