But 2020 was a year like no other—literally, like no other in the course of human existence, not just for me but for everyone on the planet. So I felt that this time, just this once, there needed to be a special commemoration for making it through the year, for grieving the losses, accepting the suffering, and truly having closure on such a year.
And so Tucker and I returned to the coast, this time to Coronado Butterfly Grove (80 miles south of the last grove, but with the same expectation of not seeing any butterflies). We had walked Ellwood Mesa previously and touched upon this preserve in our meanderings then. But this was a purposeful walk, through the grove, along the mesa, to watch the sun go down on this year.
The entrance was an unassuming sign post on the side of the road in a neighborhood where kids played in their driveways and airplanes flew overhead. Tuck was excited to get out (I have no idea how he knows what we’re about to do; or maybe he’s just excited to be doing anything).
Up over the ridge, the trail led downward again though the eucalyptus grove. Walking through the woods, we then veered westward toward the ocean.
Tucker and I have lost loved ones this year. But we still have each other. We still keep moving forward, keep turning as the earth does. We carry with us in our hearts those who are no longer by our side. I am ever grateful to still have Tucker by my side, in the back seat, on my lap, next to me on the couch, and in every frame I view of this world.
I am looking forward to seeing what this next turn of the earth brings, what we do during it, and how our lives evolve and change. Tucker and I send our love to all those grieving their losses from this year. May you find peace and closure, and may you have found joy and triumphs in moments along the way. We carry all that with us long after the sun goes down and we keep on turning.