Delightful Things from 2012: a collective list

uni-ball Signo Micro 207, my new favorite pen

hearing my sister's laugh over the phone, from the other side of the country

giving away half the clothes in my closet

re-reading books, fresh the second time around, due to my not-so-sharp memory

morning yoga on Mondays and Fridays, with dear friends and an inspired teacher

crocheting many big beautiful colorful afghan blankets

veggie/fruit smoothies for breakfast each day; no two exactly alike

new hairstyle

discovering my library card is valid until 2050

fishing off the Farmers' Market dock

the Yule Log on channel 501

snow ho ho

Shane turning into a zombie and getting shot in the head by Carl(on the TV show "Walking Dead")

getting married

sitting down to meditate in a field and seeing a dear old auntie as soon as I closed my eyes

handing in my resignation to an astonished boss

scaling a rope wall with 100 other muddy women during an obstacle race to benefit breast cancer research

stopping during a run to splash water on my face in a stream and being greeted by 2 frogs under a rock

my 6-year-old son snuggled on my lap, reading me a book for the first time

listening to one amazing/powerful/funny/sad/magical story after another on the night that the angels visited Zee’s Writing Studio

watching the blue moon rise over the Atlantic Ocean and noticing it was kind of pink

going up a hill to look for a lost hammer, and instead encountering a woodpecker who was . . . hammering

stopping by the hillside yard of my grandmother, completely on a whim, just as a rainbow appeared ahead of a summer shower and reached out in front of my car

making good and unexpected connections with people through cyberspace

successfully defending my doctoral course work

finally getting a breast reduction when absolutely no one in my life supported my decision

any moments without pain

watching from a rooftop garden as the sun set over San Miguel

reading a novel with my dog, Poochini, on my lap

seeing a cross-dressing version of Midsummer Night’s Dream

watching my kids get off the ferry in Provincetown

70-year-old Judy Collins, knocking it out of the park

good literary times with authors Ira Wood and Alice Mattison

walking hand in hand with my 3-year-old granddaughter, to see the chickens at the end of the road, where she did her little chicken dance before we turned back to go home

completing 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles with my 16-year-old granddaughter 

hanging my art show, then standing back and seeing all that I've actually accomplished

writing a truly good sentence

digging in the dirt and finding perfectly round spider eggs, rusted metal bottle caps, and buried nuts the squirrels forgot

waking up and knowing that Barak Obama is still our president

Ray Davies in performance, and Mary Chapin Carpenter, too

standing on the quiet smooth rocks on the coast of Maine, overlooking a vast, busy noisy ocean

the western sky in late afternoon — white clouds turning shades of orange and pink, highlighted by patches of blue

a big dish of black cherry ice cream from Purity

onions frying: a smell that delights me year after year

the arrival of boxes and bags of new plants and shrubs, waiting to be planted

rose-breasted grosbeaks and the indigo bunting pair, arriving five days earlier than usual

a friend from high school, who I hadn't seen in years, knocking at my front door

my husband's presence, almost all the time

Downton Abbey ten-hour marathon

the New York Knicks

mediation for 20 minutes, once

gaining wisdom; gaining humility

a full year of health for my cats

almost winning the lottery (and planning how to spend the money we almost won)

buying all types of stationary supplies: pens, pencils, paper, 3-ring binders, etc.

my mother's new knees

ending a bad marriage, with no regrets 

finding a beautiful home to rent with great light and plenty of space

grateful to be alive after a car accident

getting a great job after not having worked in a dozen years

the birth of a puppy, who will soon come to live with us

making a wonderful new friend

Daiya cheese, a vegan cheese that tastes good

Mapp and Lucia, the funniest BritCom I've ever seen

morning kisses from the dog

realizing I did want to get remarried, and then getting remarried

my son dressing himself in an all-velour outfit

dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt

Leonard Cohen

kale, right from the garden

starting Middle School, making many more friends, and keeping up with my homework

realizing that people are nicer than I sometimes give them credit for

my awesome teachers

the world did not end

seeing the image of the parrot I painted, featured on the PaintedParrot blog

moving into our best home ever

knee replacement a resounding success and my quality of life is vastly improved

knowing that the family is well and settled in their adventures, every one

my cat's incredible dexterity

marzipan

crossing the shaky plank bridge over Lava Canyon near Mount St. Helens; jumping up and down so it jiggled and scared the wits out of my husband

