New Year's Eve, 2007

This morning: The world outside is cold and bright--37 degrees and clear, if you want it in the weatherperson's terms. I've been up for awhile, piddling with this and that: an email to a new friend from down Sevierville way; eating a bowl of cereal; starting the dishwasher; commenting on an old friend's blog; working on my own blog. I'm not sure, but I think I just won $12 in the Tennessee Lottery. I'm not sure, but at 257.6 I think I weigh more this morning than I have in my entire life to this point. Our house this morning is a preview of the empty nest to come sooner than we want it to. Our son is away at the house of a friend. This in itself is not unusual, but he drove himself there; without any commitment to go pick him up, I'm feeling his freedom, his separation from me. We're close, but I'm sure he's as thrilled about this as I am dismayed. Still, the sun is shining and I'm feeling good, so this morning is a good one.

This year: I come to the end of 2007 with mixed feelings and varied reflections, which I guess is natural for life. Many of the things that I feel good about are at the same time the things I'm most concerned about--my life, my job, my church, this world and so on. Undaunted is my love for my true friends and family; at the same time, unquestionable is my disdain for and disappointment in the mean and shallow nature that characterizes the majority of events and the selfishness of people.

Great things have happened this year: in April, the healthy birth of my second granddaughter, who appeared through my daughter-in-law's pregnancy to have serious looming problems; in May, the achievement of a new level at my job; in September, my son's 16th and in December his driver license; also in December, my brother's marriage. In addition to these, I've passed through the year in good health (mostly), a good thing for a 49-year-old.

Personal disappoinments this year have been few. I suppose the major one is that fact that I've written little besides this blog. For years, since the late '70s, I've considered myself a writer--of songs, of stories, of literary criticism, of a little poetry even. But that longstanding identity becomes increasingly challenged the more that I don't find or take time to write. The problem that follows such a deterioration of identity is, of course, that I must learn to identify myself in a new way. And at 49, new identities aren't easy to come by, especially when I'm unwilling to leave the old identity behind.

The year of our Lord, 2007, has raised lots of questions for me, and I think as I begin my 50th year, I would like . . . but more on that tomorrow.