2012’s parting gift to me was the Head Cold from Hell, which forced me to slow down, rest, and do nothing. I wanted to do that anyway, but without quite so much mucous production. It wasn’t all bad, though. While I sniffled and coughed in my bed, I also read books I want to finish by year’s end and pondered the year that was:

2012 started out with Contemplation Month and, as usual, some efforts to clear things out and become more organized, a tradition I think I will continue. I chose Passion as my word of the year, and proceeded to ignore it. 

After a rough 2011, 2012 seemed to be following suit after we had a minor car accident in March, but that car accident was a turning point. I changed my expectations and found that 2012 was actually mostly a good year, filled with interesting books, a couple of fun trips, and simple pleasures galore. My son turned 18, I got my office back and this blog turned 3. I finished up the year with a weekend spent having my mind blown at a Parelli Natural Horsemanship event, where—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—I became a “Social Media Rock Star” and won a prize for my photographs. (They haven’t posted the winners from Tampa yet, so you’ll just have to take my word for it!)

On the more serious side, I noticed that I often felt overwhelmed and too busy in the last few months of the year, and my self-discipline when it came to writing was all but non-existent. These major issues must change and will be receiving plenty of attention in January. 

After watching what others have gone through in 2012, I realize that it’s a privilege to blather on about my emotions and goals, the small and big things that I find interesting and that make me happy. Living through 2012 was a gift, just as each day is a gift for those of us lucky enough to wake up to see it.

As the old year passes away, I face 2013 hopefully. Jan. 1 always feels like a fresh start and I look forward to a new year of simple pleasures and everyday adventures (I’ve been called for possible jury duty again!). I hope your 2012 was a year of happiness and growth, and that 2013 is even better. 

What did you take away from 2012? What are your hopes for the new year?

“Optimism is true moral courage.”

I’d planned a lighthearted post for today, but after the events at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut Friday, I just can’t write about overflowing bookshelves or what I learned about my word of the year this year. Frankly, I don’t know what words would be appropriate at this time. All I can do is grieve for the families affected, and be thankful that my family is whole and healthy.

It doesn’t seem like enough. I want to do something, though what that might be I don’t know. Several suggestions are circulating on the internet, including sending cards to the school, wearing green and white (the school’s colors) in support and remembrance, or donating money in support of the victims’ families. This thoughtful blog post regarding mental health issues at Anarchist Soccer Mom is worth a read, also.

There are no words to adequately express the sorrow that we all feel. No matter what we do or don't do, we'll never be quite the same.

I realized a while back that there have been over 850 moons that have gone through their phases since I arrived on the earth, and I haven’t taken the time to look at nearly enough of them. Here Molly Fisk, a California poet, gives us one of those many moons that you and I may have failed to observe. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Hunter's Moon

Early December, dusk, and the sky

slips down the rungs of its blue ladder

into indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs

in the air above the ridge like a broken plate

and shines on us all, on the new deputy

almost asleep in his four-by-four,

lulled by the crackling song of the dispatcher,

on the bartender, slowly wiping a glass

and racking it, one eye checking the game.

It shines down on the fox’s red and grey life,

as he stills, a shadow beside someone’s gate,

listening to winter. Its pale gaze caresses

the lovers, curled together under a quilt,

dreaming alone, and shines on the scattered

ashes of terrible fires, on the owl’s black flight,

on the whelks, on the murmuring kelp,

on the whale that washed up six weeks ago

at the base of the dunes, and it shines

on the backhoe that buried her.