A beautiful day for a beautiful view of our San Francisco departure
We drove to Palo Alto; flew from San Francisco; switched planes in Munich; landed in Milan; were picked up by Ramesha’s sister and his Dad; had lunch in Canobbio (the village near Lugano where he grew up); and finally arrived at our little apartment in Aldesago around 4:00pm Switzerland time.
Even through a car window on an overcast day our approach to Lugano is stunningly beautiful.
We slept very little on the plane, so the goal was to stay completely awake until at least 8:30pm so that we would be more likely to sleep through the night.
It’s now 9:30pm, so as soon as I finish this it’s lights out for me.
Supervisor Harvey Milk (left) and Mayor George Moscone
Yesterday I happened upon an article in the San Francisco Chronicle marking the 44th anniversary of the assassinations of San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and city supervisor Harvey Milk, who were shot and killed in City Hall by former Supervisor Dan White.
On November 27, 1978, I was a twenty-two year old college student living in San Francisco while majoring in music at SF State University.
I’ll never forget listening to the radio as I parked my car in front of my apartment in Park Merced and hearing Dianne Feinstein (President of the Board of Supervisors) announce that the Mayor and Harvey Milk had been murdered, followed by gasps and cries from the assembled reporters.
The shock was intense and visceral, compounded by the fact that it came only ten days after the Jonestown massacre — when more than 900 people, mostly San Franciscans, died at a compound in Jonestown, Guyana, when ordered by cult leader Jim Jones to drink poison. A squad of People’s Temple members was also sent to shoot an investigative delegation led by Rep. Leo Ryan, D-San Mateo, as it prepared to fly home from a nearby airstrip. Ryan and four others died on the airstrip, and 10 others were wounded.
I remember feeling as though the world had turned completely upside down. These things simply didn’t happen in a sane world. Or so I thought.
A certain innocence was lost that November in San Francisco.
On my walk this evening I was suddenly halted in my tracks by the smell of a sweet scent. I couldn’t identify where it was coming from, but it was unmistakable.
And I was just as suddenly transported to other moments, other locations, but the same experience…
There was the time I was waiting at the front entrance of the old SF Conservatory of Music building (at 19th Ave and Ortega) on a warm evening in late spring/early summer. There were a number of plants in bloom, all combining to make a subtle but overwhelmingly beautiful scent.
Then there was the smell of freesias blooming in front yards as my first husband, Randy, and I strolled the streets of Pacific Grove.
Freesias
And the first time I truly understood the phrase “sweet grasses” was on pilgrimage at Newgrange, in County Meath, Ireland. It was summer and we had been blessed with beautiful weather during our time in Ireland. It was my first time visiting England, Wales, and Ireland, and I had never experienced meadow grasses like that. The smell was intoxicating.
And, finally, when I lived in San Francisco, there was a certain kind of boxwood hedge that bloomed in early spring, but with really insignificant flowers. I would be walking along and — just like today — be suddenly halted in my tracks as I tried to locate where the amazing scent was coming from.
If I close my eyes I can almost recapture it, even after all these years.
Photo of fog rolling through San Francisco’s Golden Gate
We packed up and left Santa Barbara fairly early, so I didn’t have time to take pictures. But I deeply appreciated Santa Barbara’s parting gift of FOG!
I especially enjoying heading inland and looking back over the completely socked-in coast, while ahead of us were patches of blue as the sun came breaking through. That was my daily reality for decades in San Francisco and it was like a piece of my heart went, “Ahh…that’s what I’ve been missing!”
So, now we’re home; very happy we went and even happier to be back.
While reading various journal entries and random notes uncovered during my recent “dig”, I started to realize the full extent to which my life has flip-flopped every decade or so.
In 1993 I had been living in San Francisco proper for almost twenty years, and in the San Francisco Bay Area for my whole life. Although there was much I loved about SF, the issues of noise, traffic, parking, and freeways were constant.
San Francisco
By 2003 I had basically turned my back on my orchestral and freelance flute career in order to move to Assisi as part of an Ananda singing group. Living in the rural Umbrian countryside was a complete revelation. It was quiet and peaceful, and — now that I wasn’t in the midst of millions of other people — I discovered that I could actually tune into my own energy.
Umbria (Italy)
But by 2013 I was living in Los Angeles, of all places! Well, Swamiji had asked so we went, determined to serve Ananda and Master with as much joy and willingness as we could muster. But in LA the issues of noise, traffic, parking, and freeways were magnified a thousand fold.
Los Angeles
And now, we’re getting close to 2023, and I’m grateful to be living at Ananda Village. It’s not quite as serene of an environment as Umbria, but it’s totally quiet and tranquil compared to SF or LA! Not to mention that it’s populated by a very high percentage of saintly souls.
Ananda Village (the view from our front door)
It has indeed been a study in contrasts, but every contrast taught me valuable lessons and ultimately ended up making me that much more grateful for where I am and what I have.
Nayaswami Bharat gave a wonderfully inspiring talk this morning. At one point he shared about the palpable aura of love he felt in nature while hiking in a remote mountain valley, and it brought to my mind a somewhat similar experience I had many years ago.
Of course, the location was the opposite of remote! I was living in San Francisco; a basically cheerful and optimistic twenty-something student at San Francisco State University, finishing up my undergraduate degree in flute performance. Certainly I had my share of normal young adult angst, but hey! I was living in the city I loved; I was immersed in the music I loved; and I was more or less high on life.
One of the best things about living in The City was that it was absolutely fantastic for walking. I spent hours a day walking on Ocean Beach and through various neighborhoods, enjoying the moderate temperatures, the mystical fog, and the beautiful flowers and trees everywhere.
