The walks come when they will, when I wake up and make my way to the beach. The tides have their own rhythms, drawn from moon and sun and gravity.
When I stroll the beach, I’m part of the elements, pulled into their orbit, at one with sand and sea.
Time passes slowly. Eternal time, at least for an hour or two.
Today at 4:51 p.m., the northern hemisphere of our planet officially enters its hottest season. It’s the earliest solstice in 228 years, they’re saying, since George Washington was president.
I’ve been thinking of George Washington lately, what with the discovery of 35 bottles of preserved cherries recently found at his home, Mount Vernon. Now I’ll think of him again, enjoying the longest day of the year, perhaps in Philadelphia, then the capital of these United States. A few months later, he will deliver his farewell address.
But back to the solstice, which is early this year because of leap year and our imperfect calendar. I could have waited one more day for it — savored the anticipation — but there’s no way to stop a celestial body when it has made up its mind.
And so I prepare to drain as much daylight and happiness from this day as I can. It’s the longest one; it can spare it.
(A favorite sunrise shot, the beach at Chincoteague, April 2016.)
It happened regularly and would have happened today, which is both Mother’s Day and Dad’s birthday. I would make the trip out to Kentucky then, figuring the confluence gave me two reasons to visit.
I always felt a bit bad for Dad on those days, worrying that the luster of his special day was dimmed a bit by having to share it with Mom. But Dad didn’t seem to mind.
Now I have so many reasons to revel in this day, which celebrates both my parents and on which I will see or hear from my own precious daughters and grandchildren.
It’s a confluence all right.
It’s Leap Day, a bonus, a gift, an intermittent reminder that we live in a universe with rules of its own. Yes, we can parcel our annual passage around the sun into 365 tidy intervals, but there will be hours left over, almost six of them. Adding an extra day every four years keeps our calendars in sync with the seasons.
This year I’ll experience fewer of these extra hours. Jet travel will erase them.
Still, it’s not a bad way to celebrate Leap Year: by leaping into the future, embarking on a journey, landing in a place I can scarcely imagine but will soon (I hope) see.
(Lisbon is our first port of call, but only to catch a connecting flight.)
So we have finally come to the end of January, the longest month. I’m convinced it has at least 40 days. No wait, that’s Lent, and it will be arriving soon enough.
But today we’re in the clear. It’s February 2, and the groundhog has predicted an early spring. Based on the blooming snowdrops and hellebores, on the inch-long daffodil shoots in the front yard and the faint fuzz of bloom on the witch hazel tree in back, I’d say the groundhog’s prediction may be true.
According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association, though, the rodent has been right only 40 percent of the time. So I won’t pack away the hats, gloves and wool sweaters just yet. I won’t wish him wrong, either.
The new year is no longer the shiny new penny that shows up from time to time in my change purse. It has dulled around the edges. But when I look at the days proportionately — 18 out of 366 — 2024 is still in its infancy. A resolution stands a chance with odds like that.
Which is why I trundled out to a yoga class at 8:30 on the coldest morning of the year yesterday. Not just for the stretching and the strengthening, but also for the meditative aspect of it.
The trip was worth it. The class was small, and the instructor was experienced. She took us through a variety of poses and encouraged us to use our breath to get into and out of them. Studio lights were low, music was soft. When I left, the new year seemed young again.
(Ah, to be as limber as a baby! Photo: CCC)
January takes its time. It does not rush. It dawdles. It sashays down the runway of months with all the model moves. The turn, the pivot, the pout, the graceful sweep.
I don’t want to be rude, but get moving, Jan. We know your power — your winds, rain, snow and cold. We know what you can do. We know you have the days to do it in, too: a full complement of 31.At least we’re in the double digits now.
In my house the Christmas tree has come down, the decorations are boxed and shelved, the living room corner is dark and boring.
Spring has been known to peek around the edges of February, but there’s one long month in its way. A month that feels like it should already be over. I’m talking about you, Jan.
The tea has two more minutes to steep. I have things to do. Can I write a two-minute post? Yes, I can, though it will not be one of the best ones I’ve ever written. It may not even be mediocre. But it will be completed.
This is not the way I typically commune with the page, but I’m deadline-driven enough that when necessary I can put on some speed.
There’s only one thing about a two-minute post — or at least this two-minute post. It’s only about writing a two-minute post. Nothing else.
At 6:45 there is barely any light in the sky. Holiday displays mark the boundaries of street and yard. Our beacon, as they’re intended to be. As for other illumination, it’s still scarce. How easy it is this time of year to think that darkness is winning.
I look out my office window, can barely make out each tree trunk. But the longer I stare, the more individual limbs and branches begin to show themselves, a filigree of darkness against the lightening clouds. The sky is a blotter sopping up the light. Darkness still reigns on ground level; nothing distinct down there yet. No trampoline, garden bench or witch hazel tree. All of that is out of sight, a void. Instead, my eyes are drawn toward the sky, and toward a faint blush of pink gathering around the tree line.
My window faces south, so the big show is out of sight, to my left. I walk into the other room, peer out the window. Dawn barely underway. A smudge of red on the horizon. But walking back in here just 15 minutes later, what a change. Now I see the covered garden bench, the limbs of the witch hazel tree, the white husks of the shells bordering its garden, the azalea and its entourage. The border of leaves and grass.
By 7:12 it is unqualifiedly morning. What a difference 28 minutes can make.
I’m reminded this morning that it’s been 60 years to the day since President Kennedy was shot. The act that defined our country for many years, until the other tragedies came along.
Now there are young adults who were born after 9/11, who have no direct or televised experience of the smoldering ruins or the silent skies.
Time marches on; memories do not. They stay locked in place — in amber, perhaps, or something far less valuable. They define us, as a generation and as a people.
How do we honor them and move on? Only by understanding them, I guess, by realizing the many ways they hold us in their thrall.