the year of yes.

The sun has been kind, the sky has been nonviolent, and the air has been gentle. No storms, not very many clouds, a sprinkling of rain here and there to wash away the dirty snow. Clean, sweet air. Thank you, January.

I am spending these days biking downtown several times a week for my Contextual Education internship at Emmanuel College's Campus Ministry. Experimenting with the Vita Mix that was a gift from my parents (strawberry margaritas and salsa on a Saturday evening). Listening to my favorite women (Natalie Merchant, Duffy, Sarah McLaughlin, Ella, to name a few good ones). Curling up under blankets for long chats with dear friends. Obsessing over Downton Abbey. Basking in gratitude for the people I love, for this city I love. Discerning. Dreaming. Struggling to get out of my cozy bed on cold mornings. Drinking too much coffee.

All is well in life and in my heart. I made a hard, much-needed decision last week. I stood up for myself. Finally. After a year's worth of heartache and confusion. And it feels good to look at myself in the mirror again, and to know I am being honest with myself.

Because we all deserve to be loved in good and honest ways. We all deserve to be treated fairly and justly and with respect and tenderness. And I am finally demanding the same standard of care for myself that I would wish for any of my sisters or female friends. We are women who have been told that we ought to be "nice." But being nice is not the same as being silent. And I will no longer be silent when it comes to injustice.

So, this year is off to a good and honest start. Surely, there are plans to be made, art projects to be completed, books to be read, letters to be sent, meals to be made and shared, trips to be had, weddings to be attended. But all in good time. I am simply enjoying these quiet January moments. G'night.

mysteries, yes.

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

~ Mary Oliver

in fine.

"Honey in the hale could fill the pales of loving less with vain/
Hon, it wasn’t yet the spring." -Bon Iver, "Michicant"

----
“Van Gogh, you remember, called the world a study… But Van Gogh: a study it is not. This is the truth of the pervading intricacy of the world’s detail: the creation is not a study, a roughed-in sketch; it is supremely, meticulously created, created abundantly, extravagantly, and in fine.”
-Annie Dilliard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Pacific Standard Time

I was driving home and listening to Cat Stevens sing "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out." A majestic white plane swooped lower in the dusty twilight sky, flying parallel to my old van. And in a moment of brilliance, it flew right over the rising moon. I love when the sky is still blue, the sun is still in sight, and the moon makes its appearance early: a dashing surprise entrance. For a reason unknown to me, that plane right in line with the moon, with the voice of my old friend Cat so familiar and dear in my ear and the rosy light of the Southern California sunset, made my heart leap in my chest.

Returning home is good for a simple reason: it reminds me of the person I have always been. Sitting with Ellen and Bobby drinking milkshakes at Ruby's today, watching the waves rise and fall, feeling the warm sun on my cheek against the windowsill that peers right out on the Pacific Ocean, I could have been eighteen again in a heartbeat. Catching up with Teri and Kristen and Cara at an art show in Santa Ana last night was not so different from all those Mater Dei art shows eight or so years ago.

I feel known here. For the child I once was: quiet, bookish, strange, but altogether good. For the teenager I grew into: taken with an idea of peace (that came more from folk songs and hippies as seen on iconic television shows from Nick at Nite rather than any real-life experience), tucking flowers behind my ear, and making mixed tapes on my red portable stereo. Still quiet, bookish, strange, but good.

I love Boston. I love the cafes and the 86 bus, the squawking geese that hang around Chandler Pond in the early spring. I love the Irish pubs and the old cathedrals. The sprawling grounds of Boston College. The majesty of the Harvard Gates. The purple flowers that grow at the Public Gardens in May. Most of all, I love the people. Colorful, eager, restless, striving, good. My friends. I love the people and the place with a pang that is honest, real, and big.

But I also love here. The salt air of the ocean. The way it smells: tangy, soft, fishy. I went to the beach today, to lie down on the sand in the sun for awhile in the early afternoon. The ocean is so much more than the ocean. I love to look at that line, where the water meets the sky, to imagine all of the places that lay beyond it, and the people that live there. When I was young, I believed that if I sent a message in a bottle across the sea, I might make the acquaintance of an interoceanic penpal. The thought makes me smile now, but the wonder that the ocean held for me then will never fade.

I do so love this place. And coming back to meet the acquaintance of myself. Remembering why I chose the path I am on now. Laughing at the decorations that simulate frost-painted windowpanes despite seventy-five degree weather on Christmas day. Waking up to tip-toe downstairs into my family's kitchen, pouring myself a cup of tea, watching the sun wake up in a sky that is unencumbered by tall buildings and paraphenalia save for the occasional palm tree dotting the open landscape like a decisive period on vast page. California is so beautiful, so warm, so unlike any other destination, that sometimes I forget to breathe when I dip my toes into the ocean, and remember it is my homeland.

(Dear God, please help me as I discern the paths open to me in this new year. And help me to choose another ending and beginning all over again.)

to be with you.

we gather round the table. we close our eyes and sing:

"praise God from whom all blessings flow."

to be with you, to be with you.

i love this time of year, it always brings me here,

to be with you.

-sara groves