Last week I wrote to you about the moon and the first time I felt it’s gravity. This week I want to tell you about the sun and the first time that, amid it all, I realized everything was going to be okay.
December 2017. Over a week after the car crash in Tucson. It’s Boxing Day and we’re driving from Venice Beach to San Francisco up the famous Pacific Highway. The sun is out. The views are glorious. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were good for us, although there was something still hanging unspoken in the air. I cried when you gave me my Christmas present late last night and I think we both knew why.
We had planned to get up early enough to watch the sunrise but we hadn’t quite managed it. Life on the road is exhausting. We did manage to pack sandwiches, though and after an early breakfast we were off and away on our final leg of the trip that didn’t save us.
If you ever get the chance to drive the Pacific Highway, take it. I still think about the views outside my window that day and the blue skies and the ocean and the hills and the birds and the little towns and the feeling and smell of it all, the air that drifted through the open windows. One day I’d like to come back and do it all again but this time with a healed heart and my forever accomplice. If. Of course.
We made a few stops and I loved each and every one of them. We had planned to get to San Francisco by late night so we didn’t make too many. I could have spent weeks stopping and exploring, ducking in and ducking out of little towns I’ve never heard of and will never see again. We stopped in one town for ice cream and we sat on the beach to eat it. It was lunchtime and the sun was at its highest in the sky, giving us its best California winter warmth. You always loved mint chocolate chip and I always loved to try something new. That afternoon I was digging my toes in the sand and licking dark forest gateaux from a cone.
Back to the car. I already knew in an unspoken cavern of my chest that I was going to miss you terribly. So terribly.
We drive through more rugged terrain, dipping and climbing, rising and falling, watching eagles spectacularly sore above us. We talked about things we liked and people we knew and we even talked about you…the other you. Him, I suppose. I wondered if he knew? How could he, I barely knew myself.
As the late afternoon crept in, I asked if we could feel the sun and dip our toes in the ocean again before it got dark. We stopped at Cayucos State Beach and ate our sandwiches, sharing a beer in silence. I fed my crusts to the seagulls.
The ocean has always been my place. Any ocean. The crashing water, the ends of the earth; it’s always filled my heart with a pure wild joy. It wasn’t really warm enough but I took off my shoes and socks and padded softly into the water. The sun was coming down low now, midway above the horizon and it felt as if it was there just for me in that moment. To warm my chest and remind me I am just one of the creatures that exists on the planet because it exists out there, 149.6 million kilometres away. All I could see was the ocean, the sky and the sun, and all I could feel was the sand, the cold water and the warm, glow of the sun on my body. The sun found that place in my chest, that unspoken regretful cavern and it asked for a word. I let it have one.
In short, the sun told me everything was going to be okay. In longer terms, it told me my problems were small compared to the magnitude of all living beings and that life is gift enough in itself. Cool. Everything will work itself out. No matter how dark it gets, the sun will continue to shine. Somethings are not constant, but the sun is. I think about that moment a lot and I remember that if i can just stand in the sun for a few moments, I will be alright.
It was time to go. I picked up a shell from the beach to remind me of that moment. It sits on my window cill in full view of the sunlight today.
You said there wasn’t time to stop again so I watched the sun set from the car window. The sky burned red and I watched the light disappear behind cliffs and water. I didn’t want it to go, but it had to.
Later that night our journey was met with a road block. A landslide. We had to drive back on ourselves and around the cliff. It was a two hour detour. I was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere but I was too tired at this point to think it up. We checked into a motel in the middle of nowhere. We ate bad Chinese takeout and slept at opposite sides of the bed. By sunrise we were on our way again, and a few hours after it set that night I would let the words that marked the beginning of the end tumble out of my mouth and slide down the lemon rind in my martini glass never to be returned. I’m not proud of the timing or the setting…but I think it had something to do with that moment in the sun.
The winter was long and appalling. I hurt all over from the cold and sadness. Those few weeks in the sunnier states were some of the last I saw of the sun for a while. But then, in late March in my new house with big windows, the sunlight started pouring in my windows. I stood with my face to the glass and breathed it in. I counted to 60….then to two minutes…and then I stopped counting and just existed.
It’s winter again, a year later, and the sunlight still has the ability to stop me in my tracks on a frozen afternoon. The sun cutting away the arctic conditions and bathing me in a spotlight of warmth…I bask. I always bask.
Right now I’m still in bed as I write this. The sunlight is dancing across my bare legs and freshly washed sheets. I’ve been reading all morning and drinking coffee and eating chocolate. A tear rolls down my face. A happy one. I made it out alive. Thank you, sun.