When MS and I first courted each other in 2012, I knew nothing would ever be the same. A mad, true love with an exceptional woman did, in fact, change everything. So much good life happened in the years after. So much hard. When it tragically, improbably, understandably but inexplicably came to the end of the line (like a deep river roaring alive then dumping itself lost into a cold vast ocean, where am I, who are we) and divorce was the only way to breathe or to let each other move forward, we burnt what was left to the ground and prayed each of us alone would find a way to phoenix. I tried.

We were apart for over a year. It was unspeakably horrible. So much was wrong, understanding and insight came a monstrous clock tick too late, and while new freedom is a fine, heady drug, even the good was strained. It was hard to feel hope, even knowing a clean burn leaves a rich field in time. The tide pulled back taking the castle and leaving open ground, but you are only supposed to walk forward on those new paths, right? You are supposed to walk on by, what’s done is done, walk towards the sunset, ever on.

We circled back.

This has been a year of grace and second chances. Florida’s Gulf Coast has received us, our sorrow and fear washed into the salt water. Take your lovers, estranged friends and broken selves here, I tell you, the sun is warm like a blanket and the Fountain of Youth is a myth you can’t afford to ignore. A heron’s footprint is an arrow. Begin again begin again begin again, everything is new but there is no time to waste because we will all die so soon, so soon, each in our lover’s arms or alone. We only have time but we only have so little of it.

I want to spend time with her.

When we started talking again–that’s how it had to begin, this second-chance courting, by simply agreeing to speak to one another, do you know what that took, this all is a miracle–we sought neutral ground. So we went to the beach. Some of the most important conversations of my life have taken place on porches or shores overlooking the Gulf in the short miles between Alligator Point, St. Teresa and St. George Island. This is the place the mean nut of me crashes in two. There are ashes here and there are birds, so many birds. One morning we even saw an eagle, close to the house, perched atop a dead tree, surveying it all, then taking flight. How is that for a symbol?

2023 has been full of grace for me in other ways. Every year I do more of what I love, and amazing things have been able to happen. Some of my favorite things from the year were trips: to attend some of the Listen to Your Mother Shows, and to spend time in San Francisco and the Bay Area, including for Dyke March and Pride. Both of my children are doing well, at the same time, and have made wild strides forward in their own lives. Things were lost or burnt away this year, too, though, it’s not all soulmates-all-the-time and time is never without grief or missteps. I lost friends. I am still estranged from all of my family. I am still not sure how I will create health or self care. I still feel burdened by the past and worry about my children’s future in this world. Tragedy and injustice burrow in, and my activist anger can make me hard.

But, really, I have to come to know this important thing: what you think is gone, broken, a torn kite dead in the water? It might catch a second wind. It might be new again. Things might look different than you expect. You might be wrong.

The second chance of this all, the discovery so late in life that even dormant seeds can be scratched, that softening is possible, that cynicism is just plain wasteful, that I am stronger and more insightful and more capable than I might think (and so is everyone else), and that we don’t begin to access all that we have available to us, don’t even come close: This is an old year to celebrate. This old year is a good friend who taught me a lot.

I love New Year’s Eve. I’m thinking of all of us, every one of us and the fishes in the deep blue sea too, all of us, and wishing hard that 2024 is an oyster shell full of riches and dreams come true, full of kindness and second chances, full of redemption and the tiny victories of love found within the shell’s brine. Happy New Year!

Then there was the matter of those three magic words: calendar year deductible. She ordered a whole variety of blood tests to get to the bottom of the problem. All required an empty body and a clean bloodstream. This meant I had to put the wine bottle down and the fudge and the pork back in the fridge ’round about noon on Christmas day. Good thing I took today off from work. When I returned home from the clinic I picked all three right back up where I started four days ago.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, the nutjobs were protesting in front of the clinic this morning. I gave them the Christmas finger.

