A new morning and a New Year.
And the millennium, this time for sure.
Much the same.
Within a range of possibility
the same things reoccur.

The Beech above is bare. The same tree, in new green leaves of May, was shown two days ago. I have every confidence the leaves will come again, but just enough doubt to keep it interesting. For now, the New Year finds leafless, though not lifeless, limbs. The woods bear none of the nostalgia of the Holiday. Green the past, and green the future, but now and forever, the naked twigs of Winter.

Or so it seems, a moment, as we pause upon the edge (self proclaimed, but edge indeed) of the Year. And the Year: repetition and recognition, is what matters. We have no way of addressing the centuries, let alone millennia, except with rhetoric. But the Year is the measure of our lives, and does invite reflection.

I reflect that this page is now a bit more than one year old. I thought I knew what to expect of a year, but things didn't necessarily go as I had planned. I set out to lose myself in the rhythm of the seasons, but ended up in mind of how personally we take the universal, when its rhythm plays on the scale of our lives.

My father's decline and death shifted my focus in the final quarter of the year. If I was forced to look away, in order to face what must be faced, still I had recourse to this foundation, and was well served therein. Or so I like to think, when I'm not thinking that I was reduced to impotence. Still, I feel that the focus and discipline enforced by this project (little as these may be) are good for me, and I want to thank everyone who has encouraged me in the endeavor, and especially Jim, who makes the whole thing possible from a practical standpoint.

What exactly the New Year holds, I'm not sure, but I've got a pretty good idea about some of it. That, in itself, is enough to keep me going, while the unguessed at, which also waits, is only an added inducement to attention, even if it is what separates my life from the trees?.