Journal Entry~ San Francisco

I'm back after a bit of a hiatus. 

Been traveling quite a bit this year 

 finally somewhat post-Covid,

and it's not as easy to write on the road as one might think. 

At least not for me. 

I've been going back and forth between ideas for the new novel

(or trying to sketch it out)

and my memoir. 

I reread a journal entry from my memoir notebook this morning 

that I'll share further down the page. 

When I was 12, my mother moved my sister and me, against our will, 

to San Francisco for five years. 

In our younger (read: less wise) days,

we tend to spend a fair amount of time blaming our parents for our shortcomings. 

(Again, can't speak for you, but I did.) 

While I felt I had plenty to blame my mother for,

as I was entering San Francisco one day not long after my mother died,

in the middle of crossing the Bay Bridge

admiring the gorgeous skyline of my favorite City, 

it occurred to me that I had not considered that I had her to thank 

for this stunning, uber-cool, sparkly, knock-your-socks-off City. 

My every bit of love for it, every memory, 

my almost painful feelings of nostalgia and missing it

and the feeling of coming home and going on vacation at the same time

every single time I return. 

I had her to thank for all of it. 

And I will never be able to thank her enough! 

Entry:

"… It was no mistake. She was yours for a reason. You chose her just as she chose you. You were each other’s gifts. You were her gift to her world, the essence of herself to live beyond her limited time. She was your painful and difficult yet chosen, highly necessary and magical gift. Your gift to yourself.

… She gave you San Francisco, which means every single memory, person, feeling, thought you have about it. She gave them all to you. All the love for it. 

Jasmine (the 4 yr old who lived next door and became your first paying babysitting job), that adorable little soul who barely remembers you now, but you will never forget. 

Ghirardelli Square. Golden Gate Park. Union Square.

Riding up and down with her in the glass elevators of the St. Francis Hotel. 

Sundays on Mt. Tamalpais (Family Day- which we didn't want but Mom insisted on) with our blankets in the grass, French bread and Jack cheese, our comics and books and THE most stunning views of the City ever. 

  Liz. Which also means your first painful death experience in this life. She gave you that too. And she was there for it and comforted you and took care of you afterward.

… Land’s End with your favorite gorgeous, heartbreaking views of the Bay. 

 The haunting Marin headlands and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Picnics and family barbecues at Baker Beach.

Mountain Lake Park.

… Liz. And John and Patti and Susan and Wayne. Your unsurpassed high school view of the bridge.

… She gave you all these things and these people. Your love for Marin, your fond memories of holidays in Kentfield. Your dream of living there someday. Even your love for Pompeii, a gift from the book given to you by the patriarch (not long for this world) at those family gatherings. 

It all has to do with your heart, your writing, your evolution. 

There was absolutely no mistake... "

This entry came from a beautiful writing prompt from 

the writer and feminist theologian:

Meggan Watterson. 

The prompt is to connect with (think of) a being of your choosing:

Spirit, ancestor, a deceased loved one, a patron saint,

and begin the page with the phrase:

"What I want you to know is..." 

And write from there. 

Give it a try. 

You won't be sorry. 

(Photos copyright: Kirsten Steen) 

 

La Baguette Machines

My niece sent me this photo from a tiny village

near Bar le Duc in the Meuse area of France. 

It feels like a sign of the times. 

I thought maybe it was due to Covid 

but another friend saw my post about it on Instagram

and sent me this NYTimes article .  

Bakeries in France are closing at a sadly rapid rate

particularly in small villages. 

Young people aren't interested in the work's long hours

and many people are no longer eating as much bread. 

And when the boulangerie closes and people have to go elsewhere to shop for their bread, 

often the butcher (boucherie) or caterer (traiteur) next to them must close as well. 

As much as I hate this change, 

If I was in a hurry and had to drive miles to another village to buy bread

and one of these was within walking distance of my house,

guess where I'd sometimes get my bread. 

But also probably try to make sure I made errands in the next village 

and stopped at their bakery as often as possible. 

So many changes these days.

Another version of the Buy Locally idea. 

Have you shopped at your little neighborhood market lately?! 

(Photo credit: Victoria Delon)