Portals

February 2nd is significant to me, for it was the day I rolled into California 44 years ago and began a new life here. (I’ve written about it before: the ’73 Buck with its broken gas gauge, my luggage of plastic trash bags, the desperado that was me at the wheel.) I’m sure I didn’t realize what a fitting date February 2nd was. It's Candlemas, which in Christian tradition commemorates the presentation of the baby Jesus into the temple of Jerusalem, and in secular folklore it's Groundhog Day, when the shadow (or its absence) of a certain marmot predicts the length of winter. And astronomically speaking, the date marks the midpoint between Yule (the Winter Solstice) and Spring (the Vernal Equinox).

Here where the seasons slide into each other almost imperceptibly and winter is a gentle old fool who ripens oranges and turns the landscape green, the significance of this turning point is muted. But still, it's a time to shift gears and look towards the lengthening days, a date imbued with hope and light and yearning, and I am forever reminded of my life’s great migration, that milestone in my personal history, a time when I was brave.

I could not have imagined it then, but the decades have now brought us to a time when courage and resilience are needed more than ever. I am moving through the days in that spirit. For this is a moment when we are called upon to remember who we are, what we aspire to, what struggles and migrations bequeathed to us the magnificent banquet of our lives. Everything feels unfiltered lately. There is a new intensity to the wonder and the grief, the flashes of surprise and delight and gratitude, the shocks and stabs of heartbreak and rage. We are called upon to rise, with love and resilience––and somehow we will do it, and prevail.

A few days ago, I stood at a volcanic ridge above the sea where Chumash people left their enigmatic art on the canvas of a smooth, glassy rock. This particular site was used for ceremonies and rituals and solar observation, and for contemplation, perhaps, of death and rebirth, and it was impossible not to feel a sense of its sacredness. The hot sun beat down upon us, and the ocean sparkled in the distance, and the red markings danced before our eyes, and I felt humbled and grateful to be standing there, bearing witness. Real people lived their lives here. I felt their presence.

And the following day, I participated in a local rally for democracy and decency, in solidarity with Minnesota and all who are targeted by ICE and the cruel administration which, in the words of one protester, is looting us, not governing us. Demonstrators lined both sides of the main street of this bucolic little town, and passing cars honked and cheered and gave thumbs up. I only saw one middle finger, and one of my friends was treated to an unintentionally ironic tirade about how the president is making America great again by getting rid of criminals. An old man in a wheelchair, himself a veteran, was distributing pages of historical information showing unequivocally that what we are seeing now is exactly like what the Nazis did to “make Germany great again” and he wanted to make sure we all recognize this and keep resisting. And a group of high school students were there holding up signs, shining so brightly in all their youthful radiance and hope, that my heart brimmed. “These kids are learning history, and about the rights democracy brings, and the responsibilities,” said their teacher. Thank you.

Meanwhile, a few friends and I are planning a community event to bolster spirits and raise money for the local food bank, and I’ll tell you more about that as it evolves. But last night, I went to the very church that will be our venue, and in its lovely and welcoming sanctuary, I heard a concert of hauntingly beautiful medieval music performed by the Folk Orchestra of Santa Barbara. As I said, everything seems unfiltered to me lately, and the music entered my soul with all the magic that music contains, emotions reaching across the centuries, universal and transcendent.

Afterwards, I walked with a friend beneath a full moon that cast a spell across the nighttime streets. We passed Jedlicka’s, the Western-wear and saddle store that was so dear to my daughter in her long-ago horse girl days. Through the window, we saw, in the surreal interior light, the brown horse statue that usually stands on the street, a pale mannequin boy in a big cowboy hat, racks of Western shirts and Breyer model horses (that my daughter once collected) on a shelf, stacks of cowboy hats, and a stuffed pair of blue jeans looking ready to climb on a horse. It made me feel nostalgic and whimsical, and I missed my daughter with all my heart, but I also missed my dog and the Ranch and the way life used to be, but the missing was quickly followed by gratitude and amazement at where my journey had led me.

And the journey continues. I had a phone conversation recently with another dear friend, an artist pondering loss and meaning in a very visceral way. “I used to think I was looking into an abyss,” she said. “Then I began to understand that what I thought was an abyss is in fact a portal.”

A portal, yes. Transition. Turning points. On this, my personal Candlemas, I am lighting every candle in the chapel of my soul and passing through portals.

We shall not be undone.