The beginning of the New Year is always a good time to reflect, and, more importantly, look ahead. (Frankly, though I recognize the arbitrariness of the date, it is nonetheless a legitimate marker of time; like a birthday, or pitchers and catchers arriving at spring training.)

I ask myself: Did I work hard enough this year? (I think I worked hard in many ways, but there’s room for improvement.)

Did I spend enough time writing this year? (I don’t think I did, though I made some progress, completed some projects and made some good connections.)

Am I a better person? (Uh….)

Money is still a concern, though for a short time this past summer I was as financially comfortable as I’d been in a long time. Things are a little tighter now, especially with the additional expenses we’ve acquired. (Our rent went up by over $150 bucks, but that’s more than compensated for by the fact of our dramatically increased space – from 550 sq. ft. to over 1600, coupled with the fact that we just feel more comfortable here. I can’t say enough about having a little personal space, some “elbow room.”)

We bought a car. And insurance.

And, of course, there’s the wedding.

Questions are constant - about myself, about the larger world (seriously now…what the fuck are these idiots doing? And how did they get in charge of most of the countries in the world…especially this one. But that’s a topic for another blog). But for the first time in my life I have no questions about what love is.

I used to think love was conditional. And who wouldn’t think that? Look at the examples: Fifty percent divorce rates. Infidelity reportedly higher than ever. (Women cheat? Who knew?). The You Suck as a Person Industry thriving. (Self-improvement books, plastic surgery, the bastards at the pharmaceutical companies.)

I was lucky in a lot of ways. I can never appreciate enough the amazing example that my parents set for me.

But if I learned nothing else this year, I learned that love is, by it’s very nature, completely unconditional. (Duh!) I’m not going to try and define love, that would be egotistical, woefully inadequate no matter how long, and probably sort of ridiculous, because anyone who knows what love is also knows that the reason everyone writes about it and sings about and talks about it and dreams about it is because its indefinable. If you collected all the artistic works of human history (ballet, sculpture, painting, film, writing, theatre and on and on) that concerned themselves with the idea of love, you would still only be scratching the surface.

I have a lot of concerns (fears?), but not about love.

In more ways than I can (or should) say, Penny is my savior. She’s my messiah, my muse.