seeing my granddaughter triumph in her first big musical comedy roles

a BLT sandwich in Atlanta

good sex in my 7th decade

monthly folk song swaps at Buffalo Street Books

a red-shouldered hawk flying cross my path, one foot clutching a snake

Harry Potter trivia night at Collegetown Bagels

a crab molting before my eyes, somehow squeezing out through a thin slit in the back of her shell

a dazzling diversity of progressive shows on WRFI Community Radio

colorful fish eating tiny red worms from my fingertips

reading (and finishing) Joyce's Ulysses

a heavenly/tearful experience in the butterfly exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History 

developing and teaching my own college course: "Art of Aging"

the grad student ball 

seeing the movie Harold and Maude for the first time

passing the oral part of my dissertation

a moving tribute to honor those who died when the Titanic sank, 100 years ago

an island of puffins and a flock of elegant flamingos

taking a bath in volcanic waters

witnessing the blooming of the stinky corpse plant, “titan arum,” (a once-every-fifteen-years event)

midnight sun in Iceland

laughing with friends, while riding an elephant

writing my dreams

sleeping on the heated floor of a traditional Korean inn, alone, recovering from illness, and waking each morning to an unknown adventure

taking a longboat ride near a tropical island, against rough seas, and getting completely soaked

stumbling upon a mountainside monastery in Seoul and getting invited to lunch with the monks

a fluffy cat who really, really loves to be petted

baby herons hatching

my daughter and I splashing and paddling through the swim portion of the Cayuga Lake Triathlon

learning that my dear friend's cancer was gone

qi-gong on the beach at sunrise 

standing up for what I truly believed was right 

heating our house with wood for the first time ever and finding warmth never before experienced

dragonflies everywhere: on the side of my house, on the porch railings, on my arm, during one sunny day in autumn

watching my daughter emerge from the water after swimming across Cayuga Lake on a dazzling, blue-sky shining day at "Women Swimmin'" — a hospice benefit

using binoculars to locate my youngest child's mortarboard and funky orange sunglasses at his Ithaca College graduation on my 54th birthday 

hearing a child say "I love school"

acting in a luminous production of Our Town, by Thornton Wilder, after years of yearning to do just that

feeling my mother's spirit near me during a winter spiral ceremony in late December

swimming with a young turtle over the waving sea grass seven feet beneath the surface of Sapphire Bay

the pond surface, covered with frog eggs

celebrating my seventieth birthday with old friends and members of my wide-spread family; and my secret celebration that day, that the biopsy was benign

diving into a new and exciting world of nutrition and mindset, questioning everything I previously thought to be true

writing two articles a month for an online magazine — a dream come true I didn’t even know I was dreaming

reading, reading, reading — did I mention reading?

sitting on the deck, watching somebody else mow the lawn

feeling deep love and gratitude for the person I met 13 years ago

opening a bottle of bubbly after passing my final exam and screaming like crazy

understanding the concept of being connected with everybody on this planet — past, present and future 

playing a euphonium/organ duet with my friend Joan in her living room

realizing that I was still capable of life changing decisions 

learning how to make brioche 

singing in a group for the first time in a long time 

eating Indian food, something I had not done before and had really wanted to try 

the true comfort and joy of living in a place that reflects my values and provides stimulation to learn and grow

watching families of ducks and geese on the inlet throughout the spring

sparkles around the Big Dipper, maybe they were the August shooting stars

seeing my 21-year-old son, Zane, without his hat for the first time in a year

watching the walls go up on our new house

learning lace knitting and creating a beautiful scarf

baby goats; spring peepers; white tail rabbits eating clover at the edge of the garden

THANK YOU to all these delightful contributors:

Anne Killian-Russo

Barbara Kane Lewis

Bridget Alano

Carol Bossard

Charlotte Sweeney

Chris Fontana

Claudia Tracy

Deirdre Silverman

Gary Russo

Gwen Guo

Jackie Mott Brown

Judith Andrew

June Wolfman

Laurie Petersen

Lee Miller

Lourdes Brache

Martha Blue Waters

Mihal Ronen

Nancy Koschmann

Nancy Barno Reynolds

Nina Miller

Padma O'Mara

Pamela Goddard

Paula Peters Marra

Peggy Conolly

Randy Mott Cobb

Sasha Paris

Stacey Murphy

Zee Zahava

B Double OK Book, by Sylvia J. Bailey

B double OK Book

I must be 6 years old. I am on the porch of my childhood home, 39 Dempster Street, Ravena, NY. The paint on the wooden porch is thick, cracked, and peeling in spots. 

