'Frisco. home of the beats.

I have one regret in the past ... year or so. That doesn't mean I haven't made mistakes. I have. But I've tried to rebuild/repair bridges soon after I foolishly burn them. Sometimes this makes relationships stronger. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the relationships graduate to the 'grounded in grace' stage, which seems to be a humbling/genuine/i can fall alseep crying on your couch kind of thing. I've made lots of silly decisions, but I can own them and let them go. I have only one regret. I regret not buying a poetry book from a homeless man in San Fransisco. His name is Ricky Teague, and I regret not standing with him for ten more seconds. Truly! Ricky Teague, you'll see him if you go. A voice like a dove and rusty railroad tracks. He tried to sell me the 'street sheet', a 'Frisco newspaper written and edited by the homeless in San Fransisco. Incidentally, my visa had been cancelled and an ATM machine ate my debit card, so I was left in San Fran with the little money I had left from my last transaction a couple days previous in Arcada, Cali. Arcada, where Rachel and I were approached by a couple at a mall who invited us to their beach-side house a couple miles away. Those kind of things happen when you have your house on wheels behind you wrapped up in a pannier. Their porch and windowsills were covered in shells and the like. They served us garlic zuccini and chocolate. On the pier in Frisco I pulled out the 'street sheet' Ricky Taegue had given me - given me, I had no money - and we sat on the papers while sipping red wine and tasting fresh sourough and exquisite cheeses, watching the sun drop below the bridge where the strings of lights glowed across the bay. I packed my bike up in the papers after that, tucked them caringly around the spokes and chain. I didn't read them after that. The funny thing - about trips that don't happen unless you decide to do them - is that the memories grow better with age. I'de pack my life in a panier again in a second. The destination is important (Frisco. home of the beat poets), but the journey - oh, the journey. Seals outside the tent camped above tide pools just outside a cliffed village in the mist; night riding - the unity of teamwork; cycling amongst giants each handplanted by God on rolling mountains; friends on journey and a mission to somewhere.

And now. I struggle to find the balance between inclusivity and boundaries, trust and naivety, risking and guarding. 'Tis the journey. But where, where, am I going?