The changing light at San Francisco                         is none of your East Coast light                                           none of your                                                                 pearly light of Paris The light of San Francisco                                                 is a sea light                                                                       an island light And the light of fog                                     blanketing the hills                         drifting in at night                                      through the Golden Gate

~ Excerpt from “The Changing Light,” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Early morning departure, smooth as can be, a goodbye with Frank at the airport. A swift and easy flight; starting a new book, a memoir by a reader of this blog, Nicola Mendenhall, Fear, Folly and Freud, and I am very quickly engrossed. Also, listen, again, to the last three chapters of Jung’s “Memories, Dreams & Reflections,” rabidly taking notes about his thoughts on the here and the hereafter. I’m landing before I know it. So so fortunate to be here in San Francisco with my friend, being in her home in Cow Hollow and walking miles and miles around the city as she showed me around. Fog over the bay and the bridge, beautiful. A wonderful walking workout! Up and down the hills and stairs, and some time in the Presidio. . .before bed we sat and meditated together, our breathing in the darkened room rising and falling in synch––the satisfying silence following deep conversation.