A year in review
Another year is ending. I can’t say 2022 was the easiest year of my life. It was beautiful in the way the ocean is beautiful both when sunlight dances off of it and when it whirls gray from fog. My favorite memories from the year have lived only in my memory up to this point, not captured by picture or in writing. So here it is, my highlight of each month with no pictures to back them up or proof that they happened. Just words and finding meaning in the memory, now that we’ve reached the end.
January: sunlight at the bird reserve
Last summer while visiting the bird reserve, a man with binoculars around his neck and a camera slung over his shoulder tells us that winter is the best time to visit. We laugh and think, what good ever happens in winter? Well, it’s January, and Noelle, Finn, and I bring warm drinks on our adventure. The sun is warm on our faces, and the trees are lined with gold. We laugh and think, we are just like all the other retirees here, gawking at flight and migration. And also, that old man was right. Winter on a sunny day is the best time to visit, maybe because you don’t expect the warmth from the sun, and when you’ve been stuck in the cold for so long, that glimpse of light is the greatest gift you could ever receive. We vow to return every season. It’s a promise we keep.
February: the soft blessing of routine
I slow down for the shortest month of the year. I discover the soft blessing of routine. I brew peppermint tea in the mornings and write about shoe insoles until the afternoon. I see where my runs take me and eat dinner with my parents. Faith and I go to Barnes and Noble to read or write our own stories, but mostly we talk. I go for walks under the moon and look forward to Starbucks Saturdays with Lukas where we always take the long way home to show each other the songs we’ve been listening to. I live a quiet life in February and learn the hidden power in rest and in solitude, so that in spring, I may emerge anew.
March: our stormy walk to the MET
After ripping open bagels and sharing the bathroom mirror while swiping on mascara and lip gloss, Lily and I wrap ourselves up in scarves and coats and start our trek to the MET. A subway ride later, we walk up the stairs and are met with a wall of wind. Our umbrellas fly backward; our hair whips in all directions. My vision is clouded from the sleet that’s pelting us and tears from laughing so hard. We arrive at the museum ruby from cold, hair matted from wind, snowflakes in our hair, and I don’t know how I got so lucky. For finding friends like Lily in random places, for laughter being our default, for the sharp edges and signs of spring in New York City, for the croissants we’ll get after this, for the art on display, for my life being the art. I sit on a bench and look at a painting of a mountain, painted pink from a setting sun. Some cosmic lottery has occurred, and by some stroke of luck, I’ve won.
April: under the kwanzan tree
I sit under the kwanzan tree that’s erupted in puffs of pink petals. This tree is one of my favorite things about home. It is so full of potential, blooming fully with no hesitation. I’ve been working on being kinder, on transforming my relationship with myself from a battleground to more of a garden. Now, I speak to myself like I’d speak to my younger cousins or my Nan, with love and compassion. So love it is, and also acceptance, forgiveness, understanding. Things I’m used to giving others but not myself. April is a month of transformation. I grow alongside the kwanzan tree, slowly at first, but I’m starting to get the hang of it now. There’s bud, and then bloom, and I see the beauty that’s been there all along.
May: midnight on the shore
We all pile into the back of Zach’s car where everyone is sitting on everyone and the windows are wide open. Carly sticks her hand out the window and waves it in the salty breeze of the Jersey Shore at night. Will starts playing Lana, and we sing along to the sounds of Americana sadness until we reach the beach, where we all spill out, running over dunes underneath a blanket of darkness. Tonight, I’m grateful for ice cream and boardwalks and sunset bike rides and Carly and her friends who are now my friends. People are cartwheeling and slurping milkshakes, and I decide that I’m tired of trying to capture every feeling and experience. Some moments are too big for a picture or writing to hold. Tonight, I peel one hand from the other and tell myself it’s okay if some things slip through the cracks. That the world will keep spinning, even if I’m not there to hold it all. No longer grasping, I stretch out my arms, facing the ocean, back to the wind, and feel like this is the first time in a long time I’ve truly been free. This is the beginning of the rest of my life, the moment I realize the change I’ve wanted cannot be constructed or created. Instead, it springs from something gentler, a long and smooth release.
June: “if you need me, I’ll be 1. sitting on the roof or 2. driving the ATV”
I pop out the screen outside my bedroom window and crawl onto my roof. The sky is alit with pink, orange, and purple. My neighbor waves to me from his tractor, and I wave back. My window will be wide open for the rest of the month. I will climb onto the roof every day after this, to sit under the full moon, to journal, to listen to coyotes, to talk with my brother. He and I will talk until we get bored and climb down, buckling ourselves into the ATV and making the rounds. Through the vines, through the forest, up and down hills. Lukas loves the ATV because he can drive fast and play loud music on the speakers. I love it because it means I can spend time with him, watching how he’s growing older, making this place we’ve called home all our lives new.