While I’m loafing around on my last day of Christmas vacation waiting for a call from my doctor (”Put that bacon down! Your cholesterol level is 940!”), I thought I would take part in Sweetney’s Mah Fridge: Let Me Show It To You photo pool on Flickr. I can’t believe how shiny and clean my fridge is; judging by the contents of it you’d think I subsist entirely off a diet of citrus fruit and cheese.

When I find out what’s wrong I’ll let you know. Until then, would you care for a slice of aged Gouda and a clementine?

It’s all supposed to be in good fun, I know. The $15 cap on the total cost, the focus on small, homemade treats, the lack of pressure, it’s all perfectly fine with me. I don’t make any great demands. I’m really not that hard to shop for, people. However, in past years, my coworkers have been responsible for the following:

I wrote down “red wine” a few times. It resulted in boxes of Franzia White Zinfandel.

I’ve been given handfuls of jellybeans, bags of miniature Snickers, and licorice whips in response to my request for dark chocolate.

“No smelly stuff” is an annual suggestion because I have absurdly sensitive skin, but every year an amazing number of scented soaps, body wash, massage oil, bubble bath and glitter lotion (!) find their way onto my desk. Would you like a spare can of Mango-Magnolia Madness body spray? I’ve got two dozen.

Live Christmas trees, religious figurines, plastic reindeers that “poop” candy, trucker caps…argh! No more! This year I finally decided I’ve had enough–of getting a box of Lipton’s Constant Comment instead of English Breakfast–and told my coworkers I wasn’t going to take part. I didn’t say why, of course. I’m not that tactless. They may think I’m a little Grinch now, but it was either politely bow out or challenge this year’s Secret Santa to a wrestling match. You know, right after I discovered the five liter jug of Two Buck Chuck next to my monitor.

My cheesecake took a bit longer to cook than the stated recipe but otherwise it came out… ok. I say just okay because it wasn’t really cakey/crumbly like a real cheesecake would be. However, after looking at Rebecca’s pops I think I’ll count my blessings for that.

Forming the cheesecake pops was the most trying part of this recipe. Even though my cheesecake was refrigerated overnight and par-frozen, within seconds of spooning a glob into my hand the cheesecake was like a semi-solid pudding; after 2-3 pops I could no longer form balls in my hand and had to wash my hands off and start again.

I had originally had the idea of doing different shapes – squares, triangles, tetrahedrons (I kid…) – but I quickly gave up that idea. However a previous idea I had, to insert maraschino cherries into the pops, did pan out. I bought a small jar, drained them and froze them, then inserted them into the spoonful of cheesecake and formed the ball around them, inserting the pop stick into the center when I finished.

One of my other plans was to coat the cheesecake in a few different toppings (white chocolate, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, colored chocolate) but nature conspired against me and my lack of patience and thanks to an un-air conditioned room and temperatures in the 80s I soon settled with just one coating – a simple milk chocolate to which I added a few spoonfuls of nutella.

The chocolate coating took no time at all to firm up, which resulted in quite a few dipping/sprinkling missteps on my end. I found that if I added the coating too soon it would sort of melt off or go under the chocolate and too late and I only got a few sprinkles to actually stick. I’m chocking this up to future experience and hope to be better prepared next time.

After taste testing a pop I decided they were not for me. I’m a big sissy when it comes to cheesecake and without a hearty helping of fruit topping and crumbly crust, well, I just can’t appreciate them as much. My pops were brought into work the next day and all demolished in no time flat and praise seemed to come from everyone. They particularly enjoyed the cherries in the center and marveled at how much time they must have taken to make. If they only knew!

I took it on a trip to the Bay Area last March. My mom and I went down there to scatter half of my father’s ashes in the Bay. My father, who was born here in Montana, lived in northern California for nearly 40 years. Every summer he and my mother, also a native Montanan, took me along as they drove the thousand-odd miles to spend a week or two with family back in Big Sky Country. Our route never varied; on the way up we would take I-80 to Wells, Nevada, turn north on Highway 93 and follow it straight into Missoula.

