Alvarado Street, Monterey, California
If this summer afternoon had a frame around it, the bright sun and cool breeze would become some kind of art, with the feel of a cat’s warm fur as she presses her head into your palm.
The well-worn trail led deep into the canyon. The encounter starts with a sound or the stunning absence of sound, the constant rumble of the city, the resonance of nature, or the rush of your breath. Sight comes next: branches and trees, layers upon layers, glowing green in the evening sun, stark against the white bark of a sycamore tree. Their leaves twist in the breeze with a rush like water over a fall. In the distance, a hawk draws attention to the dappled light as a smattering of crows fly by in the ever-changing naked instant. Without thought, actuality seems to make sense, providing comfort in the womb of the canyon.
The answer appears to lie in no question, like a caged bird with an open door. The idea excludes thought but contains the mind, excludes desire with freedom in the balance. All senses magnify; sight feels like a private movie, a handheld camera to point anywhere with all the natural sounds in perfect accord. Forward, always forward.