On this particular day, I was walking through the SFSU campus, enjoying the sunshine, and feeling good, when I remember being literally stopped in my tracks by a bunch of flowers.
I mean, they were just part of the campus landscaping, but something about them was so, well, vivid…! They were beyond beautiful, beyond “alive.” I just stood there for a while, marveling, and wondering.
Then I went on about my day, but it stayed with me. To the point where even now — close to forty years later — I can practically see those flowers — and feel that feeling — again. In fact, I believe I caught a glimpse of the truth expressed in this verse from one of Swami Kriyananda’s songs:
There’s joy in the heavens, A smile on the mountains, And melody sings everywhere. The flowers are all laughing To welcome the morning; Your soul is as free as the air.
Yes, I believe I had the good karma in that moment to (somehow!) open up and receive the joyous consciousness of those flowers. What a blessing.
…reminding me that — despite it being a major city — natural beauty was all around and readily accessible. And boy did I depend on it!
Lake Merced and Harding Park Golf Course were within easy walking distance of my apartment in Parkmerced, though I didn’t make it all the way around the lake every day (seeing as how it’s a distance of close to five miles)!
Then there was Golden Gate Park and Lincoln Park and Stern Grove and so many more! In fact, I just learned that San Francisco is the first city in the U.S. to have a park within a 10-Minute Walk of every resident. I can believe it!
Sutro Bath ruinsSutro ParkThe Cliff House from Sutro ParkGolden Gate Bridge with boat
Yesterday’s blog post brought back to me just how much I loved living in San Francisco…right up until the moment when I was completely done with San Francisco, that is (a story for another time, perhaps).
The twenty-odd years that I lived there encompassed some truly magical moments. Here’s another bit from the journal notes I found:
“It’s also rather shocking to realize that this was a major way that I took care of myself. I made time for me. I got out in the fresh air and walked all over and had time to think and reflect and just be. I would go out to the ocean and feel so nurtured by the waves and the surf and the sun. I had some powerful and transcendent moments walking in storms and feeling the elemental power flowing through me. It’s not something I can put into words but I remember that feeling and I remember how open and receptive I was.”
Ah, yes. San Francisco was a great city for walking. I walked through rainstorms and fog and bright sunny days; I routinely walked the length of Golden Gate Park to get to Ocean Beach; I would walk from the Inner Sunset to Lake St in the Richmond District for Quaker meetings; once a group of us walked from Park Merced up over Portola Dr, down Laguna Honda Blvd, over to 19th Ave and back to Parkmerced. Why? Because it was a nice day for a walk!
Probably my all time favorite walking destination in the City was the area around Land’s End, including the Cliff House, Sutro Bath ruins, and Sutro Park (the photos above show just how beautiful it was, and still is, I’m sure). Of course, there was also the bridge in the distance with boats coming and going underneath (have I mentioned how much I love boats?).
I haven’t been there in forever, but it still comes as a shock to read that Louis’ Restaurant is closing as the result of the pandemic.
During the many years I lived in San Francisco, the whole area of the Sutro Bath Ruins, Sutro Park, and Land’s End was my main “happy place.” I would spend hours walking on Ocean Beach or clambering over the ruins or sitting gazing out at the ocean, then head to the Cliff House or Louis’ or the Seal Rock Inn for breakfast.
Other times I would walk through Golden Gate Park or along the Great Highway to get there. I have so many precious memories of my time in San Francisco, although I can’t even begin to imagine living there at this point in time. Which is just as well, since the San Francisco of my memories most likely doesn’t even exist anymore.
Today I found myself remembering a period in my life when rather than being forced, I was motivated to get to bed early (as in midnight).
It was like this…
While I was finishing up my degree in flute performance at SF State, an acquaintance from the Quaker (Friends) meeting I attended recommended me for a rather particular job: the offices of the San Francisco branch of the American Friends Service Committee were located in a big beautiful mansion in the Inner Sunset, and they needed someone to do light housework and maintenance in exchange for a room and kitchen privileges at only $50 a month rent. Well, even in early-1980’s San Francisco that was like a miracle, so I jumped on it!
I had a sort of attic room on the third floor of the mansion, with a sweet little dormer window. I fixed it up and painted both the room and my bathroom. It was really like a haven to me.
Now, some of you will have never experienced what I’m about to describe — and others will have to think real hard to remember it — but at this time the only options for listening to music were record players, cassette tapes, and radio. And the way radio worked was you listened to what they played, when they played it. Period. No control or interaction whatsoever. Oh, and some stations, at least, weren’t on the air 24/7; they “signed off” at midnight.
That, in fact, was the case with KDFC, the classical radio station that I listened to. But their sign-off music was this wonderful, magical, exquisite piece of music that I loved soooo much that pretty soon I was hurrying to get ready for bed so that it would be the last thing I heard before I went to sleep.
Now I look back on that period of my life and oh! how I wish I could recreate a similar set of circumstances in present time. But it was such a unique and delicate balance… ….of something completely outside of my control, that… …made me feel so very good and uplifted, that… …I found it to be so compelling and desirable, that… …I willingly, and consistently, altered my behavior!
Not only is it impossible to replicate those magical circumstances, I can’t even identify the piece of music that had such an effect on me. Because it was the radio station’s sign-off music, they didn’t actually announce the title or composer. I think it might have been by Stravinsky, and I think it might have had something to do with a fairy or a princess or a kiss (!), but I don’t even know what gave me those ideas.
I’ve tried to research it, but you don’t find that sort of minutiae from that many decades ago any place online. After all, it was probably just handwritten on index cards or typed up on a monthly schedule. But I feel sort of wistful and melancholy when I think of it.