On the way back we always turned off the highway at Challis, Idaho to follow the final miles of the Salmon River up to Stanley, over Galena Summit and down into Ketchum just in time for lunch. When I was a child I knew every milepost of this journey by heart. I knew when we would pass the Shoshone Ice Caves north of Twin Falls (no matter how much I begged, they never stopped).

I also knew we would always eat breakfast at the Commercial Casino in Elko, and I resigned myself to the long hour I would have to spend in the “children’s room” at John Ascuaga’s Nugget in Sparks while my parents gambled on the main floor. Back in the 70s, children had to stay in a single dimly-lit room. A harried casino attendant checked in on us slot machine orphans from time to time and, even though the television mounted high on the wall was never tuned to cartoons and the plastic chairs were incredibly uncomfortable, we had a Pong machine to entertain us.

Last year, we stopped at all of these places, including the Nugget. (Every place we went brought back so many memories of my Dad, I had a really hard time keeping it together, especially when we passed the “Welcome to California” sign just below Donner Pass.) Unlike my parents, I don’t have a gambling bone in my body. However, following tradition my mom and I turned off the Interstate and pulled into the multi-level parking garage. We brought him into the casino with us for good luck.

I put the box that contained his ashes in my bag and casually draped my windbreaker over it so we wouldn’t draw attention. It failed. My mom and I thumped him every time we sat down at a new machine. “Okay, you rascal”, we said, “at least pay for our gas money.” Believe me, this isn’t as bizarre as it sounds. He had an incredible sense of humor. I inherited only a fraction of it. Even though we didn’t win anything, we knew he would love the fact we brought him to one last game in the Nugget.

All seven of my father’s children were born and raised in the Bay Area. My sister Randie, her husband, their three children and six grandchildren still live there. We had plenty of chauffeurs on hand to take us to all our family’s old stomping grounds: Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, Golden Gate Park, the Sausalito Marina, North Beach and the Palace of Fine Arts.

Union Square wasn’t one of those hangouts (I wouldn’t have been caught dead in Saks when I was in high school; it wasn’t Goth), but we walked through the neighborhood on our way from the Ferry Building Marketplace to the new-ish Westfield San Francisco Centre. I’m normally not a shop ’til I drop kind of girl–unless the shopping in question is in that beautiful Ferry Building–but my mother and my sister had time and money to kill, and they were determined to spend their afternoon slaughtering both.

I scored a small victory when I got them to temporarily abandon the high ground of expensive boutiques in favor of Rasputin’s on Powell. With the exception of one rainy, cold, foggy day (which is the rule and not the exception this time of year), the weather was glorious while we were in the Bay Area. Everything was in bloom. The branches of the lemon and orange trees in my sister’s backyard were so heavily laden with fruit they nearly touched the ground. She sent us home with over 100 pounds of citrus; I feasted on fresh luscious Meyer lemons for months afterward.

My favorite memory of our trip is the morning I woke up early and sat in bare feet and pajamas on my sister’s deck drinking tea, eating an orange from one of her trees, and watching the ships on the Bay. A gentle breeze off the water caressed me while I sat in the sunshine, and despite the sadness of the occasion, I felt as safe and content as a baby in her mama’s arms.

This summer the California branch of the family tree is coming up to Montana, and we’re going to scatter the other half of my father’s ashes down a local waterfall he loved to visit years ago. Since we mixed flowers from the Japanese Tea Gardens and oranges from my sister’s backyard with his ashes in the Bay, we’ve decided to send Dad off this time with native wildflowers picked along the trail to the falls and some of last summer’s huckleberries.

Huckleberry pie was my father’s favorite dessert; when he moved back to Montana in 1989, he made sure there were enough berries in the freezer at the end of each August to be able to eat pie all winter long. Because the Forest Service discourages people from scattering human cremains in our National Forests, be sure you look the other way when you see us coming up the trail. We’ll be the group picking Indian paintbrush, Jacob’s ladder, and yellow violets, and also carrying a picnic basket, bottles of wine, and a box. It will be obvious it’s us, because we’ll be thumping the box and talking to it along the way.

