One, one, twenty, twelve

Yesterday, I climbed Mount Tabor, seeking the counsel of Old Man Hood, as told.  But he, immersed in his gloomy contemplations, wrapped himself in obliterating fog and would have none of it.  And so I was propelled blindly into this next arbitrary demarcation of planetary rotation without so much as a glimpse to affirm his constancy.  Time's march is inexorable, of course, beyond even his desires.  As the wicked Scottish thane observed, we are such brief candles.

These occasions, naturally, bring to mind recollections of the milestones along life's highway.  Grandpa Metzger passed 13 years ago today.  He left this earth confused and befuddled, which did a disservice to the man he was.  But no one gets what they deserve in this life.  As Matthew wrote:  "... for He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."

Nonetheless, this New Year's Day dawned bright and hopeful and I, determined to have a good start of it, set out for a walk with the morning sun on my back.  To the river, and thence to the heart of the city.

And I did pause to snap some photos while mid-span on the Morrison Bridge.  Chancing to glance eastward, I saw that Hood was out in all his glory.  As if to say, "Yes, even so.  No need to look to me for advice.  Carry on.  Forge ahead.  The path you choose is as well-chosen as any you might learn of me."

Though not free of doubt, I took it to heart and continued on my way.

First day of January.  Two-thousand twelve.