B double OK Book

I am coming home

B double OK Book

from first grade

B double OK Book

up the three steps to the landing. Some of the paint flecks on my hand.

B double OK Book

It's a warm, bright day.

B double OK Book

I wear sturdy leather tie shoes, Buster Brown — "Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy" (The Andy Devine Show. What a bizarre show. What kind of drugs were they on?) — or Keds, so I can run faster, jump higher.

B double OK Book

I am skipping. I have that "I am skipping" feeling even if I am not skipping.

B double OK Book

I am inside of the house watching myself arrive. I am outside of my house and outside of myself watching myself arrive.  And I am my arriving self.

B double OK Book

You can have your mantras. Your "Om Mani Padme Hum," your "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison," your "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna."

I have mine.

B double OK Book

You have arrived. You are home. You are always arriving. You are always home.

You, my innocent, curly haired, skipping, child of my heart, have never left.

I Am Always Afraid I Will Forget, by Carla DeMello

I am always afraid I will forget

to water the plants

to feed the cat who never lets me forget

to be on time

when to pay the bills

that it's time to begin the next project

that it has to be finished in nick's own time or the world will end

the hour and minute each child was born

how to bake bread without a recipe

what the sun means to me

how to get to Brooklyn

to buy those shoes I wanted on payday

to remember who to give what to

to set up my out-of-office message

to buy toilet paper before I run out

to take my pills each day

to pack a lunch for my son

that this year I won't be invited to that annual party I hate to go to

that color is my mojo

to take my cell phone, keys, wallet, and iPod

to renew my library books on time

to listen to This American Life on Sunday at noon

what it's like to be a child

to fast the morning of my cholesterol test

that it's Monday

But I never do.

I try never to forget

that I want to stand up more than sit down

that I love to dance

that I've decided not to get so mad about things I can't control

that I'm not an extrovert

my resolve

that I don't actually care how much I weigh

that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do including going to that party

to pack a lunch for myself

that what I love to do is more important than the stuff I do instead

that my children love me more than I can fathom even now that they're all grown up

to just be myself

that once upon a time I was passionate about clay

to floss

the good things that happen

that she told me "no" lives in the land of "yes"

what I already know

that I have given away more than I've kept

to take myself less seriously

to take you less seriously

that I'm not always in a knowing place

that I love solitude

that from me came these . . . and these

to go to bed at a reasonable hour

why that person is just the sort of person I really shouldn't open my most vulnerable self to

But I always do.

12/12/12: a collective diary project

More than 75 people — children, teens and adults —  contributed to this collective diary, describing one particularly note-worthy day: December 12, 2012. 12-12-12. The last of the month-day-year dates for a long long time.

Below you will find a flowing list that offers a glimpse into group consciousness, with entries coming from Ithaca, California, New Mexico, Afghanistan, and other places too.

I call this a Word Mosaic, and hope you'll enjoy reading this account of a day, arranged in random order.

THANK YOU to everyone who participated. All the contributors' names are listed, alphabetically by first name, at the end.

