Winter Solstice

Last night the hills were frosted with light, and the sky was almost white, and the moon cast rectangular patches of light on the walls and floors. It was the night of winter solstice, the longest night of the year, but it was also among the brightest. The full moon had turned everything luminous, and as I sat awake in the living room chair I could see the silvery profiles of the hills and the shine of the orchard and the gleam and glint of ordinary objects looking momentarily enchanted.

Earlier in the day we had walked to the top of the hill and stood against a bright blue sky as Monte pointed out to Xander the features of the land and the quirks of the coast. It was a clear and windless afternoon and we could see the Channel Islands etched sharply on the horizon, and to the northeast, the Santa Ynez Mountains, and Gaviota Peak, which we resolved to hike in the coming week. Miranda wandered off to stand by herself and gaze at the sea, looking like a greeting card photo of a young woman poised at the start of a whole new chapter of her life, which of course she is.

And we were as far from the sun as we could be, but every day from this point on would lengthen and bring us closer to summer. We were at the dividing line, where the end meets the beginning, paused at a moment of astronomical and personal significance. As we walked down the hill, Miranda told me about places she hoped to visit someday, and I could see the excitement and certainty she feels about her pending move to England. I followed her down the twisting cow trail back toward the house she will be leaving. I’m so happy for her, and yet…

“I feel so peripheral,” I told her, too candidly.

“That’s a funny way to put it,” she said.

Back at the house, there were holiday fragrances of a Christmas tree, newly decorated by Miranda and Xander, and mulled wine that Xander made, something that was novel to us, but which shall forevermore evoke memories of this particular Christmas. I brushed my hair and put on some make-up, stepping back from the mirror with the “oh, well” feeling that concludes all my efforts at grooming lately. Soon neighbors and friends would arrive, including two sisters that Miranda played with as children, now grown-up and radiant, one of them now a mother herself, more evidence that we are old. There was conversation and laughter, and I watched my daughter smiling and confident in the midst of it all. I saw that she still holds that little bit of reserve, that quiet self-containment, something we used to call shyness, but it’s not quite that. I saw too that she is in love with life and ready to go.

It was the shortest day of the year, a divergence, and a coming together, and I had a long night to think about it all.