Last night, looking out over the lights of San Francisco, a small crowd of partyers burned in a wok squares of paper on which each had written one thing they would be rid of. Then, a Mexican tradition: at the stroke of midnight, each of us ate 12 grapes, washed with a little champagne, each grape a desire for the new year.

Well-the champagne part wasn't Mexican tradition but the grape part was.

That was fun.

A woman I'd just met gave me spontaneous instructions about what I am not to worry about right now. As though she knew without knowing anything about me that I am on a good path.

So far, we'd only really talked about potato salad.

Last year, a dream pointed out The Possible. I grow more and more surprised to find with each step, the possible continues to unfold 360 degrees around me. There is never only one choice.