I'm reading a mystery novel that's a bit confusing because there are two characters named Freddie. Walking to work this morning, I noticed as I do every year at this time that the sun was crouching as we circled it rather than standing, as it was a moment ago, in summer. I heard a woman in surprise say "whoa!" and I wondered when and how our command to horses shifted to this new meaning. Driving my daughter to school today, I felt a surge of happiness as I realized that she is always ready to laugh. New York City, all lit up, hustle bustle crowding pushing, cash registers, carolers, too much too little, too loud too hard, too hot too cold, too far from home.  I woke up in Afghanistan. The dryers were all full, but as is custom here at Camp Sabalu-Harrison, Afghanistan, I carefully folded someone's dry clothes for them, and then filled the dryer with my clothes. I realized it was Wednesday. For lunch on Wednesdays, it's wings! I got a package from my mother — she sent me snacks and Christmas decorations; I'm saving the fudge for Christmas Day. I left work a little early so I could come back to my room and write these sentences about what I did today. The contractors invaded the house to rip out ceilings due to a flood two days ago; it shocked me how quickly a room could go from charming to raw. And then you take out the recycling and everything changes. Today at work I snacked on a pear, an apple, an avocado, a hardboiled egg chopped up with mayonnaise and cottage cheese, steamed zucchini and some rice cakes. Is it my imagination, or was that a younger version of me that I saw in the mirror after this morning's shower? After reviewing and tweaking an email at least 12 times, it was disconcerting when a glaring error popped out just a hair before I hit "send." Cleo and Fiona, the cats, insist there is a mouse in my study. Accidentally set off my car alarm which makes me feel like I've been caught doing something very wrong, but that's ridiculous. The alfalfa sprouts were covered with a network of fine white hairs, so I rinsed them thoroughly, removed the ones that hadn't sprouted, and set them on a sunny windowsill. I French-braided by daughter's long blond hair, kissed the top of her head, and made her shiver. I wondered these things: how can I keep from singing; how can I make money; how can I grow taller; how would I look with bangs; how would I look bald; how come I don't dream. I began the day with prayer and meditation. I hold out my hand to this day's revolutions and open my heart to knowledge yet to come. Read poems by Walt Whitman and had ambivalent feelings; later learned about Victor Hugo. Played basketball, but not very well. Today I received a round of applause. I laughed several times when I meant it and several times when I didn't. I missed an opportunity to use "albeit" in a sentence. Confused The Taming of the Shrew with The Turn of the Screw. Wondered if there is a chance I would live to the year 2101. Read a chapter of Madame Bovary. I had a ripe red pomegranate for lunch. I bought a not-very-good cupcake in the school cafeteria and pretended to like it. Looked at the yellow setting sun, though not directly at it, of course. This morning the leafless hills looked brown and furry, like a bear's back. Tonight we will light the menorah and eat leftover green curry for dinner. I developed my fourth roll of film and my hands still smell like rapid fixer. Some things went better than expected, but some things bode ill. I didn't really talk to him, but he said my name as we passed in the hallway. In U. S. History class I encountered a deep sense of nostalgia; I worry sometimes that nostalgia will soon be all I ever feel. I made paper snowflakes for the first time since pre-kindergarten; very zen-like. I realize that rhymes come naturally to me. Today I learned that my science teacher eats road kill. As the clock ticked to 12:12 the principal's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, reminding us to remember this day; I whooped and hollered, along with all my classmates. I was ambushed by my alarm clock. Appreciated my history teacher's frequent references to the movie The Hobbit. Drew a picture of a wolf and talked about waffles. My teacher bribed me with 3 mint candies so I would sit next to a troublemaker in math class. Remembering a dream about the 1930s. Why do all these so-called health bars taste exactly the same (and not very good)?  Learning to play Chanson by Robert D. Vandall at my piano lesson today, the teacher showed me how to curl my thumb under my fingers in order to move it easily onto the next note. My purple little toe, which I'd dropped the dust-buster on over the weekend, hurt only a tiny bit on my walk today. I ate freshly baked rugelach, a gift from my neighbor, with my English breakfast tea this afternoon. A friend asked me: Is this the day the world is supposed to end?  Wishing a long and happy life to Baby Girl Patterson in New York City, born at 12:12 p.m. on 12/12/12. A party in the office: 3 plates transformed into clocks with the  number 12 made out of bulk treats from GreenStar. To nap or not to nap? I set my neglected fantasy books together on the shelf for company. This room needs more magic. I tack up photos of the future. If I drink pink bismuth with this energy drink, will I regret it? If I don't get rid of all this catnip, people are going to catch on. Coffee grounds as an air freshener is the best idea I've had in a very long time. I watched as a hawk scooped a little bird up in her talons. An elephant ventured curiously into the dream-world. It was a cozy morning of cushiony socks, thick paperback novels and miso soup. A mad scramble for a celebratory morsel turned one precious minute into a race against time. In the dim light of the downstairs, I heard mysterious squeaking coming from above; it was the guinea pig. The day started promptly at midnight with a crying (and crying, and crying) baby. The afternoon was a blur. I heard the most amazing story in a phone conversation with someone I thought I'd never speak to again. I sat on a red comfy couch and slowly chewed a pumpkin bagel. The pre-school where I read for Traveling Books gave me a giant poster of their finger-paint hand prints forming a Christmas tree, with much glitter. The oatmeal cookies I baked made the house smell good, and Ella Fitzgerald made it sound good. An old boyfriend phoned (we'll call him "Kermit"), not to whisper sweet intimacies across the miles, but to beef that Coach Munn hadn't played him enough