I would say it has not been the best week, on a local or global level. On Wednesday evening, two cyclists were killed in San Francisco in separate incidents involving reckless driving. The following day, a majority of people in my home country stuck two fingers up (the slightly milder British version of the middle finger) at politicians who have generally disregarded them for years, as well as at the rest of the continent, and, really, the rest of the world.
I was surprised how reading about the vote gave me such a sinking feeling. Perhaps it was a sense of how long this is going to take to unfold enough to be able to see what the consequences actually look like. Reading about the deaths gave me a sinking feeling on a more immediate level, knowing that there is little one can do in those circumstances if you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Since my Friday morning was unusually free, I went out to ride again. In the city some fog was lingering; the closer I got to the bridge, the thicker it was. If I lived in the Presidio, and did not think to go elsewhere, I can imagine how easy it would be to imagine that the fog went on forever. Once across the bridge, the blue sky seemed almost endless, until I was back down by the ocean at Stinson Beach, where it was rising delicately off the lagoon. Once again, though, I climbed out of it on the Bolinas-Fairfax Road, and up on Tam, the breeze felt very warm. I fell in with a couple of riders on the seven sisters; since one of them turned out to be English, we had a little mither at the turn of events, and then we set off down the mountain at our own speeds.
I was never much of a daredevil at the best of times; now I am even more cautious. I still try to take descents skilfully, and have learnt that, though it may seem contradictory, relaxing around corners can help navigate them more smoothly.
Then, at Four Corners above Muir Woods, I was turning left off the Panoramic, where there is no stop, and I had a clear road, only to almost collide with a person who had turned out of the line of people waiting at the stop to drive up the opposite lane to make a left turn. I met him with a volley of swear words, but decided against chasing him down to ask what on earth he had been thinking. One of the waiting drivers commiserated, and I went even more carefully the rest of the way home.

In San Francisco, the solstice does not seem quite as notable as it does in my more northerly native land, where the longest days are indeed long – though I imagine the current wet weather back in England is not going to stir many thoughts of lazing outside on lovely mid-summer evenings. On Monday, as I had last week, I took off early for a short ride, this time my usual loop around the Marin Headlands. I saw other early riders, some happy photographers, runners, a tiny rabbit, a giant spider’s web, a lone quail by the roadside, and of course the incomparable views of the bridge and the city surrounded by mountain and water. It seemed a long way from a typical Monday morning rush-hour commute. Even drivers speeding through Golden Gate Park on my way back did not dampen my joyful mood. My legs felt good when I was making an effort, and the sunny warmth felt relaxing.

The other day I followed a link to a meditation website, and was struck at the images they were using – I don’t  wish to single them out, and this musing is really a continuation of what I wrote about a few weeks ago. Here is a screenshot of the front page:

The other pictures on the right are also of the kind of nature scenes we typically find relaxing, and my first thought was, well most of us don’t live in places like that (somewhat ironic considering I was just back from Tassajara). I get that no-one would ever illustrate their meditation app with a frantic city scene, and yet for most of us, that is our common experience. I also reflected on how I have been taking people to find the quiet places in San Francisco for Roaming Zen, and on the quote I used recently. I do believe that people need to get away, to be immersed in nature as an essential reminder of what it means to be a human in the world, but our practice is not going to be very vital if it depends on stillness and wide-open scenery.  In this sense, meditation at City Center was always a valuable experience; there was always some kind of noise outside – of course even at Tassajara, it is possible to get irritated by the morning chorus of blue jays squawking over their breakfasts.

My favourite zen equation these days is ‘equanimity = resilience + flexibility’. Equanimity is not just setting up blissful ease by listening to waves lapping on a lake shore, but being equally okay listening to the roaring of the garbage trucks. My ride on Monday was joyful, but I will also ride on cold days, wet days, days when my legs feel heavy and riding up a hill is an effort; at a certain point, we need to be able to integrate everything into our practice, and not simply set up boundaries of what we can manage and not manage, what is ‘peaceful retreat’ and what is ‘the rest of our life’.