Welcome to the latest edition of the Fog Chaser newsletter—sharing a new original instrumental song & photos every month. (previous issue: woodsmoke)
The Sonoran Desert is full of relics: the bones of saguaros decaying in the sand, their wooden ribs bleached by decades of sun. Arrowheads unearthed in dry creek beds. Paths worn smooth into ancient rock by centuries of footsteps.
A reliquary is just a container for relics, those things that matter because of what they’ve held or who they’ve touched. The desert itself feels like one massive reliquary to me, holding so much of what came before.
I wrote this month’s piece originally for my friend Chloe Hope’s newsletter Death & Birds. Chloe is an end-of-life doula and writes about what she calls “life’s most significant transitions”—the liminal spaces between one state and another, the threshold where things change form but don’t quite disappear. Listening back as the year winds down, it felt like this song belonged here with you, too.
Maybe memory itself is a reliquary, a container for fragments of what once mattered, what still matters. Luminarias lining dirt roads on Christmas Eve. My brothers and I roaming the desert for hours. My mom baking pies or wrapping gifts in front of the fireplace. Hanging lights with my dad. Watching for my grandparents’ headlights through the fog on Christmas morning. Midnight mass at Saint Philip’s down the hill, that Spanish Colonial church on the corner of two (formerly) dirt roads, its bells ringing out across the basin. A full table when everyone was still here.
My dad. My grandparents. My mom’s brother. My dad’s brother. All gone now.
We carry these relics, sometimes without even knowing we’re doing it. The slowing down of the world in December. The gathering. The light through winter windows. Everything is transitory; we know that. But the relics, these reminders—whether physical or in memory only—give me comfort.
🎵 This month’s piece is in D minor.1
📷 This month’s photos were taken in the Sonoran Desert.2
by W.S. Merwin3
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
I invite you to sit with this month’s song, photos, and poem and make them a small part of your day, whether that’s your morning ritual, afternoon break, or your evening wind-down.
As always, if you feel like it, let me know what you think in the comments. I’d love to hear from you.
Wishing you and yours a quiet solstice this weekend, and a peaceful holiday season. Thank you for being here this year.
» Songs from Decembers past:
January 2, 2026: First Friday Playlist (curated listening from my catalog)—check out December’s playlist here.
Thank you for being here,
Matt
reliquary / Written, performed, and produced by Fog Chaser
For more piano songs from this volume, check out shadow of a cloud and woodsmoke
Reminder: while some of my songs are eventually released on streaming platforms, others are not. Regardless, all of my songs are shared here with you first.
Saint Philip’s in the Hills (digital), and saguaros holding light in Saguaro National Park (film).
W. S. Merwin, “Separation” from The Second Four Books of Poems (Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press, 1993). Copyright © 1993 by W. S. Merwin.
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