on the Honeoye Varsity basketball team —  in 1956. This is the first December 12th that I am considered a breast cancer survivor. Gingerbread cookies are bald until you paint hair on their heads with frosting. Lounging around with my son, waiting for inspiration — "where to go for breakfast?" becomes "where to go for lunch?" My 64-year-old body aches all over from three consecutive days of tennis and moderate weights. Almost time for bed and the cat howls to come in and my right wrist aches to the point where I consider taking some pain medication even though I swore I wouldn't today. I felt a cold coming on today, took a hot bath and a nap, and now I feel a lot better. For dinner: 5 chicken wings, one piece of cherry pie, pomegranate seeds, and a spoonful of cole slaw; I have to go now and eat a banana. Today was a lucky day, full of great decisions. It started out only as a Moroccan yogurt cake, but quickly turned into an eight course meal. Discussing coffee with a stranger reveals many truths about them. Walking past the trees, the deer rustled the pine boughs. Walking across the horse pasture, every single blade of grass is covered with thick frost, the red tailed hawk screeches above me, and the sun catches us all. Settling into sadness — this can be okay. After years of hearing it squeak, I oil the wheel barrow wheel and it is instantly quiet. Darkness descends without me riding the spotted horse. Frozen mud makes for easier walking, but I have to wonder: is frozen mud still mud? Black beans for lunch, black beans for dinner. Stepping out into the night of dark dark sky, bright bright stars, and tiny me. What is that incessant ringing that goes on and on? No keys, no money, no breakfast, and I've missed my appointment. "Unglued" is a mild statement for the way I am feeling. Comfort food in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup makes all right with the world. I have to remind myself to breathe. At the Passion Pie Cafe in Truth or Consequences, you cannot help bumping into someone you know, and this auspicious morning, as the New Mexican sun starts to warm the mountains, it's packed. Water exercises with my cohort of old crones. Dozed on and off through an interminable meeting. I am hooked on a new picture puzzle and got most, but not all, of the border done. Watched a program on NOVA about a leopard single mom — such a beautiful, nurturing, clever, and resourceful creature — so much like my single mom granddaughter.  A good day, left much undone without regret. A day of many small incompletions, adding up to nothing. Some days sing, this one didn't. Packed my bag (keeping it under the 50 pound limit) for my four-month trip to Bogota, Colombia. Too tired to even turn on the Christmas tree lights. Sage, lavender and dried plant stalks are all sparkling with frost tonight. Didn't see another soul all day. Delighted to see an uncommon Brown Creeper, as part of my FeederWatch observation for the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Was awakened this morning by the sweet breath of my 3-year old granddaughter who climbed into my bed to snuggle me awake. Danced with wild abandon, with a 2-year-old, to Bob Marley's Three Little Birds. Had an enjoyable conversation about great jazz musicians, while dunking delicious biscotti in espresso. At the oncologist's office, information definitely trumps not knowing, but getting the best possible answers to my well thought-out questions leaves me exhausted. I awoke from a complex dream and lay still for a while, piecing it all together. My coffee percolator clucked and burbled away like a happy hen. I worked at memorizing a poem, reciting it to myself in the mirror as I dressed. I exchanged a knowing grin with my friend across the table. Today a friend said goodbye instead of au revoir. Today my heart stopped for a moment but then it revived when I received good news. I got a text saying I am officially divorced. My five-year-old's blessing: "God cough you, Mommy." Unpacked Dora, Sigmund Freud's work that reads like a detective novel, a steamy one, if you believe the back cover. Exchanged my band-aided clamshell cell phone for an iPhone, and it only took 2.5 hours at the store. Ate homemade chicken soup, then took great care in dressing myself to attend the memorial service of a very young man. Sleep came early — is that because it was dark at 4:30 p.m.? Took a brisk morning walk and delighted in the strength of my almost 65-year-old body and the warmth of sunshine on my face. Pondered the difficulty of leaving the world of many brief experiences in order to explore one thing deeply. Celebrated Hanukkah with singing, dancing, stories, and latkes; then helped my grandson set up a nativity scene. Began my morning trying to perfect the smokeless fire in my new wood-burning stove. Took a longevity test and discovered I would live until I'm 94; that's another 30 years, so I began to re-think how I want to live the next bit of my life. Daylight exits earlier and earlier, stage left, while my life invites me to do more. My 79-year-old feet carry me into my 80th year. Painted a small watercolor of a yellow butterfly and orange flowers, its only merit being its cheerfulness. I looked for the last glimpse of the old moon. Chased the calico cat, again, from under the bird feeders. As the clock was moving into 12/12/12 I opened the day with a breathing meditation, using the words, "Everything that is" with the in-breath, and the words, "is perfect" with the out-breath. At noon, joined by a friend, I popped some popcorn, broke open a block of beautiful dark chocolate, fixed a cup of luxurious Tea Forte, and curled up to watch Pride and Prejudice — absolute perfection, experiencing a quiet and clear sense of peace and contentment. Brewed and drank half a pot of Cafe du Monde coffee, but alas I had no beignet to accompany it. Microwaved (and ate) a bowl of McCann's Instant Oatmeal: maple and brown sugar, extra milk (two percent). I didn't feel even a drop of Impending Doom today. I wished I was in Ithaca, and five minutes later I wished I was in Ithaca again. Pumpkin yogurt, leftover pasta, the 3 p.m. cup of coffee I can't give up. Acupuncture needles: three in the ears (two left, one right), one in the forehead, one in the crown, two in the belly, two in the right calf. 270 days without sugar or flour and I'm still missing cookies. Just another Wednesday. Bought groceries that I didn't have time to get on Saturday. Enjoyed a bottle of Woodchuck "Granny Smith" hard cider. A moment of