The First Time Hits Different

even when you've had it before

Happy New Year!!! is scrawled in yellow chalk on the sidewalk. Next to it, a longer message in blue: just because it’s taking longer than you thought, doesn’t mean it’s a failure. 

I stare at the house next to the messages, where I assume the chalk artist lives. On the lawn, a red wagon is parked next to a faded plastic pink car, both toddler size. The Christmas decorations are minimal, boasting a small inflatable Santa in the shape of a Casper ghost. The way they positioned Santa, he seems to be emerging from the front windows. More apparition than anything. I’ve seen a lot of Christmas decorations, but this one stood out as both puzzling and cheerful.

And now this affirmation, clunky but well-meaning, left for all the neighborhood to walk over. It was baffling, but I could imagine the wide eyes of the chalk artist, brimming with hope for a year of yes. Was the message something the writer needed to hear? Or was 2023 so transformative that they felt compelled to tell the world (or just Atwater Village): don’t give up!!!

Either way, I love the chalk soothsayer. I think their phrasing could have used another round of edits, but who among us is perfect? This person needed to share a message, no matter the medium. New Years will do that to us. It’s a weird experience to be confronted with the undeniable passage of time such an arbitrary fashion. It doesn’t really feel new in our bones. We’re in the thick of winter—transitions are slowed by the cold, even molecules find movement tough in such conditions.

I woke up on New Year’s Day extra extra slow. I was out late on the eve, under the spell of a party. Usually I would duck out after midnight but I spent days helping to set up the space and I wanted to soak up the revelry. After giving most of January 1st to the couch, I remembered the ocean. The past couple years, I made a point of going to see the first sunset as it dipped into the blue arms of the Pacific. 

Winter beaches carry a certain drama, the cold, the clouds, the rain streaked sand. Controversial truth: beach sunsets are better in the winter. The sky flushes a saturated pink, drunk on the sun. After a short work day, the sun reclines across every possible surface, staining it gold. The greenest blades of grass flux into a radiating blue, the vibrant rose petals sing with too much light at such a late hour. 

I knew I had to get across town, but first I had to shift from horizontal to vertical. I was alone in the house, Boyfriend left at 8:30AM to catch a flight for a job in Texas. He was my usual sunset accomplice. My fatigue was so pounding, I needed to call for back up. Luckily, my parents live close enough to the continent’s edge, I knew I could rally them for sunset support.

The phone rang twice, they were planning a walk, they could angle it toward the ocean horizon. I would meet them, it was happening. I showered, shampooed, gathered my energy, my dog, my warmest coat. A hat for good measure. 

Joey and I headed west. Joey (my dog) loves my parents. When we get off the 10 freeway on the Lincoln Blvd exit, she jumps up from sleep and begins to whine at the window. She places her paws under the glass and clocks each passing building, patiently willing my parent’s apartment complex into view. This time I passed the familial structure and she let out a deflated yelp. When we met up with my parents a few minutes later, she ran up and down the sidewalk, rolling over to show her immense delight. 

We made to the bluff, a park on a cliff overlooking Will Roger’s Beach. We leaned against the stone fence erected decades ago to prevent onlookers from wandering too close to the water. Beneath us, the Pacific Coast Highway whooshed, beckoning with blurry tail lights. Nothing can compare to the crisp bite of salty air. I swear it makes you younger. People buzzed around, each of us tasting a drop of the sunset’s honey. We all faced the ocean, staring too long at the bursting light. The sun famously sets every single day, but this was a momentous occasion. The First Sunset.

The perfect fiery orb began to melt along the ocean line. I held my breath, knowing what was to come. 

My father said watch for the green flash! The weather is perfect for it. 

My mother asked why and I let my mind drift as he answered, something about cloud conditions. 

And boom—the sun was gone, just a soft glow across the choppy ocean. 

We made our way to the market. My parents are slowly becoming Trader Joe’s devotees, but their cheerful doors were locked for the holiday. We crossed the street to Whole Foods. I wasn’t expecting to see so many people, I figured everyone would be tucked into their homes, curled up with journals and vision boards. My parents tend to shop at the market when no one else is around, but this trip was the exception.

The produce section was filled with couples negotiating green vegetables, choosing between navel oranges and the more travel friendly satsuma tangerine. Ponytailed girlies wandered around the spaghetti squash, moving slow and dreamlike. Patagonia-clad men clutched baskets, betraying their bachelorhood, milling around the ground turkey. It was quiet, words exchanged in whispers. The store music drowned out by the friendly clatter of metal shopping carts on tile.

I stood in the corner, by the plastic tubes of bulk nuts, watching the scene unfold. I wanted someone to fall in love. It felt possible. Who knew this would be a hub of ritual? An errand that usually feel route is now an opportunity for renewal. The First Grocery Store Trip.

Of course there is a special force in gathering items for the new year. We are choosing how to nourish our bodies, we are picking up the symbols that will sustain us through the year. It’s special to be here, now. But isn’t it always? I wanted to celebrate.

There is magic in the web of it. That’s a line from Shakespeare, plucked from a bit in Othello about a handkerchief. It was my senior quote and I think about it often. When we engage with a full heart, the magic jumps out. The sunset, the Whole Foods, the inspired chalk artist, the possibility of a fresh start in the hollow of winter.

The grocery play would continue, but I couldn’t watch all night long. I nodded, found my father by the salmon and declared it was a good time to split a slice of flourless chocolate cake. We joined the other players, headed to the bakery case. 

As the year unfolds, I want more moments like this. As a witness, as a participant. Being here, wherever that is, on purpose. We find intention works its magic. The edge of reality blooms, until we’re plucking at the strings of more than one dimension. 

I want to bring the pinky sides of my hands to touch, curve my fingers inward slightly and make a little bowl shape. From there, I will cradle the seemingly ordinary. I’ll strip off the cracked yellow varnish and reveal a soft gleam gold. I’ll hold it, tilt it towards whoever wants to see. Look, it’s more luminous than you think. It always is. 

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