branches up, roots down

I go religiously to the Alemany Farmer’s Market on Saturdays. I’ve been going for decades now. Farmer’s markets have sprung up all over the city, but I am faithful to Alemany. It now has it’s share of “foodies”, of which I have to be one of the first, but it remains wildly diverse, a relic of the San Francisco I refuse to let go of. I’ve been a Pagan since my early twenties. It was then, after my father’s suicide and the death a beloved cousin, that I moved to a small town on the Oregon coast. Recognizing the cycles of the moon and the turning of the tides became a lifeline as I moved through the shadowland of grief.   When I got sturdier, I moved to San Francisco.   It has been here that for most of my adult life I celebrated the turn of the wheel at public rituals. The days of public ritual are past, but the farmer’s market remains. Here, I celebrate the first asparagus and rejoice during the brief weeks that asparagus, fava beans, and cherries are all in season. ...

  “It's a highly unusual May.”   The nature guide repeats this phrase several times during our excursion near Ketchikan. Most of the clothes packed for this trip up Alaska's inner passage have gone unworn - no need for the wool sweaters, down vest, or fleece jacket. It's t-shirt and flip-flop weather. Bald eagles soar overhead, waterfalls tumble down granite cliffs into the glittering sea, otters and seals scamper wetly, and every shade of green seems represented. The beauty of this balmy day is indisputable.   Enjoy it while we can. It's a familiar feeling now, this mix of primal joy for the sunny clear day and abstract terror of what it signifies. I live in San Francisco, where the occasional fog keeps up a semblance of green in a state of aching drought.   But the sunny days in San Francisco are increasing. More of our days have become like this one, on the small boat steering along the coast of the Alaskan Tongas Rainforest with the sun shi...