clarity —  choreographing rain, rivers, and water droplets. I watch two women in a booth at the coffee shop, with their silver hair, crinkly eyes and raucous laughter, and plan to be just like them 25 years from now. I don't dig numbers. A brisk walk with a friend who is tired of being a friend. Today I resolved to draw something every day for a year and on days I don't draw I will put a dollar in a jar. I buy a Christmas tree, so tomorrow morning I can breathe in the lingering scent of a Douglas fir in my car. Today I finally figure out how to use Facebook, but not really. Walked up Willow Avenue to watch mallards on Cascadilla Creek. Read up on certain marine creatures designed by H. P. Lovecraft, uncannily similar to my own happy fantasies. Grateful to end the day in a warm bed, good house, peaceful neighborhood, and lovely town. While my coffee brewed this morning, I lovingly studied an old photograph of myself as a three year old child squinting into the sun, all dolled up in a cutesy-white-girlie-dress, standing in the middle of a dirt road with my wagon, my favorite toy of all time, piled full of rocks that I seemed to be hauling somewhere. On the way to the recycling center this afternoon, I wondered what kinds of annoying bags full of stuff people will be cramming into their cars (or whatever it is they drive), taking them off to the "dump" on the next 12/12/12 in the year 2112. I spent an hour and a half writing an important e-mail to a dear friend this morning and then, when I read it again this evening, erased it and spent another hour writing something "better" that ended up sounding about the same as the original. My older sister and I talked on the phone tonight and were amazed at how profoundly different our memories are of our father, who died when we were both still in grade school. Crisp white frost makes the grass pale. Lots of construction, beans on the floor, rotten pomegranate, busy mall, tears, farewells. Having been to East Africa in October I especially enjoyed going into Diaspora on the Ithaca Commons, to share African stories. The line at the post office was long, prompting one woman to loudly say "mercy, mercy, mercy," over and over again, as she walked past everyone in line, did a U-turn, and walked back out. Geese flying north in a perfect V-formation suddenly turned and went south. I do my daily ten salutes to the sun, to bring out the sun. I have my granddaughter's hand in my right hand, the dog's leash in my left hand, the gifts of vinegar and horseradish mustard, both homemade, both packed in glass, I had planned to deliver in this silver bag also in my left hand, when I drop, not the child, not the leash, but oh, yes, the bag with glass bottle and jar: smashed on the sidewalk, oh well. I practice the recorder pieces at the bright, sunny window and now feel ready for tonight's concert. A good friend and I went to a class at Lifelong to learn together about the Ten Signs of Alzheimer's. I took myself out to lunch at Moosewood and tried to calculate the  number of times I had eaten there since it opened. My son helped me fill up the bird feeders so my cat and I can be entertained, watching the birds dine for the next week, from inside the comfort of my warm house. I wake up thinking of the Dalai Lama on his exercise bike. Today we are nine days from the Winter Solstice — it is the fourth night of Chanukah, the second Wednesday of Advent, St. Lucy's Day, and the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. My doctor listens to my heart and says, "Very good, just like a turtle, slow and steady." I woke up thinking about a mistake I made, and how I might never make it right. Went to the kitchen and opened the door to day 8 on the Chocolate Christmas Countdown Calendar — we are a couple days behind. Called my mom and cried as soon as I heard her voice. I met a sweet baby, born today.  I remembered Little Chap, my lovely grey and white cat, and I cried, knowing that I'll never forget him and hoping that I am forgiven.  Did the cryptoquip and crossword puzzle, both in pencil. Thought about my upcoming surgery and realized that sometimes denial doesn't work. I think of Jimi Hendrix, who would have been 70 this year. I think of the child I gave birth to in 1969; I saw her briefly and never again. Saw the funeral director walking into the optometrist's office in her black coat and felt sorry that she will never be able to wear a red coat. Taught my private client to meditate by counting his breaths up to twelve (instead of the conventional ten) because I am a maverick. Gave someone a present and signed it, "Love, Hanukkah Harry." I decided to start a new routine today and listened to the Writer's Almanac while still cuddled up in my coziest of all beds. I feel a bit like a reality TV star, recording the little details of my day for my own boring show. It's the last day of class, and I think I spot tears in my professor's eyes as he thanks us for the semester (or maybe I'm projecting). My heart jumps a little at 11:11, but then I realize I should wait until 12:12 to really get excited. I feel powerful and unstoppable, zooming downhill on my roommate's speedy purple road bike. Everything is foggy while I bike uphill, and I have a fleeting fantasy that something has happened to my eyes and I will never see clearly again. A well-dressed man lovingly massages the shoulders of a woman sitting next to me in the cafe, and though my back remains knotted, I feel less tense— as though I'm receiving a second-hand massage. I promised myself I would eat healthier today, but I could absolutely never turn down chocolate bread pudding with vanilla ice cream. I put a check mark next to each small task I accomplish. I re-discovered how helpful it is to speak out-loud (to myself, to my friends, to the shower head) in figuring out the mess in my head. Filled in the last empty box of the crossword; surprise, surprise the theme is 12/12/12. The little blue knit cap is sewn up, pompom attached, ready for Christmas Day giving. With coupons in hand, my husband and I head to the mall to buy gifts for ourselves. Math class: feeling lost and confused. Music class is alright and kind of easy since I'm very musical. My elective class is Stencil Art, we design our own stencils and print them on shirts and napkins. My mom surprised me by taking me to a see the Dave Matthews Band in Raleigh; so exciting; I died inside. After 12 weeks and 12 days I rather suddenly stopped being angry at someone. Grateful for this day and a reason to write.

