By John R. Greenwood
The new year begins cold and not all that inviting but I lay there anxious for the sun to rise and bring something exciting to the surface. As the years accumulate I begin to feel their weight. Shedding off some of the more difficult ones to make room for those with more discovery packed in. As I plunge into my 59th year, memories seem less important than my desire to create new ones. Reflection and regret are like filling a gas tank with water. You'll fill it up but the engine's not going to run. My mind races around grabbing anything that might hold a clue to what's next. I've been in this hunting-dog mode for over a decade. I enjoy spurts of fulfillment followed by days and days of mental starvation. Always inspired but easily distracted by the talent of a visual artist or a musician's song I ride the back roads of my fifties yearning for a sign leading me to something of my own. Maybe this year, maybe today, maybe it will come in the next email, or sunrise. Whenever it comes, or wherever it comes from, I plan to be ready for it, because I sure do like that new year smell.