Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Today a friend of mine joined the POT club: Parents of Teenagers. As I welcomed her to the madness and wished her luck as her son turned 13, her response was that although he had been acting like a teenager for awhile anyway, she still wondered, "Where is my little boy?"

As a parent of a teenager myself, I have to admit, I could totally relate to that sentiment. Although in all honesty I have enjoyed my child at every age (MOST of the time), I do miss, to a certain extent, some of the behaviors and personality traits that I really enjoyed when she was younger. But despite my teenager's advanced age of 15-going-on-16, it's not like youthful innocence, joy and needs have slipped away forever, crushed in the typhoon of Adolescence. It's more like they have been repressed upon eye-roll and sigh-roll pain of death, accompanied by an interminably long, lamenting, multi-syllabic wail of MOM!!!!!!!

But you know, despite how much she protests, how she feels she must maintain certain behaviors at critical moments, and how there is a real and distinct separation between parent and child (Good God, don't walk TOO CLOSE and upon pain of death NO TOUCHING. EVER), there are still times (somewhat rarer, these days) when I see glimpses of the little girl.  The other night she was just really, really tired and stressed out.  We were both on the couch watching television, and the next thing I knew she was lying down, and then without a word, I was suddenly a pillow.  I knew she was exhausted and just needed some TLC, which she got, without lecture or discussion or teasing.  I knew it was a moment.  Special for me.  Necessary for her.  And we both felt better for it.

It doesn't matter how old you get, how grown you might feel, or how important you believe it is to assert your independence.  Everyone is still a child.  Everyone is a son or a daughter, and there are times in everybody's life where I think they would like nothing better than to be listened to, to be cared for, to be freed from worries and responsibilities, and to go out and laugh and play, or stay inside and be fed chicken soup, applesauce, and cinnamon toast.

Where is the child?  I don't think -- I know -- it is in every one of us.  Much to the horror of my teenager, I still love the fun and humor that is often lost in adulthood.  Heck, half the time still feel like "the kid."  But I know I'm not.  I'm the mom of a teenager, and now I pay a great deal of attention to those rare moments when the guard drops out of necessity or fun and the child peeks its head around the corner for a visit.  After all, we are grown-ups every single day of our life.  It would be a shame to miss that special moment when the posturing of adolescence or the responsibility of adulthood takes a break and we are treated to that rare visit from an earlier time full of funny faces, irrepressible giggles, fantastic stories, jokes, wonderment, hugs and a never-ending flow of I love you's.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Today a friend of mine joined the POT club: Parents of Teenagers. As I welcomed her to the madness and wished her luck as her son turned 13, her response was that although he had been acting like a teenager for awhile anyway, she still wondered, "Where is my little boy?"

As a parent of a teenager myself, I have to admit, I could totally relate to that sentiment. Although in all honesty I have enjoyed my child at every age (MOST of the time), I do miss, to a certain extent, some of the behaviors and personality traits that I really enjoyed when she was younger. But despite my teenager's advanced age of 15-going-on-16, it's not like youthful innocence, joy and needs have slipped away forever, crushed in the typhoon of Adolescence. It's more like they have been repressed upon eye-roll and sigh-roll pain of death, accompanied by an interminably long, lamenting, multi-syllabic wail of MOM!!!!!!!

But you know, despite how much she protests, how she feels she must maintain certain behaviors at critical moments, and how there is a real and distinct separation between parent and child (Good God, don't walk TOO CLOSE and upon pain of death NO TOUCHING. EVER), there are still times (somewhat rarer, these days) when I see glimpses of the little girl.  The other night she was just really, really tired and stressed out.  We were both on the couch watching television, and the next thing I knew she was lying down, and then without a word, I was suddenly a pillow.  I knew she was exhausted and just needed some TLC, which she got, without lecture or discussion or teasing.  I knew it was a moment.  Special for me.  Necessary for her.  And we both felt better for it.

It doesn't matter how old you get, how grown you might feel, or how important you believe it is to assert your independence.  Everyone is still a child.  Everyone is a son or a daughter, and there are times in everybody's life where I think they would like nothing better than to be listened to, to be cared for, to be freed from worries and responsibilities, and to go out and laugh and play, or stay inside and be fed chicken soup, applesauce, and cinnamon toast.