Thank you, every one of you:

Amanda Coate, Ana Luisa Brady-McCullough, Ana Malina Ramanujan, Annemieke Ruina, Antonia Matthew, Barbara Cartwright, Barbara Force, Barbara West, Bill Holcombe, Bridget Alano, Carla DeMello, Carol Bossard, Chris Fontana, Chris Lemar, Debbie Allen, Donna Holt, Elaan Greenfield, Elissa Wolfson, Gary Russo, Gwen Glazer, Gwen Guo, Joan Victoria, John A. Yntema, Julia Grace Brewster Rosoff, Julie M. Weeks, June Wolfman, Karen Koyanagi, Karina Burbank, Kathleen Galland-Bennett, Kathleen Morrow, Kathleen Thompson, Kay Bacon, Kris Ebert-Wagner, Laura LaRosa, Laura Levinson, Lee Miller, Linda Keeler, Loretta Louviere, Lottie Sweeney, Lynne Taetzsch, Maggie Goldsmith, Margaret Strumpf, Martha Blue Waters, Marty Hiller, Maude Rith, Michael Lakin, Mira Vanek-Johnson, Nancy Gabriel, Natalie Detert, Peggy Adams, Perri McGowan, Phoebe Lakin, Phoebe Shalloway, Priscilla Walker, Rachel J. Siegel, Rose Pinnisi, Rosi Holcombe, Sara Brown, Sasha Paris, Seraphina Buckholtz, Sharon K. Yntema, Siouxsie Easter, Sophia Hiller, Stacey Murphy, Sue Hirschberger, Sue Norvell, Sue Perlgut, Summer Killian, Susan Koon, Susan Lesser, Sylvia Miller, Tara Shanti Kane, Victoria Boynton, Weiwei Luo, Will Koon, Yasmin Kassam-Jamal, Yvette Rubio, Zee Zahava