This morning, I walked out the door to find a little bird with no eyes.

One socket was somewhat visible, and the other was covered with short, dusky contour feathers. Was she born this way, or had she been attacked? Several flight feathers were askew. I got quite close, and the bird just stood there.

I felt an inexplicable rush of sadness. I considered the Swainson hawk I had watched swoop over the building on Sunday. However natural the process, this thought was deeply unsettling. There must be something I could do.

I ran back into my kitchen with a sniffle and scanned the room. I picked through an open bag of granola for several sugary almonds. Then I dug last night's bread crusts out from the trash. Back outside, I gently placed the crumbs next to her. "Hello little bird," I cooed. She tilted her head askance, but did not touch my offering. Not even when I placed the almonds an inch from her feet.

She looked soft, something you would like to hold cupped in your palms. I considered touching her, but didn't. That would have been unnatural, I thought. I watched for a moment, then left for work feeling empty and helpless, with the image of her tilting her maimed right cheek etched onto my imagination.

Later that morning, I approached my office building and noticed two black labs on leash in the doorway. A large van marked "Guide dogs for the blind" was parked out front. The tall, dark poodle inside emanated the intelligence and reliability of sight. A golden retriever led its sightless owner briskly around the corner. The blind man had a deep bass voice and was engaged in an animated conversation that I could not quite catch. At least I thought he was blind. He was there with the dog.

Driving home in the evening, an interview came on the radio with a woman writing about going blind. She had not initially started writing on this topic. She had started writing about disappearing places, places of her childhood that were no longer there. Then everything started to disappear for her. As the degeneration of her retina progressed, her world began to resemble a tattered antique quilt, a patchwork of holes and faded colors.

The sadness from the morning was still with me. But as I listened, I heard the woman on the radio say that she would not go back and change what had happened. She was learning to delight in large shapes. She had recently replanted her yard with succulents, whose high-contrast spidery contours she still see. She now appreciated her tulips by touch, since the color no longer registered.

This woman would not want my pity. What about the man and the golden confidently turning the corner? We pity those, who do not have what we have. We try to give them the things that we assume they, lacking our perfection and wealth, would want.

Perhaps it would be better to ask.

What about the little bird with no eyes? What was that little bird feeling at the moment that my heart went out to her? Was her helplessness truly the source of my momentary despair? Or was it really my own helplessness, my inability to control the situation and intervene on her behalf?

One lonely sign stood to the left of the SR-24 onramp, "oaklandsingles.org.". As if the freeway experience of sitting in traffic, alone but surrounded by others, was not enough to call up the desires of uncoupled commuters.

I thought of the little girl I had just seen cracking herself up on the way to school. She was laughing so hard, that she fell down at the curb before crossing the street. It was not a hard fall, more like an intentional graceful tumble of a dancer. She picked herself up off the pavement and ran after her brother, her wispy black hair and melodious laughter trailing. A heavy-set woman with a tight pony tail and ruddy cheeks held a stop sign in the crosswalk. Her faced momentarily lost its severity, as the little girl and her candy pink backpack bounced on by.

Somewhere along the way, the child's sense of trust shifts to the other side of the balance -- the lack of trust that permeates adults, that has us driving by one another without so much as a look. I believe this to be true. Yet I smile at the commuters passing us in the right lane anyhow.

Prom dress lives

Sequins
Fall in neat rows,
Glinting like silver salmon
Just brought to the surface.
Wriggling under bright lights.

A closer look
Reveals watermarks
On creamy satin--
Sweat stains really.
I had forgotten.

People in My Neighborhood
carpool intersections, week of Jan. 9

Monday: She works for the Gap Global Color Team, matching swatches of color on wool from Ecuador, cotton from the Philipines, silk from India. All from different mills, run by people, made by people. It needs to be matching.

Tuesday: They work for an inventor and allow ideas to become reality. The purity of Skyy vodka was born from a hangover. The new thing will be postit notes -- of any length! And, of course, chocolate liqueur. It needs to be made.

Wednesday: She works for the state supreme court. Laughing about Judge Alito hearings. A good litigator, but this is better for the health. Love for teasing out the subtleties of the law. It needs to be decided.

