"Portrayal: Stream of Consciousness"

Agave plants, native to Mexico and Southern California, thrive in San Francisco's Salesforce Park with a stunning view of the Financial District.

At last, I am back into Painted People. How many times have I said that, only to falter after a few weeks of progress? But it’s that time again — the air is sweet and warm, and the bees are back, flinging themselves at my window. They’re trying to get into the loft because they smell sweetness. Not pollen from the gardens and woods where they belong, but something from me. Full of myself, I know. But sometimes one is that way when one is feeling well, when the cold breath of winter no longer feels right in the spring.

The grass is turning green. A fly has already made its way into the apartment because I left the terrace door open. That’s something to think about in spring and summer — insects. Annoying but necessary insects.

The coffee is perfect this morning. I mixed two blends together and added the tiniest hint of cinnamon, the way I remember Jack Strang doing it in San Francisco. The aroma takes me back to those mornings when the breeze felt just right. Today the breeze is coming through the screen again, keeping the bees outside, and it feels like a small blessing.

Speaking of Jack… I ran into another Jacks — yes, Jacks with an “s” — the one I met on the bus coming back from White Plains. He remembered me, still fidgety, still kind. This time he needed help with a necklace, a cross he couldn’t clasp. I closed it for him, and he was forever grateful. We promised to see each other again, which is more than likely in a town you can walk from one end to the other in less than an hour. Along the way, you end up running into everyone you know, have met, or have seen in passing. It’s a small city, so the faces you encounter are always the same as yesterday.

The persistent buzz of bees reminds me that nature is waking up again. And as I sip my coffee, my mind drifts — to New York City, to Charleston’s past when it meant something more than it does now, to the people who flicker in and out of my life like scenes from a film.

Sometimes these memories come in the middle of the night. But more often these days, I find myself at prayer. Maybe that thirty days of fasting did something to me, left something behind. A quietness. A clarity. A sense that prayer is more important than all these things — the bees, the breeze, the coffee, the memories — and yet somehow connected to them all.
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At last, I am back into Painted People. And maybe this time, the momentum will hold.

On North Division Street in Peekskill, being such a small city in terms of land, you’re bound to run into a familiar face—just like here at Whiskey River.