Breakfast

The hanging valley is bridged by chords of concrete and the traffic flows harmoniously along the California coast. The sheer drops of the cliffs and the crushing tides wash across the canvas of memory. There in the morning sun a guitar on a sign post. A connection to my friend. Being sad and serene in the same moment is gift. I am visually reminded that every day is made up of 6,400,099,980 moments. (See Dogen, Sobogenzo, chp 86). Each of these moments is an opportunity to accept or wrestle with our own will. The permanence of the valley underscores the futility. The presence of tsunami sirens underscores the impermanence of anything we know.

The day is woven into a tapestry by yellow lines, warning signs, cars and motor cycles threading the number one highway. Over the doorway at Fisherman’s Wharf a sign arches over two guitars. Somewhere between the opening set and the second set I tried discover what was so unsettling and so settling. The edges of the continent. The crushing tides. The strains of the Westphalia. The roar of engines. Each moment part of a cycle. The six hour cycle of tides, the centuries of shoreline erosion, the 3500 rpm of the engine — all recurring. Even this being born and dying cycle swings like times’ pendulum and then stops.

Walking along the pier at sunset I heard strains of “Follow the Sun” and walked toward the music. The melody made the connection. I was sad. I walked over to the guitar player and we shared story. He played his, I told mine. The music of nature rings the colours of the visual feast. Rudd visually captures the moments. The gifts of Grace in every moment. I was listening to memory. In memory I honoured those who could no longer play for me! The gift is that someone is always learning how to play!