Strong winds are currently whipping wild waves on a very full Lake Merritt. But despite days of atmospheric river, and the fact that it’s Christmas, the homing pigeons fly like always: another day, another few dozen laps around the north side.
I’ve never counted how many times they fly in circles—surely somewhere someone has? Like the well-loved loop of the lake, they too loop around, and around, and around… Suddenly the entire flock lands near me, standing shoulder to shoulder like good soldiers, their little beaks turned towards the wind, uniform grey breast feathers sparkling a little green and even red in the sun’s light. It’s a beautiful sight, rows and rows lined up like nutcrackers on a department store shelf.
Another beat and the flock is airborne again, and I’m unexpectedly in their path. Is it a holiday miracle or innate bird skill that prevents all those fluttering wings from colliding with me, head face arm body, everywhere? Do birds know it’s Christmas?
Either way, somehow, they pump hard and clear my 5’2” frame. I shake it off, though the nearby ducks and gulls seem unbothered, resting on the surface per usual, bobbing like baubles on a windy tree.
It’d be a typical December day, if there were people. But the streets and paths are almost empty; earlier I saw small congregations shuffling at Grand and Harrison (Christ the Light), Grand and Bay Place (St. Paul’s), and Lakeshore at MacArther (Our Lady of Lourdes). But the churchgoers are nowhere near this stretch of lake shore.
Here there’s only a few of us: the man running shirtless in spite of the cold, the person wrapped in 17 scarves walking a tiny animal wearing his or her very own tiny holiday sweater, and a guy standing below the Fairyland sign smiling to everyone, his red robe and matching red furry hat a seasonal match for his long grey beard, even as the adidas sweat pants give more East Bay than North Pole.
Around the bend, the ever-present Green Monster feels as sad and lonely as it always does, its spearmint green curves piled sideways like discarded gum mid spit. But today it fits, both in color (if your brand of holidays is a mid-century sea foam kind of viridescence) and vibe. We’re all here in our solitudes to look out at the lake, take a beat and sink into the near-empty surroundings.
Growing up, this wasn’t an outdoors holiday, or even a community one. Our small family convened each year in either the east or south bays to do the typical Italian-American things—food, presents, food, decorations, food, football, etc. And it was lovely, but isolating, our group of nine people in those four walls the entirety of the universe: no expanse of nature, no invitation to friends, no venturing out, no connecting with others.
But the family changed, as families do–grew, shrank, morphed. We still get together, telling the same stories and making the same meals (Feast of the Seven Fishes, highly recommended). But folks have migrated. So it’s a trek to get from where I sleep in this city to the places of loving family fun.
Some years back–having no children, no church, no reason for the season save tradition and a love of shellfish–I started taking a time out on Christmas to just be in my city. And it became a sacred ritual, a chance to sit and observe the holiday pace of this place before trekking to festivities elsewhere.
Every year it’s weird seeing Oakland so empty. Of course movie clichés tell us nearby Chinatown’s restaurants are full. And we know people gather in other places with their flocks in their four walls, celebrating (or just sitting together) on this day of national closure.
And similarly this year, as every year, Oakland’s crown jewel sits sparkling on, offering a place to soak in the beauty of our city. It’s a chance to be alone while also very much a part of a larger place.
The birds seem to understand this. Or to not care. It doesn’t really matter, their awareness of this special day. They serve as floating or flying witness all the same.