As I walked down the stairs to the platform, I could see the people getting on and off the trains, exchanging places like blood cells exchanging oxygen within the City's arteries.

A hundred people, a million memories.

A mother with two children, admonishing them to behave.

College students, art students, old men in a hurry to go somewhere, folks who seemed to have nowhere to go. A pregnant woman, looking pained with the exhaustion of carrying a living being.

The arrival of the trains is heralded by the whoosh of air they push ahead of them into the station, like the breath of mighty mechanical beasts burrowing beneath the City.

My train arrives and I get on board and soon the train is plunging beneath the bay, humming along like a well-oiled cog until it explodes into the cold, grey daylight on the other side.

The container cranes are running, a constant in-place ballet of commerce: lift, move, drop and then back to do it over and over again.

West Oakland is not the nicest neighborhood in the Bay, though I have been in far worse. Where we pass is industrial and run down, paint faded and peeling from houses that once resembled the painted ladies across the bay in the City. But I saw something spectacular there today. Each time I have passed before now has been in darkness, before or after the sun has set but I think the reason it caught my eye was because I had been reading about gardens earlier and maybe I was looking for them... Whatever the reason, it struck my eye, a brilliant splash of color nestled amongst the industrial buildings, a profusion of Red and Yellow flowers, carefully planted and tended, a spot of beauty in a dark and dreary world before the train plunged, once more, into the bowels of the earth, the shriek of the wheels a counterpoint to the rhythmic clickety-clack they made as the train rumbled along the tracks.

As we burst forth again I took a good look at the scenery. Green hills viewed across a wide serpent of highway, a streak of blue painting the sky between two large clouds with brilliant white tops lit by the sun and ominous grey bottoms pregnant with rain.

The Berkeley hills lie before the train, an obstacle to go around or over or, as this track does, through. I can see them looming closer until they swallow us whole and darkness descends again outside the windows.

The other side of the hills is a different area. More conifer trees using their roots to hold the dirt in place on the hillsides. The train races the cars that run alongside on the Interstate, knowing it cannot win because there is always a station ahead at which it must stop, never complaining, always doing it's job.

The sky is greyer here, framed by the hills rising up on every side. The train slows into a station and a ray of sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating my words as my fountain pen scratches over the paper.

The outside plunges into darkness as we go through the last tunnel and I get to my feet, shouldering the burden of books in my two backpacks, loaded down with words, some for work, some for pleasure.

As we reach my stop I let my eyes gaze out at the verdant accordion folds of rock that tell me I'm in earthquake country. I deliberately chose a seat that would keep my back to this sight and now I let my eyes slowly run over the pleats, following them until I come to Mt. Diablo, rising up. The clouds seem to just barely clear the peak and I can see rain from one cloud feathering the moutain like a lover's caress: gentle, cleansing, healing.

As I step out of the station I find myself bathed in sunlight while Mt. Diablo lies in shadow, a reminder of how small we individual humans are even as the City reminds me of how large we can be collectively.

I'm going to call the airline and see what the next flight home I can take is. I'm not heading home to chase anyone, I'm doing it simply because I've had to wear too many masks this week and I need to recharge my batteries. If the weather were supposed to be nicer, I might have tried to do that dancing on the Devil's mountain but as it isn't, I'm going to head back to familiar things that will recharge me.

This week has given me much to think about. Both AJ and M have made some comments that I need to consider long and hard but not today...not tomorrow and probably not even Sunday. But next week will be a week of thinking.

As for me and here and now, I believe the gods have told me what they needed to, now I just need to sift the wheat from the chaff to determine what it all means.

Goodnight, gentle readers.