Saturday Morning Beach Report

Big waves. Strong light. Sand bermed up, water pooling into salty lakes, debris etching the sand.

There were many birds taking advantage of the pools of water, and on the dry sand there were turkey vultures. Maybe they were displaced by the fires. Maybe they heard the crash of the waves and knew there would be carnage for them to feast on. Turkey vultures do show up on the beach from time to time--but they're not a regular feature.

Later this afternoon at home, I sat in my bedroom, reading, and the door to the hall was open.  I looked up and caught a beam of light sitting in the chair. The days are short, but the light is dramatic this time of year--both inside and out.

Happy Solstice, Everyone.

 Light keeps us from bumbling around lost. It lets us see what's really there. Light can tell us when to stop or go. It can warn us or warm us. Light shines through the eyes of those we love and shines out of our eyes into their hearts.

Channel Islands Harbor Parade of Lights

Last night's sunset with the Christmas lights that  finally went up on my patio.

Light warring with darkness at the beach this morning

Light coming in through the window of my mother's old room, illuminating her favorite Christmas decorations.
Note the set of identical twins.

Tomorrow the days grow longer.

The Coming of the Light

Solstice sunset with Buffleheads

Suddenly it's here, this tide-turning solstice where daylight inches its way back to us. For the first time ever, the months of darkness didn't seem to matter to me. But not necessarily for the right reasons. The past month I've rarely gone out of the house in the dark since it's impossible to leave my mom alone. And I've kind of had my own dark mood going on, so the dark outside was just one big meh. It's only just now, a couple of hours before the calendar flips to tomorrow that I even realized it was the solstice. Which is a round about way of saying that the darkness didn't really get to me this year the way it has in the past. And even if it was for the wrong reasons, it seems okay in a way.

Here's what's different:

I've gone to bed really early and actually gone to sleep many nights before 9:00 p.m. Supposedly, this is what humans are meant to do when the days are short. It certainly has felt right to me. And by going to sleep so early, I'm always up by sunrise which is just plain good for the soul.

Also, I'm not drinking any alcohol unless there's someone else here in the house with my mom and me. So that means no drinking Sunday through Thursday usually. Why has it been so damn hard for me to grasp the fact that alcohol is a depressant and just plain not good for me when I am struggling?

When grief is a big thing in your life, the smaller challenges seem, well, smaller. Or I suppose they could seem bigger...so the fact that they don't is really good, right?

So here I am sitting in my living room in the dark, the Christmas tree doing its job as a symbol of light and life. M put up our outside Christmas lights this weekend and they are casting a lovely glow on the patio and the lighted tree is reflected in the patio window, making it seems as if it's both places at once. It's unbelievably pretty and quiet here. Well, my mom's in her room shouting in her sleep, but as unsettling as that might seem, she is not shouting in pain, she's just dreaming.

Detail of our Christmas tree with the snowflakes my mom has crocheted

So I'm content and happy. Seizing one of those rare moments when I am actually able to grasp for more than a second that I'm responsible for creating that for myself. That there's light inside me all of the time and that light is not at the mercy of the sun.

I'm really pretty thrilled at the way that everything has worked out. That I was dumped by the ex-husband and got to meet Dan. That my mother came to live with me and has spent two and a half years here in this beautiful place watching the birds and getting to spend more time with my daughters and my son and his family. And that we'll all be together over the holidays. Well, not Dan. But yes, him too in a way. His light still shines. I can see it.