Where is the child?  I don't think -- I know -- it is in every one of us.  Much to the horror of my teenager, I still love the fun and humor that is often lost in adulthood.  Heck, half the time still feel like "the kid."  But I know I'm not.  I'm the mom of a teenager, and now I pay a great deal of attention to those rare moments when the guard drops out of necessity or fun and the child peeks its head around the corner for a visit.  After all, we are grown-ups every single day of our life.  It would be a shame to miss that special moment when the posturing of adolescence or the responsibility of adulthood takes a break and we are treated to that rare visit from an earlier time full of funny faces, irrepressible giggles, fantastic stories, jokes, wonderment, hugs and a never-ending flow of I love you's.

Follow That Star!

Every night I take stock of who is where. It isn't that difficult, since there are only two humans and two cats in the house. I know where the humans are, but I'm always interested to see where the cats have gone. There are several choices, but taking the COLD weather into account, they are narrowed down considerably. The favored locations include in front of the heating vents or on a blanket on the bed. When I finally crawl into bed, it's not unusual for both cats to settle in with me -- one at the foot of the bed and one to my right. Although which furry beast is where is somewhat interchangeable, I know to expect at least one of them every night.

It's a comforting and comfortable feeling when things and people and events are exactly who and where and what we expect them to be. There is a certain satisfaction in having a set routine in our day. It's nice to be able to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without smashing my toes into something immovable. Relationships with family and friends and colleagues are based on the personalities and our interactions with each individual person.

But who decides the norm? How do we determine what is usual, or routine? Is one personality better than another, and do we rank our relationships in some sort of hierarchy based on untold preferences?

The answer, of course is, there is no norm. Life shifts and changes, often without our permission. The same goes for people and relationships. Nobody and nothing is static, although sometimes we might wish otherwise. Life, like the tide, ebbs and flows and constantly changes. The question isn't how do we stop it? The question is, how do we recognize it? And then, the challenge is how do we learn to ebb and flow along with it?

January 6th marks the season of Epiphany, when, according to the story, all was made clear. At least that's what we're told. It's easy for us, thousands of years later, to read the story and do a bit of Monday morning armchair quarterbacking, saying, "Oh yeah...Of course...Divinity manifested...I knew it all along."

Right.

We are a people that loses our collective sanity when there is rerouting due to road construction, or when a television program is postponed because Sunday night football is running long. We can't handle people who suddenly become withdrawn or overly obnoxious or emotionally needy or physically unwell. Why? Because it's different. Because people or events or things no longer fit into our immovable, static existence, and we are too inflexible and indifferent to adapt.

The challenge of the season is to be open to our own Epiphany. By its very definition, it's something that is an unknown until the sudden realization. It doesn't come with timetables and charts and plans. And who knows? Maybe learning to ebb and flow just a little bit will make each of us open to change, and able to recognize an Epiphany, whenever, however and whoever presents it.

Follow That Star!

Every night I take stock of who is where. It isn't that difficult, since there are only two humans and two cats in the house. I know where the humans are, but I'm always interested to see where the cats have gone. There are several choices, but taking the COLD weather into account, they are narrowed down considerably. The favored locations include in front of the heating vents or on a blanket on the bed. When I finally crawl into bed, it's not unusual for both cats to settle in with me -- one at the foot of the bed and one to my right. Although which furry beast is where is somewhat interchangeable, I know to expect at least one of them every night.

It's a comforting and comfortable feeling when things and people and events are exactly who and where and what we expect them to be. There is a certain satisfaction in having a set routine in our day. It's nice to be able to walk from the bedroom to the bathroom without smashing my toes into something immovable. Relationships with family and friends and colleagues are based on the personalities and our interactions with each individual person.

But who decides the norm? How do we determine what is usual, or routine? Is one personality better than another, and do we rank our relationships in some sort of hierarchy based on untold preferences?

The answer, of course is, there is no norm. Life shifts and changes, often without our permission. The same goes for people and relationships. Nobody and nothing is static, although sometimes we might wish otherwise. Life, like the tide, ebbs and flows and constantly changes. The question isn't how do we stop it? The question is, how do we recognize it? And then, the challenge is how do we learn to ebb and flow along with it?

January 6th marks the season of Epiphany, when, according to the story, all was made clear. At least that's what we're told. It's easy for us, thousands of years later, to read the story and do a bit of Monday morning armchair quarterbacking, saying, "Oh yeah...Of course...Divinity manifested...I knew it all along."

Right.