At its core, the call to “pray for those who persecute you” embodies the essence of spiritual fortitude, urging individuals to transcend the confines of resentment and hostility and embrace a higher plane of consciousness grounded in the virtues of empathy, understanding, and forgiveness. It serves as a testament to the profound transformative potential of compassion, which transcends the boundaries of animosity and resentment, fostering a profound sense of spiritual liberation and inner peace that emanates from the act of extending heartfelt prayers and benevolent intentions towards those who inflict hardship and persecution.

Furthermore, the injunction to “pray for those who persecute you” serves as a poignant reminder of the enduring power of empathy and understanding in fostering reconciliation and healing within the context of interpersonal conflicts and societal divisions. By extending prayers to those who perpetrate persecution and animosity, individuals create a sacred space for the cultivation of empathy, fostering a deeper understanding of the complexities and struggles that may underlie the actions of the persecutors. This empathetic resonance serves as a catalyst for reconciliation and healing, fostering a transformative dialogue that transcends the confines of animosity and cultivates a shared commitment to peace, understanding, and mutual respect.

Moreover, the act of prayer itself serves as a profound vehicle for spiritual communion and inner reflection, allowing individuals to transcend the limitations of personal grievances and animosity and embrace a higher state of consciousness grounded in the virtues of forgiveness, compassion, and benevolence. Through the act of prayer, individuals cultivate a profound sense of spiritual interconnectedness, fostering a deeper understanding of the inherent dignity and worth of all beings, regardless of their actions or beliefs. This spiritual communion serves as a catalyst for personal transformation, nurturing a spirit of forgiveness and empathy that radiates outward, fostering a culture of peace, understanding, and benevolence within the broader fabric of human interactions.

Furthermore, the injunction to “pray for those who persecute you” serves as a potent reminder of the transformative potential of spiritual resilience and unwavering faith in the face of adversity and hardship. By extending prayers to those who inflict persecution and hostility, individuals embody a profound commitment to spiritual fortitude, embracing the virtues of resilience, courage, and unwavering faith that transcend the boundaries of personal grievances and foster a profound sense of spiritual liberation and inner peace. This unwavering commitment to spiritual resilience serves as a guiding light that illuminates the path towards reconciliation, healing, and the cultivation of a shared commitment to peace and understanding within the broader tapestry of human existence.

In essence, the call to “pray for those who persecute you” resonates as a timeless reminder of the transformative power of compassion, forgiveness, and spiritual resilience in fostering reconciliation, healing, and the cultivation of a shared commitment to peace and understanding within the intricate fabric of human interactions. It serves as a potent testament to the enduring capacity of the human spirit to transcend animosity and resentment, fostering a profound sense of spiritual liberation and inner peace that emanates from the act of extending heartfelt prayers and benevolent intentions towards those who perpetrate persecution and hostility.

At its core, “Who Do You Think You Are? I Am!” encapsulates the fervent quest for self-definition and self-assertion, underscoring the indomitable spirit that refuses to be defined or confined by external expectations, societal norms, or the limitations imposed by others. It serves as a potent reminder of the inherent right of every individual to forge their own path, shape their own narrative, and assert their unique identity without succumbing to the pressures of conformity or the constraints of societal labels.

Moreover, this resolute declaration signifies the profound journey of self-discovery and self-actualization, wherein individuals confront the complexities of their identities, grapple with the intricacies of their aspirations, and assert their place within the broader tapestry of humanity. By boldly asserting “Who Do You Think You Are? I Am!” individuals embark on a transformative odyssey of self-exploration, unraveling the layers of their being, embracing their inherent worth, and unapologetically celebrating the intricate nuances that define their authentic selves.