Thursday: He works for a biotech group. Developing biotech software at a local college. Working at home a few days, there is time to volunteer. Help kids learn to read. Not all parents care about homework. It needs to be taught.

Friday: He works for a design firm. Capturing a company's vision in cartoon. Four people listening, drawing one picture for hundreds of employees to see. And understand? Raising two kids, not two boys, thank goodness. It needs to be communicated.

So many people and stories and needs. Yet how often do we find ourselves not knowing what to do? Strange that we're so reluctant to ask.

Day of the Week

for David



How is it

That having fallen from a cliff,

one may ask a single question:

'What day of the week is this?'

And know that all is well.

The magic of casual carpool
Image: SF in Jello by Elizabeth Hickok

Today I road with a gray-haired woman and her white-haired mother. Next to me in the carpool line was another rider, a middle aged Chinese American man carrying a neat black bag from HP.

The gray-haired woman driving asked if we had seen the sunrise. It had saturated the sky with an unearthly pink, "Alpenglow," she told us. "We used to call it sky blue pink," added her mother in a thick Jewish accent.

I had not arisen for the sunrise, but the woman quickly told us they were off to San Francisco's new De Young Museum for the first Tuesday free day. I attempted to make up for my morning lethary. "Isn't that exciting!" I exclaim. "I remember the first museum was somewhat unremarkable. What do you think about the new building?"

"Actually," said the gray-haired woman, "I think it's terrible. We used to go to the old museum all the time when I was growing up." She added, "I had looked into joining the opposition group, until it became apparent that the project was going to happen, regardless." I had spoken too soon.

I then turned to the man next to me. Did he have a good New Year celebration with family? Yes, with all four of us. Did he have children? Yes, grown. He talked proudly of his daughter, who had just graduated form UC Berkeley in microbiology. She had lived at home during her studies, and was now free to explore her professional options.

I then heard about his son. What should he do about financing his son's college education? He and his wife had talked it over. "Love your wife first, then your kids. But they are all a part of your team," he emphasized. "It is essential to teach your kids of how to create their own team by this example."

The decision: they would pay for 30%, and his son would be responsible for the rest. But only for the cost of eduction. "What do most people do?" he asked me. I was more cautious this time and responded that the decision depended on the needs of the individual family and the student.

His internal conflict unfolded. "There is a difference between needs and wants," he told me. Of course he would not let his son go hungry on the streets. "But it is necessary to teach your children true independence," he explained. "Independence means being able to make your own choices, managing your own money and taking care of yourself."

His daughter was smart. She had lived at home during college and paid for her own tuition and school costs. Now she didn't owe a penny. He had told her 'Our home is your home.' So what about the son... To pay it all? Our time was up.

I looked out the car window at the strip of sidewalk between towering office buildings and stepped out of the car. I looked back at that window, an entrypoint into such different lives.

December 31, 2005.

A thought from Quaker Meeting, while sitting with my mom and Maneesh.

My grandmother is getting older. She is still very mentally able, but is more frail and having difficulty walking. I always worry before I see her that her personality may have changed. She spent her years actively engaging the world: a total "doer."

Raising four kids (and vegetables and chickens and sheep) on the "gentleman's" farm that her husband was too busy to care for. Dominating dinner conversation with lessons of what one should do and be. Going along on any adventure, be it travels to Africa wildlands or canoeing on Adirondack whitewater. And---I am reminded by a recent story about my grandfather's penchant for bushwacking with his family through impenetrable brush---always painting every unpleasant moment in a positive light.

At our family Christmas gathering, I saw her sitting alone, hunched over like a small bird amidst old-fashioned armchair stuffing, and went over to visit. I noticed her gaze was focused outwards, away from me. I started in with an inane cocktail party question, but was interrupted.

"Isn't it marvelous?!" she laughed, emphasizing the red tinged wrinkles of her lips. She was observing the younger kids, who were ignoring their parents' request to help out with dinner. She took great pleasure in their defiance. I smiled and stopped myself from saying anything further.

Earlier, I had regarded her, sitting quiet and alone, with pity. Ridiculous. She, at 90, was the indisputable matriach of this family. Whether she was talking garrulously at the head of the table or quietly in the corner, she was the same person, taking part in everything around her and choosing, as always, to enjoy herself.