We are a people that loses our collective sanity when there is rerouting due to road construction, or when a television program is postponed because Sunday night football is running long. We can't handle people who suddenly become withdrawn or overly obnoxious or emotionally needy or physically unwell. Why? Because it's different. Because people or events or things no longer fit into our immovable, static existence, and we are too inflexible and indifferent to adapt.

The challenge of the season is to be open to our own Epiphany. By its very definition, it's something that is an unknown until the sudden realization. It doesn't come with timetables and charts and plans. And who knows? Maybe learning to ebb and flow just a little bit will make each of us open to change, and able to recognize an Epiphany, whenever, however and whoever presents it.

Bedtime Stories

If you looked throughout my house, there is something (EXCLUDING DUST) that you would find in every room (upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber).  That something would be books.  I have books everywhere.  Piles in the bedroom, a small, select stack in the bathroom (don't EVEN give me grief on that one.  I am a big fan of the reading room).  There are cookbooks in the kitchen, coffee table books in the living room, and a secondary library in the basement.  With books occupying so much real estate and every nook and cranny, you might think I dedicate a lot of time to reading.

I might think that too.  I might even hope it.  But sadly, it's generally not the case.

It's not because I don't like book and I don't like to read.  Au contraire.  I wouldn't buy them if I didn't love them.  In fact, walking into a bookstore, breathing the air and being with "my people" can simultaneously lower my blood pressure and raise my level of excitement to new heights.  There are so many things to read.  There is so much to learn.  There are ideas I haven't heard, and rhymes I haven't yet allowed to trip over my tongue.  I want these things.  I need these things.  Addict?  Maybe so.

The very, very sad thing, though, is that I have practically no time to read.  In fact, for years, I used to go to the beach on vacation with a bagful of books.  It was my only chance to read, and I would take every advantage of it.  No War or Peace, here, but no bodice busters or fluffy summer fare.  My stash would include the best of things I can purchased over the course of the year.  And read, I did.  Sometimes a book a day.  And when I got home? All the books went back into piles, and I would reassess in 365 days.

As much as I looked forward to my annual speed-read-athon, and cherished my one chance to bond with a sheaf of bound paper, there was always a twinge of sadness at the frantic pace I was forced to undertake.  I would forsake walks on the beach, conversations with my family and a wickedly delightful mid-afternoon nap if it meant I could get through that next page... that next chapter... that next section.  If I was lucky, I would achieve a modicum of retention for a week or two after vacation.  But please, don't quiz me on the character traits of the protagonist in the novel The Life of Pi.  I know there was a kid.  And animals.  And a boat.  And it was weird.  And I liked it a lot.  That was the limit of my retention.

As I take baby steps to get my stuff in order I'm finding both the time and the inclination to read in months other than mid-June.  When life and home get too overwhelming, it's so much easier to do a human etch-a-sketch erase on the brain and let the television supply the story and the imagination, and then connect all the dots.  But now, as I'm carving out these little pockets of time for myself, I find I'm looking to create opportunities to read.  It still won't be an all-day literary affair, complete with cheese and crackers and wine, or an hour-long soak in the tub.  I doubt that I will ever have that kind of time.  But I AM looking forward to crawling in bed and reading a chapter or two as a way to treat myself at the end of the day.

Every day.
And not just days in June.

Bedtime Stories

If you looked throughout my house, there is something (EXCLUDING DUST) that you would find in every room (upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber).  That something would be books.  I have books everywhere.  Piles in the bedroom, a small, select stack in the bathroom (don't EVEN give me grief on that one.  I am a big fan of the reading room).  There are cookbooks in the kitchen, coffee table books in the living room, and a secondary library in the basement.  With books occupying so much real estate and every nook and cranny, you might think I dedicate a lot of time to reading.

I might think that too.  I might even hope it.  But sadly, it's generally not the case.

It's not because I don't like book and I don't like to read.  Au contraire.  I wouldn't buy them if I didn't love them.  In fact, walking into a bookstore, breathing the air and being with "my people" can simultaneously lower my blood pressure and raise my level of excitement to new heights.  There are so many things to read.  There is so much to learn.  There are ideas I haven't heard, and rhymes I haven't yet allowed to trip over my tongue.  I want these things.  I need these things.  Addict?  Maybe so.

The very, very sad thing, though, is that I have practically no time to read.  In fact, for years, I used to go to the beach on vacation with a bagful of books.  It was my only chance to read, and I would take every advantage of it.  No War or Peace, here, but no bodice busters or fluffy summer fare.  My stash would include the best of things I can purchased over the course of the year.  And read, I did.  Sometimes a book a day.  And when I got home? All the books went back into piles, and I would reassess in 365 days.

