Some Other Beginning's End (12/31/2020)

I’ve always been one to focus on beginnings, not endings. I remember people’s birthdates, not their death dates. I know the first day I arrived somewhere or first day of a job; not the last day or the day I leave.

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.
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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).
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Up over the ridge, the trail led downward again though the eucalyptus grove. Walking through the woods, we then veered westward toward the ocean.

We were back on the mesa, trekking across the open meadow, with the sounds of the ocean far ahead of us.

I wanted to make the most of our walk while not retracing too many steps. The trail system was vast, and you could cut across in a number of ways. I headed south then west then south then west until we reached the southern border of the preserve at the cliff’s edge overlooking the beach.

​Seeing the wooden fence, I recalled that we had come this way along the beach on our Ellwood Mesa hike. Now we weren’t going down to the beach, but staying on the bluff for our walkabout. I had arrived with at least two hours for walking before sundown so we could stroll slowly, enjoying every view.

There was even time to stop and play in the trees.

We walked away from the ocean a bit and re-entered the forest to get more walking in and to see it from a new perspective.

Then we returned seaside in a shorter loop to find our spot along the cliff’s edge and enjoy the magic hour.

The sun hung low on the horizon, and I watched a person playing with their dog, kicking a ball back and forth as the dog chased it and ran back. I sat with my canine companion watching another canine with their human companion.

As I witnessed the sun dip beneath the horizon, I came to the realization that I’d been looking at it all wrong. This sunset wasn’t the sun going down one more time this year; it was just the continual turn of the earth. The earth didn’t stop spinning. The sun doesn’t move; we do. We keep going no matter what. And in that turning, in that constant motion, we carry with us the losses and the suffering, as well as the joy and the hope.

Tucker lost two of his friends this year. Harlowe was his very first friend, the dog who taught him to be a production dog, to be a traveling dog, how to be a friend to other dogs and how to play nicely. He was patient with Tucker and he learned all sorts of dog stuff I will never truly understand. We were blessed to be on location with Harlowe in different cities around the US over the years and even take an agility class together in our home base of Southern California. While we hadn’t seen each other a long while, Harlowe has influenced Tucker growing up, and plays a frequent role is so many of our favorite memories of our travels.

And we lost Pete this year. Pete, who was Tucker’s best friend, his brindle brother from another mother, Pete and Tucker have been buddies for the past three years though it always seemed they may have been soul brothers long before time began.

During our Los Angeles isolation, Pete and his people were the only ones in our social bubble. We walked with them once or twice a week during the summer, and they came over and hung out on my deck; the humans drank wine and chatted, the boys played or napped, or chatted among themselves. Tucker still doesn’t know that Pete is gone; he only knows that Pete and his people don’t come around anymore. We hope one day they will again. But seeing Tucker not being with Pete is just too painful for them right now.
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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.

It has been a dark year, but because of that, the stars have shown even more brightly. We pluck them from the sky and keep them in our pocket, to bring them back out when we need them to guide us.
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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.

In memory of Harlowe and Pete. Thank you for being our friends. We miss you by our side, and carry you in our hearts forever more, wherever we go.