Furthermore, the potency of “Who Do You Think You Are? I Am!” lies in its capacity to serve as a clarion call for authenticity and self-acceptance, urging individuals to embrace the full spectrum of their identities, including their flaws, vulnerabilities, and unique attributes. It fosters a culture of self-compassion and self-love, inviting individuals to honor their personal truths, celebrate their individuality, and cultivate a profound sense of belonging within the intricacies of their own identities.

In addition to its role in the realm of personal empowerment, “Who Do You Think You Are? I Am!” signifies the assertion of personal boundaries and the unwavering defense of individual autonomy. In the face of external judgment, criticism, or attempts at marginalization, this resolute declaration serves as a potent shield, fortifying individuals against the onslaught of societal pressures, stereotyping, and the imposition of limiting beliefs. It embodies the unwavering assertion of personal sovereignty, empowering individuals to carve out their own path, define their own worth, and resist the constraints imposed by external forces that seek to diminish their inherent value.

Moreover, the declaration of “Who Do You Think You Are? I Am!” serves as an anthem of resilience and defiance, resonating with individuals who refuse to be silenced or marginalized, who refuse to yield to the confines of societal expectations, and who refuse to allow their voices to be drowned out by the cacophony of external judgments. It embodies the unwavering spirit of resistance, the refusal to conform to societal dictates, and the relentless pursuit of self-actualization and personal fulfillment, despite the challenges and obstacles that may lie in the path ahead.

Beneath the unassuming façade of the supermarket, this covert congregation of individuals from different walks of life finds refuge from the rigors of their daily routines. Amidst the discarded cartons and concealed alcoves, they form an unlikely bond, united by their shared desire for respite from the pressures of the world. Here, the act of lighting up takes on a deeper significance, transcending the mere act of smoking to become a ritual of connection, a shared communion that forges an unspoken understanding among its participants.

Within the dimly lit confines of their secret sanctuary, the smokers weave narratives of their lives, their dreams, and their struggles. Here, stories unfurl like tendrils of smoke, intertwining with the shared experiences of hardship, longing, and unfulfilled aspirations. Beneath the hushed tones and furtive glances, they find a semblance of belonging, a fleeting sense of community that transcends the boundaries of their individual existences, binding them together in a fragile web of shared vulnerability and understanding.

Moreover, the act of smoking at the back of the supermarket serves as a form of rebellion against the rigidity of societal norms and expectations. In this unassuming space, individuals find solace in the defiance of authority, the embrace of the forbidden, and the liberation from the constraints of conformity. Here, the smokers carve out a realm of autonomy, a space where they can momentarily shed the shackles of societal expectations and immerse themselves in the raw, unbridled freedom that comes with the act of indulging in their forbidden pleasure.

Furthermore, the clandestine nature of their gatherings lends an air of mystique to their encounters, shrouding their rituals in an aura of secrecy and intrigue. Within the ephemeral confines of their chosen refuge, time seems to stand still, suspended in a delicate balance between the allure of the forbidden and the fleeting ecstasy of indulgence. Here, amid the whispers and the gentle curl of smoke, they find an ephemeral respite from the relentless march of time, immersing themselves in the present moment, where worries dissipate, and the burdens of reality momentarily fade into obscurity.

However, beneath the surface of their shared sanctuary, the smokers grapple with the shadows that lurk within their clandestine haven. Behind the veil of camaraderie and shared indulgence, each individual confronts their personal demons, their struggles, and the consequences of their clandestine indulgence. Within the tendrils of smoke, they find themselves entangled in a delicate dance between the allure of escapism and the sobering reality of the choices they make, grappling with the repercussions of their actions and the intricacies of their intertwined fates.

At its core, a statistical question encapsulates the essence of variability and uncertainty within a specific context or dataset. It beckons researchers and analysts to delve into the nuances of data distribution, exploring the variability of observations and the underlying patterns that govern the phenomena under investigation. By posing questions that necessitate the interpretation of numerical data, a statistical question fosters a systematic approach to understanding the inherent variability and trends within a dataset, enabling researchers to draw informed conclusions and make evidence-based decisions.