As much as I looked forward to my annual speed-read-athon, and cherished my one chance to bond with a sheaf of bound paper, there was always a twinge of sadness at the frantic pace I was forced to undertake.  I would forsake walks on the beach, conversations with my family and a wickedly delightful mid-afternoon nap if it meant I could get through that next page... that next chapter... that next section.  If I was lucky, I would achieve a modicum of retention for a week or two after vacation.  But please, don't quiz me on the character traits of the protagonist in the novel The Life of Pi.  I know there was a kid.  And animals.  And a boat.  And it was weird.  And I liked it a lot.  That was the limit of my retention.

As I take baby steps to get my stuff in order I'm finding both the time and the inclination to read in months other than mid-June.  When life and home get too overwhelming, it's so much easier to do a human etch-a-sketch erase on the brain and let the television supply the story and the imagination, and then connect all the dots.  But now, as I'm carving out these little pockets of time for myself, I find I'm looking to create opportunities to read.  It still won't be an all-day literary affair, complete with cheese and crackers and wine, or an hour-long soak in the tub.  I doubt that I will ever have that kind of time.  But I AM looking forward to crawling in bed and reading a chapter or two as a way to treat myself at the end of the day.

Every day.
And not just days in June.

A Hefty Hope

There is something comforting about getting things in order. Now, I know for some, this is not news and is, in fact a daily occurrence. A routine, a habit, and dare I say, a necessity of daily living. I am nowhere near that level, although when life really starts to pile up, I wish I were. The best I can do I keep my head above water, and then (when time allows) I do my best to lower the flood waters to something less than disaster levels.

Every time I make progress, I feel so much better. I have more room, I can see surfaces instead of mountains of clutter, and I feel just a little bit more in control of life. The question is, if the results are always so self-satisfying, why does it take me so darn long to get to that point?

I don't have answers, really, and I try not to spend a lot of time beating myself up for things done and things left undone. But once again, I am focused and rededicated to purge, eliminate, donate, straighten and sit down and make some decisions once and for all on what is important to me in my life, and what simply is not.

I'm also aware that in seven more days, when I return to a two job, sixty-plus hour workweek, all bets may be drastically reduced. Regardless, I am truly hoping to not give in entirely during in the busy months. Everything I can manage to do -- no matter how slight -- will be one more thing done. I just want to remember that my goal isn't a clean my house (although that will certainly be a huge plus). My goal is to find what is truly important in all this STUFF, and hopefully at the end of the day I'll have given myself the gift of time and space and freedom to live and be.

Tonight I did a bit of both.  I took some time for myself and went out in the freezing cold, then grabbed some dinner and ran to the store.  But when I came home, I sat down and gave my shredder a workout and filled the trash can twice.  I have a small list of things I really need to get done this week.  It's not a 5-mile list, which depresses me, and it isn't a list filled with tasks I've put down just for the sake of having something to cross off:  #1:  Make a list.  CHECK! #2: Check completed items off the list.  CHECK!

Not mine, but obviously I am not alone

in failing to create a meaningful to-do list

I know this isn't my strong point, but I'm trying to go at this from a positive "one step at a time" outlook, and make progress because it's a good thing to do for myself and not a frantic thing I am doing out of desperation. 
Keep your fingers crossed for me and maybe say a prayer.

Oh, and word to the wise:  buy stock in garbage bags.

A Hefty Hope

There is something comforting about getting things in order. Now, I know for some, this is not news and is, in fact a daily occurrence. A routine, a habit, and dare I say, a necessity of daily living. I am nowhere near that level, although when life really starts to pile up, I wish I were. The best I can do I keep my head above water, and then (when time allows) I do my best to lower the flood waters to something less than disaster levels.

Every time I make progress, I feel so much better. I have more room, I can see surfaces instead of mountains of clutter, and I feel just a little bit more in control of life. The question is, if the results are always so self-satisfying, why does it take me so darn long to get to that point?

I don't have answers, really, and I try not to spend a lot of time beating myself up for things done and things left undone. But once again, I am focused and rededicated to purge, eliminate, donate, straighten and sit down and make some decisions once and for all on what is important to me in my life, and what simply is not.

