Solstice season sentences
Hello! I’m a bit delayed in getting this out as I wade through the post-holiday malaise.
On January 1, we woke to a blue and crisp morning in San Francisco. After the first requisite cup of coffee—this one instant, which proves the point that the best coffee is the one that is available to you—we headed out with friends to one of their go-to spots for breakfast sandwiches. The only employee, a middle-aged man, was working both the cash register and the grill. It was our first human interaction of the new year. And he was so kind—he happily obliged when most of our party returned to the counter at least once to request he pour another glug of half-and-half into our coffees. Back at our square table by the window, our friends asked me about my writing. I said that my favorite part about the daily sentences is how the commitment to jotting something down has sharpened my attention to the passing odd and beautiful moments. I hope to continue that noticing in this new year.
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12.1.24: A snowy ascent ends at a gnarled and naked tree, which is a sacred chapel for many winter adventurers in this valley.
12.2.24: The hawk offers its silhouette to that of the tree’s.
12.3.24: The day began and ended by walking under the glowing Napa Auto Parts sign and seeing shadowy figures waiting for or disembarking from the bus.
12.4.24: I want to imagine a world where I can once again drive a Toyota Tercel.
12.5.24: It just dawned on me that my best “prepper” behavior has been my stockpiling unwatched mainstream TV series.
12.6.24: There is a unique and very sheepish brand of apology that is owed when accidentally blowing a snot rocket too close to a follower on the trail.
12.7.24: The steady emergence of the mountain’s contours at daybreak as the boy and I huddle under a comforter while the rest of the house slumbers.
12.8.24: The blooms on the Christmas Cactus are blood red, but they are drawfed by the promise of the pregnant buds.
12.9.24: The street light in the nursing home parking lot is on the fritz, and its strobe is a harsh contrast to the serenity of white Christmas lights but a good match for the holiday frenzy.
12.10.24: The toddlers perch on the stage during the preschool holiday program, eyes wide and mouths slightly ajar, as their teachers carry a holiday tune around them.
12.11.24: The moment when dinner-party conversation clicks is like the first zing of lightning in a darkened sky.
12.12.24: A hawk glides low across a field just above grasses sparkling in their frosty robes.
12.13.24: The elk and coyote have wandered along the carefully groomed Nordic ski track, and I wonder how they perceive the manicured route.
12.14.24: We embrace chameleon nimbleness when we find the original destination—a high-end cocktail bar—closed for a private event, and we dart into a dive bar and order frosty glasses of beer.
12.15.24: The boy is hunched over his Cheerios, shoveling sodden cereal into his mouth, when he glances out the window at a tree shrouded in the warm hues of dawn, and says, “I didn’t know sunsets happen in the morning too.”
12.16.24: There is near limitless possibility in moonlight cavorting on snow.
12.17.24: The boy glanced around the sculptor’s workshop and said, “I thought this was supposed to be art, but art is only drawing.”
12.18.24: The chimney sweep accidentally blasted creosote over our interior walls, and as he profusely asked for our understanding and offered us fresh eggs and tamales, I start to wonder if we owe him an apology or a thank-you gift.
12.19.24: I am up early with the boy who is rejecting sleep, and I pull my laptop into bed where he begins to quiz me about my job—his conception of my work is that I help protect animals’ homes from concrete, but he doesn’t understand how I can secure mountain-goat habitat from my computer.
12.20.24: The boy spots a hooded figure crossing the street in the dusky shadows by the cemetery and asks if he is leaving something special for a friend who died.
12.21.24: I startle three deer as I unload the kids into the last of the solstice light, a slip of pastel across the horizon.
12.22.24: The postal worker doesn’t break my gaze when he offers me Dungeons-and- Dragons stamps for my stack of holiday cards.
12.23.24: A man, whose spotty gray beard reflects the worn fabric of his Levis, exits the farm co-op gingerly cradling a new mallard dog toy for the pup that waits in the passenger seat.
12.24.24: The baby yells “cookie, cookie” as the plate of desserts is passed around the room before gleefully snagging one.
12.25.24: Everyone looks up just as the snow starts to fall in earnest, sprinkling softness and wonder into the family gathering.
12.26.24: The oak canopy absorbs most of the rain, as I run through darkened streets a few miles from an open grassy area so dotted with jagged boulders as to purposefully prevent anyone from resting.
12.27.24: With just one fancy salted caramel left in the box, everyone’s innate tendencies, which align with birth order, begin to show.
12.28.24: The kids jettison their shoes and socks to squish their toes in the wet grass and implore the adults to join.
12.29.24: The boy plunks down a Ziplock of bleached animal bones, scavenged from his grandfather’s lawn, right next to a stranger’s feet in the bustling car rental line.
12.30.24: The boy waves his new red binoculars in the air, announcing that he’s spotted another seagull, and the baby jerks her neck upward, sights the gull, and yells “duck!”
12.31.24: The boy is so enamored with chasing and being chased by the waves that he tries to dodge our departure by burying himself in sand.
