I get here and and just wait for the magic to happen. Sometimes the magic manifests itself in obvious ways like the sudden appearance of a river otter or the piercing cry of an osprey as it circles the sky above the river. Quite often though the magic of this place is felt in subtle and barely perceptible ways. Today for example we’re on the cusp of the autumnal equinox and I can feel the magic of seasonal transition all around me. The angle of the sun, the quality of the light and the difference in the breeze are all undeniable signs of change.

The transition from summer to autumn is one of my favorite times of the year. The blistering heat, drought and relentless sunshine gradually give way to cooler temperatures, cloudy mornings and eventually the welcome rains. Last year at this time our area was covered in a suffocating blanket of toxic smoke as terrifying wildfires were once again burning out of control and threatening our community. Weeks on end of relentless smoke, fire and blistering heat obscured the seasonal change that was going on all around us. By the time the smoke cleared and the fires were finally under control, it had already become autumn.

I feel so much gratitude today. At least for now, no fires are burning nearby. The sky is robin’s egg blue, not apocalypse orange and the air is so clean! I fill my nostrils with the  sweet, subtle smells of earth, river and forest. After the horrific fires of the past four years I deeply relish and will never again take for granted how wonderful it feels to breathe cool, clean air.

The river is barely flowing. It acts like a mirror: the reflection of the surrounding trees is broken only by the whisper of a breeze that ripples across the water, the occasional jump of a fish and a few early autumn leaves that corkscrew their way down to the surface. The branches of the trees shimmer and wave; some have already begun to surrender their leaves to the timeless march of seasonal change. Many will soon be bare, only to burst forth once again into the glittering greens of spring.

Ravens and turkey vultures wheel overhead, black chevrons against the blue. The screech of a red shouldered hawk and the chatter of a Stellar’s Jay temporarily break the silence. Fallen leaves swirl slowly in the eddy before me. There’s a resident squirrel here, it’s “whoop, whoop” voice is either a welcome or a warning. The rattle of a belted kingfisher tells me that this diminutive aquatic predator is active nearby.

There are powerful forces at work here. You could call it God or magic or whatever you like. Summer is dissolving into autumn. I breathe it all in and let the magic of seasonal change flow through me. Today is truly a gift and I’m not letting it slip by unnoticed.

You don’t need no gypsy to tell you why you can’t let one precious day slip by.

Greg Allman

I was awakened at 1:20 this morning by the hypnotic notes of wind chimes; one deep and sonorous, the other high pitched and tinkly. The wind had picked up, something was happening.

The rain began slowly at first, barely a whisper as the drops fell through our pear tree. It gradually increased in speed and intensity, the whisper became a woosh and was joined by the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the plastic roof that covers our deck. I wanted to wake my wife up but her rhythmic breathing told me she was in a deep sleep. I wanted to throw off my shorts, run outside and do a dance of gratitude to the rain gods for this unexpected gift; but instead I just lay there in the darkness and pinched myself to make sure that this was no dream. As quickly as it began, the rain subsided. For the next hour however, this pattern repeated. Wind chimes sing, whisper, woosh, rat-a-tat, silence. And the smell! There is no sweeter aroma on our blue planet than that of the Earth as it drinks in the first quenching raindrops after a long and parching drought. It’s the smell of hope and renewal, the perfume of gratitude. The dirt, grass, flowers and trees all letting our a chorus of “thank you.”

Twelve hours later I sit and write. Nothing is as it was yesterday. The leaves of our fruit trees glow with a freshly scrubbed brilliance. A crisp, clean smell permeates everything. The haze and smoke has been cleansed from the air, leaving the sky the deepest of blues that bathes our community in peace and comfort. The breeze is in absolutely no hurry, it finds its voice in the music of the wind chimes.

The quality of light has suddenly shifted. Seemingly overnight summer has finally given way to the first glimmer of autumn. Is the drought over? Unfortunately it will take more than a magical late summer rain shower  to put this drought behind us. But for at least this brief moment, the Earth and all living things is letting out a collective sigh of relief.

The first thing that strikes me as soon as  I settle into my seat in Section 315 at Oracle Park is just how far I can see. The Easy Bay hills and its’ million dollar homes are clearly visible, miles away across San Francisco Bay. When conditions are just right the windows of these houses are ablaze with the rays of the setting sun. The massive dinosaur like cranes at the Oakland waterfront loom in the foreground. Just beyond the outfield walls, watercraft of all types, from kayaks to container ships, ply the cobalt blue waters of the bay. Like brushstrokes on canvas, white caps appear when the wind kicks up.

A massive scoreboard towers over centerfield. The words “Oracle Park” are framed by an arc of nine pennants that dance and dive in the wind. Each pennant represents one of the Giants’ World Series championships. Light towers stand like castle parapets on either side. The players, already larger than life, appear almost God like when their images are projected onto the video screen. To the left of the scoreboard is a giant sculpture of a 1920’s vintage baseball mitt and next to that a green Coca Cola bottle inside of which is a slide. During a game kids can begin at the mouth of the bottle and slide all the way to the bottom.The bleachers and outfield stands are a constantly shifting multicolored mass of humanity which stands, sits and sways to the polyrhythms of the game.

And the grass! How do I begin to describe the impossibly green grass of a major league baseball field? To this day, the memory that sticks with me from my first visit to Yankee Stadium as a child is just how green the grass was. Up until that day I had only watched baseball games on an 18” black and white tv set.  I had no idea grass could be that green. Looking out onto the field today I see the green of an Irish hillside after a quenching rain.

The infield dirt is the rich brown of a freshly plowed Iowa cornfield, the bases perfectly, brilliantly white squares marking the three corners of the infield. The pentagon of home plate is where it all begins. During a game, the umpire keeps the plate clean with the occasional swipe of his pocket whiskbroom. The foul lines radiate out from here, arrow straight and terminating at the base of bright yellow foul poles which rise nearly to the top of the upper deck.

And the sounds! The crack of the bat, the snap of ball on leather are grace notes in the music of a baseball game. The crowd noise ebbs and flows like waves on the beach, rising from a whisper to a scream and back again as the game unfolds below. The explosion of ecstasy as a game winning homerun sails into the stands, the collective groan when a Giant strikes out at a pivotal moment in the game. My favorite sound? The timeless voice of Tony Bennett. The stadium’s PA system plays Tony’s signature tune I Left My Heart In San Francisco after every Giants victory. Tony croons, seagulls wheel above the field, swirling winds lift random food wrappers into the sky, and I file out with the rest of the crowd into the cool San Francisco night.