Candlemas

February 2 is significant to me, for it was the day I rolled into California 33 years ago and began a new life here. It's also Candlemas, which in Christian tradition commemorates the presentation of the baby Jesus into the temple of Jerusalem, and in secular folklore it's Groundhog Day, when the shadow (or its absence) of a certain marmot predicts the length of winter. Astronomically speaking, the date marks the midpoint between Yule (the Winter Solstice) and Spring (the Vernal Equinox).

Here where the seasons slide into each other almost imperceptibly and winter is a gentle old fool who ripens oranges and turns the landscape green, the significance of this turning point is muted. But still, it's a time to shift gears and look towards the lengthening days, a date imbued with hope and light and yearning, and it's the anniversary of a milestone in my personal history, a time when I was brave. So I'm moving through the hours in that spirit.

"I imagine you're in that slow, changed place that follows the vanishing of someone loved," wrote my friend Treacy in an email today. That's a good way of putting it: a changed pace in the wake of a vanishing.

And it's a wobbly pace, through a very strange space. It takes some getting used to.But now and then I look up and realize I wasn't thinking about anything sad for a little while.

We've been planting things, seeing what will grow: easygoing, tolerant things like salvia, rosemary, and sage, and two kinds of lavender, and a circle of succulents, and a tiny little lemon tree that had been feeling bound in its heavy clay pot.

You know what else? I've been looking online at dresses that a mother-of-the-bride might wear in England in June. Because these days will lead to that day, and maybe I'll be fine. Being fine  is in fact a very good idea.

Another shift: I'm trying not to exclude myself from mercy. I'm trying to quell regrets and reprimands, trying to accept, trying to let go.

Last night the almost-full moon turned the hills and sky blue-white, and the earth had a hushed and holy feeling, the way it is after a new snowfall, when everything feels forgiven.

And I was awake for that.