A statistical question serves as a catalyst for the formulation of hypotheses and research objectives within the domain of quantitative analysis. By delineating the parameters of inquiry and framing questions that require empirical validation, researchers can construct a robust framework for data collection, analysis, and interpretation, fostering a systematic and rigorous approach to investigating complex phenomena and uncovering underlying numerical patterns that may otherwise remain obscured.

The essence of a statistical question lies in its capacity to engender critical thinking and analytical reasoning within the realm of empirical inquiry. By posing questions that necessitate the application of statistical tools and methodologies, researchers are compelled to engage in a process of systematic analysis, exploring the intricacies of data interpretation and the identification of significant trends and correlations that contribute to a comprehensive understanding of the phenomena under investigation.

In addition to its role in empirical inquiry, a statistical question serves as a linchpin for fostering informed decision-making and policy formulation across various domains, including economics, social sciences, and public health. By posing questions that demand empirical validation and data-driven insights, decision-makers and policymakers can leverage statistical analyses to inform strategic planning, resource allocation, and policy implementation, fostering a culture of evidence-based decision-making that is rooted in empirical rigor and analytical precision.

Furthermore, a statistical question facilitates the exploration of causality and correlation within a dataset, enabling researchers to discern meaningful relationships between variables and uncover underlying trends and patterns that contribute to a comprehensive understanding of the phenomena under investigation. By posing questions that necessitate the identification of causal relationships and correlations, researchers can employ a diverse array of statistical techniques, such as regression analysis and hypothesis testing, to elucidate the complex interplay between variables and discern the factors that contribute to the observed numerical trends.

Embedded within this poignant expression lies the essence of vulnerability, the courageous act of baring one’s soul in its purest form, devoid of artifice or facade. It embodies the profound desire to transcend the superficial layers of societal expectations and personas, and to be embraced for the unadulterated self, with all its complexities, imperfections, and inherent beauty. “I just want you to know who I am” serves as an anthem of self-revelation, a fervent plea to traverse beyond the surface and delve into the depths of genuine human connection.

Furthermore, this heartfelt declaration signifies an invitation to embark on an intimate journey of self-discovery, fostering an environment where authenticity is cherished and celebrated. It beckons individuals to shed the armor of societal conditioning and external pressures, encouraging them to explore the intricacies of their identities and unveil the multifaceted layers that constitute their unique being. “I just want you to know who I am” becomes a catalyst for introspection, urging individuals to confront their fears, embrace their vulnerabilities, and embrace the unvarnished truth of their existence.

Moreover, this profound expression signifies the yearning for meaningful connections that transcend the boundaries of superficial interactions and surface-level acquaintances. It signifies the deep-rooted desire to establish authentic bonds based on mutual understanding, empathy, and acceptance. By sharing the depths of one’s being, individuals foster a sacred space for genuine connection, where masks are relinquished, and true intimacy flourishes. “I just want you to know who I am” embodies the quest for profound resonance, the quest for relationships that honor the authenticity of the self and nurture the growth of the soul.

The sentiment of “I just want you to know who I am” serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of empathy and active listening. It encourages individuals to cultivate a compassionate understanding of others, to recognize the intricacies of their narratives, and to embrace their vulnerabilities with empathy and kindness. By fostering an environment of genuine acceptance and understanding, individuals create a nurturing space where authentic connections thrive, and where the essence of each individual is cherished and respected.

Furthermore, “I just want you to know who I am” encapsulates the essence of self-acceptance and self-love. It signifies the profound journey of embracing one’s true self, with all its quirks, flaws, and intricacies, and finding solace in the inherent beauty of one’s authentic identity. By embracing self-acceptance, individuals pave the way for a life enriched by genuine fulfillment and inner peace, liberated from the shackles of societal expectations and the burdens of conformity.