I'm also aware that in seven more days, when I return to a two job, sixty-plus hour workweek, all bets may be drastically reduced. Regardless, I am truly hoping to not give in entirely during in the busy months. Everything I can manage to do -- no matter how slight -- will be one more thing done. I just want to remember that my goal isn't a clean my house (although that will certainly be a huge plus). My goal is to find what is truly important in all this STUFF, and hopefully at the end of the day I'll have given myself the gift of time and space and freedom to live and be.

Tonight I did a bit of both.  I took some time for myself and went out in the freezing cold, then grabbed some dinner and ran to the store.  But when I came home, I sat down and gave my shredder a workout and filled the trash can twice.  I have a small list of things I really need to get done this week.  It's not a 5-mile list, which depresses me, and it isn't a list filled with tasks I've put down just for the sake of having something to cross off:  #1:  Make a list.  CHECK! #2: Check completed items off the list.  CHECK!

Not mine, but obviously I am not alone

in failing to create a meaningful to-do list

I know this isn't my strong point, but I'm trying to go at this from a positive "one step at a time" outlook, and make progress because it's a good thing to do for myself and not a frantic thing I am doing out of desperation. 
Keep your fingers crossed for me and maybe say a prayer.

Oh, and word to the wise:  buy stock in garbage bags.

Winter Recipe

On cold, cold winter nights, there is nothing much better than curling up on the couch snuggled up close to anyone or anything else that might provide some extra heat. Fill in the cracks with furry animals top generously with all remaining pillows and a large fluffy blanket.

If desired, add one or more of the following items: magazine, book, laptop computer, DVD, or television with remote control. Telephones are not recommended as anything underneath the blanket will be asleep in five minutes or less, and they tend to leave a bad aftertaste.

Do NOT stir and keep warm until done. Repeat until spring.

Winter Recipe

On cold, cold winter nights, there is nothing much better than curling up on the couch snuggled up close to anyone or anything else that might provide some extra heat. Fill in the cracks with furry animals top generously with all remaining pillows and a large fluffy blanket.

If desired, add one or more of the following items: magazine, book, laptop computer, DVD, or television with remote control. Telephones are not recommended as anything underneath the blanket will be asleep in five minutes or less, and they tend to leave a bad aftertaste.

Do NOT stir and keep warm until done. Repeat until spring.

When Two Rights Make a Wrong

Caveat Emptor: (Latin) "Let the buyer beware".


Today as I was scouring the city for apple cider (and none was to be found), I decided to take ten minutes and wander my local World Market just to check things out.  I knew they were having a furniture sale (which thankfully, I have no need at the present time), and wondered if there was anything else interesting to be found.

Walking the food aisles, I ran across something I had heard of that both intrigued me and gave me the slightest twinge of mince pie face.  It was a bar of Bacon Chocolate.

I had heard of bacon-flavored chocolate, and to the best of my recollection, I thought I remembered that it was supposed to be really, really good.  Seeing as it was both dark chocolate (which, given the choice, would be the one and only choice every single time) and bacon (which, given the choice, would be the one and only choice every single time), I figured it was a done deal.  I had to buy it.  I had to try it.  I had to love the bacon chocolate bar.

So I bought it, and I brought it home and yes, I tried it.

It was dark chocolately, and there was something else there too, but if it was bacon, it was lost on me.  My taste buds told me there was chocolate and salt, and that was about it.  The problem was, salty chocolate doesn't taste particlarly exotic...just weird.  And that, in a word, summed up the bacon chocolate experiment.  WEIRD.  Unfortunately for the makers of said chocolate bacon bar, WEIRD didnt' mean "How interesting.  Let me try some more, and share with friends, and keep eating it until it becomes less a really odd taste and more a sophisticated selection on my personal flavor profile."

Or some such nonsense.

Nope, instead it was, and continues to be, just plain old odd.  Salty chocolate.  It's a shame too, because I am a true bacon fan, and dark chocolate isn't half bad either.  Be that as it may, this particular experiment, didn't quite have the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup results I would have hoped for.  Having chocolate in peanut butter, or peanut butter in chocolate is a winner.  But bacon chocolate?  My experience, at least after a first taste, is that it is not a match made in heaven.  For now, I think I'll keep these two food groups separated by time and plates.

How long until breakfast?

When Two Rights Make a Wrong

Caveat Emptor: (Latin) "Let the buyer beware".


Today as I was scouring the city for apple cider (and none was to be found), I decided to take ten minutes and wander my local World Market just to check things out.  I knew they were having a furniture sale (which thankfully, I have no need at the present time), and wondered if there was anything else interesting to be found.

