Solstice

I choose the steeper trail. Rocky, washed out from recent rains, pebbles sliding beneath my soles, chaparral clinging to broken boulders. My breath pushes through my scarf into the predawn morning, a cloud of warmth clinging to my eyelashes. The hoary frost blankets the moors of Mission Trails Park (I've always wanted to use that phrase but never thought it would apply to Santee, so far from Thomas Hardy's dark romantic landscapes) I gasp in, puff out until I reach the top of the grade, a glow emmanating from the eastern slope. I squint my eyes, pull off my scarf, my gloves, my red knitted cap.
I want to feel the solstice sun square on my face, my freckles dancing in their little baths of overstimulated pigment.
If it is the end of the world, it will end on a beautiful morning: the birds belt exhalations, the oaks whispering ancient truths to one another. The creek burbles, the freeway hums (urban white noise), the hawks circle the powerlines. I look over the valley below. Santee never looked so pretty. Mist nestles itself into the craters in the earth where people wake to another Friday, cold and clear. Bacon and Pop-tarts, bowls of cereal and glasses of juice are filled and emptied on kitchen tables in ranch style houses with brown lawns and American flags in little brass holders. They probably aren't celebrating anything other than there being enough milk left in the carton to moisten their Cheerios. Or that it's the Friday before Christmas. Or that it is almost 2013 and they get a whole new round of  sick days to play hooky from work. Or that an asteroid didn't hit the earth this morning. Or maybe they are celebrating a whole lot- I just can't see that far into windows and backyards.

 I am celebrating quietly on the top of a hill. And I know my friends are on other hills around the city celebrating the shift in consciousness everyone's been buzzing about. We are celebrating the darkest of days as it just gets lighter from here on out. We are celebrating being who we are and who we are around. We are celebrating.
So what have I done just in case it was the last day on earth? What if we got it all wrong and the Mayans actually did mean that it was the end of days but they actually predicted it for tomorrow? Or next week? Or in 2013? Is there anything I would do differently? Shouldn't we always act like it is our last day? Hour? Minute? Or not even think about it because there is in fact a last day hour minute for all of us despite our deepest mental protestations and denial?

I sit on top of the crest. I can no longer see my breath. The sun has warmed my aching fingers and frosted nose. My heart stops racing and falls back into the comfort of my chest.

I chose the steep way for this sunrise view.
I am doing it differently.
I chose the steep way this year  through storied talks, long letters, emotions pouring onto pillows and floors, dreams woven and noticed, heart cracking and opening.
The steep path may take all I have, challenge me, leave me breathless and teary on the way up but, damn, will the view be worth it.