Posted 18/7/2021- Reflections from 191 Haight Street — The Earthquake, a Birth, and a Love Beyond Beauty

 

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Posted 18/7/2021
Reflections from 191 Haight Street — The Earthquake, a Birth, and a Love Beyond Beauty

After many years, thanks to Facebook, I was able to reconnect with an old friend—a beautiful woman full of vitality and joy—Elyze Stewart. She had been one of the residents at 191 Haight Street in San Francisco, where I met my late wife, Nancy. That building, an old Georgian apartment complex on the corner of Octavia and Haight, was introduced to me by my Zen buddy David Carlson, who also lived there.

At the time, I was staying on Army Street at the junction of Mission and Army, in a room that was part of a converted Sears Roebuck building. It had been abandoned and transformed into artists' apartments and studios. I shared my space with another artist named Rory—his last name escapes me. Together, we hosted a show during the San Francisco Open Studio Exhibition.

It was in that very building that I experienced the Loma Prieta Earthquake of 1989.

The quake struck on October 17 and became the most powerful to hit the area since 1906. It claimed 63 lives, injured thousands, and caused an estimated $6 billion in damage. The Bay Area’s infrastructure was hit hard—the Cypress Street Viaduct collapsed, killing many, and a section of the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge fell. All of this happened just before the third game of the World Series at Candlestick Park, turning it into what would be known as the “Earthquake Series.”

I had just returned home from my job as a produce buyer for a company called Del Tomaso. Exhausted, I collapsed onto my bed—only to be jolted by popping sounds, like gunfire. I rushed toward the door, and just as I reached it, something dropped from the ceiling with a loud thud, fracturing the concrete floor. Overhead, the exposed pipes bounced like snakes, dislodging nail hooks one by one. I stepped into the main doorway frame just as the lights went out.

A woman clung to me in the darkness, apologizing as the sound of a freight train seemed to barrel through the streets outside. Then—silence. A child cried in the next room, and a phone rang. When the lights flickered back on, the woman who had held on to me exclaimed, “That’s my phone!” She returned moments later, stunned—her friend in Tokyo had called to say the Bay Bridge had collapsed and the marina was ablaze. All of it had been broadcast live by the Goodyear blimp, which had been filming the baseball game.

Instead of resting, I decided to walk to 191 Haight Street via Mission Dolores, just to witness the damage and check on friends. Aside from car alarms and a sense of chaos in the air, the area wasn’t too badly affected.

I was especially close to David Carlson and had visited him often. It had been his birthday the day before, so I brought him a lithograph of Yamantaka, one of the wrathful deities in Tibetan Buddhism—protectors of the Dharma. It was there, in that living room, that I saw Nancy for the first time. She looked worn out, almost defeated, and I remember vividly the feeling that rose within me. I heard my mother’s voice in my head say:
"You’ve always chased beauty on the outside. Try to see the beauty within this time."

That moment wasn't love at first sight—it was compassion at first intention. I decided then that I would bring out the beauty from within this woman. Perhaps it sounds egotistical or even narcissistic now, but I say this with honesty and respect: I loved her for who she became. Nancy turned out to be an angel, a mother to my children, and my partner—until illness claimed her too soon.

Perhaps she had similar mixed feelings when she saw me for the first time. I’ll never know. But we were married about a year later at the Green Dragon Zen Temple. She was already carrying our son, whom she gave birth to just ten days later.

As I’ve often written, "the Devil is in the details," so I won't delve too deeply into the nature of our relationship. Suffice it to say, I loved her—and I believe I succeeded in drawing forth that inner radiance I saw hidden within her the first time we met.

Spiritual teachings often advise against dwelling on the past. Yet I find healing in revisiting these memories. It’s a kind of catharsis—a way to integrate and release. I was never perfect. I made mistakes. But I’ve always tried to be present and fully committed to the moment. Now, in my later years, I feel no regrets. Everything, for better or worse, was part of the path that led me here.

And so I continue writing—not out of vanity, but to gather the fragments of my soul. To turn all that I’ve lived—joys and wounds, triumphs and losses—into grist for the mill, compost for new and wholesome thoughts. If anyone ever asks why I write so much about myself, this would be the answer.