When you read this it will be Monday evening but as I'm writing it, it's actually in the early hours of Sunday morning. The house is quiet and the sun is streaming through the front window, catching the Christmas tree branches and ornaments and then the edges of furniture, tumbling those odd shapes and elongated shadows across the cool hardwood floor. The celebration and bustle of yesterday's Christmas is now over and the house feels especially spacious, quiet, still.
Christmas Eve crafting resulted in a half dozen fabric ornaments, a shared bottle of white wine, and several hours of conversation with an old friend. Christmas morning was full of giggles and awkward pauses over speaker phones with families too many miles away . And Christmas dinner was the continuation of a double-date that started twelve years ago and will, with any good luck, continue in sporadic double dates for years to come.
This morning I have a few moments of solitude with the scarce winter sun, a cup of black tea, and a disappearing pack of Polaroid film. We are headed down the coast for a couple nights of winter vacation. At some point, I will stand at the cliff's edge and toss my wishes into the great Pacific. I'll shed the lingering moments of a full 2010 and stand in the wonderment of a nearing 2011. I hope to set my intentions and wishes with all the force of those great waves crashing, tossing up against the cliff's edge with hope and wonder.