Unlike seasons in Chicago, San Francisco’s went unrecognized. The change of seasons was subtle for me with only the calendar months marking their transitions.
January in San Francisco can be a beautiful weather month for someone from Chicago. It’s chilly but nothing a few layers of clothing or a jacket can’t remedy. Locals would say, “Oh, the rains this time of year. Won’t it ever stop?” But I saw the sun and the sky perennially blue. I would read the Sunday paper while sitting on a bed of green grass at the Palace of Fine Arts with Enya singing softly in my ears from a tape player in hand. The sapphire sky was without obstructions, enabling the sun’s warmth to bloom pink in my cheeks.
When I would walk home from work, the darkness of winter accompanied me. Since I couldn’t discern much, if any, of my view along the way, I relied on my senses. I smelled the bay water and heard the lapping of the waves rolling in and clashing against the rocks along Ghirardelli Square. I felt the refreshing cool damp air on my face and was delighted that my skin was being nourished at this time of year instead of scaly white patches from the dry Midwest winter. The lights of the Golden Gate and the East Bay bridges were my guide where dots twinkled against a dark and even darker shaded backdrop. The quiet and serenity was my meditation. My filled senses kept me company as I was not alone in darkness but surrounded in gratitude.