July: the twenty euro boat sailing/sinking in the Tyrrhenian Sea
After a few watered-down piña coladas, Maeve and I rent a rickety boat with a plastic slide attached to it for twenty euro per hour. A worthy investment for the memories it makes. The gaggle of us drag the boat away from shore, two people pedaling, the rest pushing and pulling. We stop where it’s definitely still too shallow, but people start piling on and sliding face down. Carson jumps from the very top. The water had been calm up until this point, but now waves steer our beloved boat towards rocks, water filling it up, people flopping out. I gather the courage to slide down the slide, but before I step on the second rung of the ladder, I fall off and onto Katie’s head, where we both tumble down underwater. There’s no evidence this moment ever happened. Just laughter and sunlight and salt and the love between people and their first college friends. Even though we drift in and out of each others’ lives, we will always have those memories of keeping each other afloat under that warm Italian sun.
August: rainstorms & redos
It’s the day of the Palio—that bareback horse race that’s been going on for centuries and one of the main reasons we’re in Italy—and Josh and I can’t get in. I try to sneak past policemen but they spin me around and yell at me in Italian. Our professor sees us through the crowd and yells, “Run that way!” So we do, along with all the other people who heard him, until we’re stuck in another crowd of hundreds of people. It begins to rain. The ribbons in my hair sag; the rhinestones on my face slide off. After trudging through floods and mud, the race is canceled until the next day. Redos are a gift. This time, we all show up to the Palio four hours in advance, playing games and eating snacks to pass the time. The race lasts a tense two minutes where no one exhales until it’s over. The winning horse crosses the finish line, and Maeve leads us to the cathedral bursting with flags and victory songs. We drink, we find our professor in the street and tell him we love him, we eat bruschetta one last time. I’ll always love that city, the piazza, the horses, the wine, and those sweet opportunities to redo and reframe. August is not the funeral for summer. It’s a month of golden beginnings, of freedom, of gifts.
September: before sunrise at Cannon Beach
I wake to the sound of the coffee machine grunting awake. Stairs creak, and I reach the living room where my mom and dad sit on the couch. Pop is whistling while he makes his coffee, just like he always does. I always wake up early when I’m at the coast. The time before sunrise is sacred, where the four of us—my parents, my grandpa, and me—talk about the day ahead, the news, if we had dreams last night. Pop always asks about what we’ll have for dinner. The sun will eventually rise, my grandma and brother will emerge from their rooms, and we’ll join the joggers and dogs and gulls on the beach. But for now, I’m spending my time like I always do at the coast. Under blankets with a mug full of coffee in hand, laughing at Pop’s revelations, thinking I’d be just fine if mornings stayed soft like this forever.
October: getting lost at the Saturday Market
At college, my favorite days are Saturdays, because that means it’s market day. I take the bus or walk until I hear the drum circle and smell the pod of food carts. Some of the best things I’ve received from the Saturday Market include: mango popsicles sweetened with honey. A hummingbird etched into a tree ring, and the conversation with the artist of how it reminds the both of us of our grandmothers. My first visit with Katy. Going there with Julia and Hannah because I wanted to be their friend. The cinnamon roll the size of my face and carrot cake muffins. The time we sat on the grass and Diego asked me about what songs I listen to and if we’d hike the PCT or not. The journal that seemed to be made for me, reminding me to live from my heart, filled with Mary Oliver quotes and maps of Kauai and drawings of grapes. The flowers I dried and hung in my dorm. Katie’s sunset colored crochet dress because it’s just so perfect. The live music and the time I spent alone wandering the stalls. The Saturday Market reminds me that everyone brings their gifts to the table. It inspires me to be vulnerable enough to share mine.
November: walking through rain with people I love
To the dining hall, to the library, to the grocery store, the tattoo parlor, the cemetery, Ruth’s. I walk with my constellation of college friends as clouds rid themselves of the things they’ve been carrying. It seems like the heaviness is falling into my arms, but when it feels like I can’t keep going, I look to my side and my friends are right there. Some care for me gently, some protect me fiercely; these people are the reason I survive my first November in Eugene. Katy washes my dishes. Julia listens and won’t let go of my hand. Owen gifts a tortilla blanket. Kate keeps me laughing. Katie offers head scratches and chocolate chip cookies on the floor. Josh plays the guitar. Matan takes me climbing. Nitai reminds me things are going to be okay as long as he’s in my life. Maeve takes me to the bakery, to the bookstore, to spin, always side by side. Hannah links arms with me as we skip towards rain. I know my friends are there, so I’ll be brave and walk through the storm, not fully prepared in my Birkenclogs, green hoodie zipped up, maybe even with a smile on my face, because with these people, I can find a glimpse of happiness in anything. Even in rain.
December: sleepy in Seattle
I’m spending the night at my cousins’ and it feels just how it used to when I was eight and would sleepover. Christmas music is on, there’s a puzzle on the table and a fire crackling under the mantle. We eat Greek food as a family; I still sit at the kid’s table. This is how we mend. After a season of loss, what we have is each other, and laughter, and memory that keeps him alive. My cousin has assembled a bed underneath her own—there’s even a lamp beside it—so I crawl in, kicking the Great Pyrenees off, and feel a wave of peace wash over me. Tomorrow, we will get pastries from Grand Central. We will wake up early and watch the World Cup. It will be like it always has been, and it will be a new tradition, and we will learn to reshape our lives. It will be hard, but it will be beautiful and filled with love. And if 2022 has taught me anything, it’s that love is all we’ve got.
To 2023 being meaningful, expansive, and full of life.
Love you!
Maya