Walking the food aisles, I ran across something I had heard of that both intrigued me and gave me the slightest twinge of mince pie face.  It was a bar of Bacon Chocolate.

I had heard of bacon-flavored chocolate, and to the best of my recollection, I thought I remembered that it was supposed to be really, really good.  Seeing as it was both dark chocolate (which, given the choice, would be the one and only choice every single time) and bacon (which, given the choice, would be the one and only choice every single time), I figured it was a done deal.  I had to buy it.  I had to try it.  I had to love the bacon chocolate bar.

So I bought it, and I brought it home and yes, I tried it.

It was dark chocolately, and there was something else there too, but if it was bacon, it was lost on me.  My taste buds told me there was chocolate and salt, and that was about it.  The problem was, salty chocolate doesn't taste particlarly exotic...just weird.  And that, in a word, summed up the bacon chocolate experiment.  WEIRD.  Unfortunately for the makers of said chocolate bacon bar, WEIRD didnt' mean "How interesting.  Let me try some more, and share with friends, and keep eating it until it becomes less a really odd taste and more a sophisticated selection on my personal flavor profile."

Or some such nonsense.

Nope, instead it was, and continues to be, just plain old odd.  Salty chocolate.  It's a shame too, because I am a true bacon fan, and dark chocolate isn't half bad either.  Be that as it may, this particular experiment, didn't quite have the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup results I would have hoped for.  Having chocolate in peanut butter, or peanut butter in chocolate is a winner.  But bacon chocolate?  My experience, at least after a first taste, is that it is not a match made in heaven.  For now, I think I'll keep these two food groups separated by time and plates.

How long until breakfast?

Simple Gifts

"What are you going to write about?" Is a common question on most nights in my house. Nearly every night the answer is, "I have no idea. I haven't sat down yet." I'd like to think that somehow I have been formulating ideas and writing paragraphs in my mind in between reading novels and watching PBS, but it just isn't the case. These days I often don't sit down to write until after 11pm. If novel reading ever preceded blog writing, blog writing would never happen, because I would be unconscious somewhere under a blanket buried in a pillow with the novel unceremoniously dumped from lap to floor. Tonight I will admit to watching a little PBS, because it was Thomas Hampson and the New York Philharmonic and Copland and Gershwin and Cole Porter. That in and of itself is an awesome combination, and worth taking a few minutes to sit and watch.

When the entire "Live from Lincoln Center" program repeated at 10 PM, I came in to write, but left the television on in the living room. A friend surfaced online and we chatted for a bit, and when she signed off, I looked at the clock. 11 PM. Must be time to write. But what to write?

When I don't know what to write, sometimes I'll check my email or catch up on my RSS feeds from various blogs. Looking through my Gmail reader, I remembered that TeenTuna told me she had posted on Christmas Eve and I still hadn't read it. So, late though it was, I thought I should, and I did.

So, with the New York Philharmonic blasting "Simple Gifts" (from Appalachian Spring) by Copland I clicked through to the last entry written by my fifteen year old daughter.  Here, in part, is what she wrote:

I didn't ask for much this Christmas, but found myself for the first year buying presents with my own money. Last night I had four of my closest friends come over for a Christmas bash where we watched movies for hours, exchanged gifts, and cuddled on the couch. That party, reminded me that I have the greatest friends anyone could ever ask for and that they mean the world to me.

2009 has had its fill of ups and downs but all those things have made me into a different and better person. When I look back on the year this is what I think of:

First, comes family. Family will always be important to me no matter what. Through 2009 my family has done so much to support me and I can't thank them enough for all that they do. I can always turn to family, when I can't go to friends. They are always there for me....

 Second, are the opportunities. This year I have participated in so many things that I enjoy doing....All of these things wouldn't be possibly without the support of my family and friends.

 Finally, are my friends....My closest friends have meant more to me this year than any other. I've known them for about two years and I feel like I've known them all my life. Its times like these when I think back to Elementary school and remember how much I wanted friends, and that they were only half an hour away.  They mean the world to me and I don't know what I would do without them.

This Christmas, I don't wish for anything big.....All I wish for and want for the new year is to be loved by my friends and family and to remind them that I am always here for them just like they are for me.

Leave it to the profoundly simple harmonies of Aaron Copland, the dance tune of the Shakers, the world of Elder Joseph Brackett and the wisdom of my teenage daughter to sum up those things that really matter in this world.  I'm humbled and grateful to be reminded that there is no better gift than to find ourselves in "the place just right."

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.