I’ve never understood why we all aren’t talking about death all the time. Most dismiss it as morbid, which seems backwards and upside down to me. It’s the very opposite of macabre to keep front and center the miraculous fragility and resurgence of life.

As the old year teetered on the cusp of the new, Stephen and I walked the streets to keep warm in the 20 degree weather as we waited for the fireworks to begin.

This morning, putting cream on my face, my hands in a cradle, cupping its cheeks like a child’s. Old face. Sweet face. Tired face.

In the morning, I was in the first heat of Saners to make their way to the ocean, walking barefoot on the street’s white lines to save the soles of my feet. On the five-minute journey, I dodged most of my brother’s punches as I listened to my father whistle back and forth with the bob-whites. When we got to the beach, I ran ahead, chose a spot, threw down my towel and bag and ran into the ocean. First step: get wet.

I came here to cry a million tears for as many reasons. At the full moon ringed with haze. At the pink and golden sunset. At the shimmering trees. At the zip of hummingbird wings. At the first giggle of an infant. At the side of my dying father. At the sigh of the dog at my feet. At these and every other thing.

On the near eve of the 2024 United States Presidential Election.

A baby is born. She is the center. And she is the infinite circumference around that center. She is the everything, the everywhere. And she is always just herself.

When my son processed with his classmates to their chairs, I rose from mine and walked to the front to capture a photo of him as he waited for the ceremony to begin. I snapped him before he knew I was there. Head down, studying the program. Then I called out his name — Aidan — and his head lifted, tipping back with a smile, while I took another shot.

California is the end of the world. At least it’s as far as white folk could go by horse and wagon. The end of the line. The end of greener pastures just around the bend. The end of new land to claim, though it already belonged to another.

Here God, here. Here I sit, not waiting, not wanting, just sitting. Thoughts bubble up. Here God. Sounds are sounding. Here God. The tickle of a hair on my cheek. Here God. Like a waking dream, an inner vision of a flock of birds taking off in flight, and Here God.

Just this morning, I sat on the couch in my living room and looked out the window at trees without leaves on this mid-February day. I have looked out on this view hundreds, thousands, of times. If I weren’t careful, it would be easy to think that it is always there, just as it is, but I know better.