After three days of still heat, a once-or-twice-a-year heat spell in SF, the wind rushes over the hills this evening, tearing into treetops and bringing cool ocean air to my nostrils. I sit outside reading a colleague’s paper for class, trying to concentrate on organizational theory and school district reform. Instead, the wind whips my hair and I am inspired to take pictures. It’s strange how self conscious I feel doing self portraits.Do I really look like that when I’m alone? But like blogging, I find creativity in it, possibility in seeing these angles of myself, unfiltered, risky.
Earlier, I did the last of the laundry from the weekend, turning socks inside out and looking wistfully at the Grand Canyon dirt still crushed in their threads, already missing the trails, the sudden views of the canyon, the happiness I feel in nature. I hope they stain, that spots of red dirt remain ground in their fibers, a reminder to go outside, hike more often.
Now the sun has fallen behind the peaks and the night air sets in. I come inside, cold now, my skin tingling and alive from the wind and cool fall air.