It’s February. The sun is out and the air is a warm. Last week we were sub-zero, today we’re hovering around 70 degrees. The whiplash is a little disconcerting if you ponder it for even a moment, but mostly I’m just loving the feeling of the sunlight on my face.

The windows on the house are all flung open to gulp in as much beautiful fresh air as possible before the chill returns. Because it will. (And so help me, this better not trigger the blossoms, which will then inevitably freeze.) The cat are each slung languidly in different windowsills, and Tiberius isn’t sure what to do with himself there are so many squirrels in his yard.

I lit a nag-champa and welcomed the lunar new year. It’s the Year of the Pig, the last of the 12-year Chinese zodiac cycle. The nag-champa smoke floats on the breeze, and if I close my eyes, it feels like Santa Cruz 25 years ago. This is normal for a California February, and my heart sings of home. The only thing missing is the jasmine and eucalyptus. The scent of jasmine makes me cry with homesickness; it always bloomed early, along with the camellias that grew everywhere.

I can hear children laughing and their mothers calling to them. Bicycles whir by, and the soft jingle of metal tags tells me at least a dozen dogs have walked by my house. The afternoon sun is still too far away for the really good rainbows to fill the  prisms in my window, but there are a few tiny ones trying to peek through. The shadows are growing long and golden, and Maxfield Parish would like the light.

Snow is forecast next week.

Today, I’ll breathe in the sunlight, and give thanks for my dog and the amazing humans who fill this house I am so fortunate to call home.