It's a new year. 2012. Are things supposed to feel different? Somehow more bathed in hope? I'm not sure I feel the difference. I don't have a list of things I want to do better or things I want to accomplish. Life is about living and at the moment I feel I'm doing a pretty good job at doing just that. Living. Sitting on the edge of a window on the edge of time. The Parisian kind of windows that open in and are big and grand. Everything looks good up against the warped glass and the curled iron window guards.

We stayed at a chateau this past week. A big, grand, dazzling example of perfect French countryside splendidness. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere we pulled up - to jazz music dancing through the grand entrance way (I would tell you what it was but I'm not well versed in names... I leave that to my dear friend

Rick Lange

). I felt as if I had been transported through time into another dimension. The silk curtains were perfectly placed in hues of eggplant, moss and red wine. I liked this dimension. We were the only guests - the chateau was all ours. All of its understated decadence. As I stared out across the field I felt like anything was possible. Through the oval window carving its name into another time - these things can slide through your fingers if you're not careful. A haze of memory - a push into the present moment. Look around and let go. It constantly moves and jumps and begs to be heard. Don't try to pin it down, it disappears into light.

And the best ray of light was hitting Duncan. He ran around the breakfast room with croissant in hand. A perfect mini croissant for a perfect mini hand. He understood. He watched the glass birds sitting on tables, their still fragility looking back at him. The hush of the rain coming down outside meant everything. And out the perfect glass door he ran. Down that hallway of memories. Stomping on rugs and pulling on doorknobs. With a belly full of croissants anything is possible.

As we slide into this new year I wonder if Duncan will remember all the croissants he ate in France when he was just one year old. All the cheese and bread and nibbles of macaroons.

If he doesn't I'll make sure to bring him back to taste it all again - when he's sure to remember it all.

Happy New Year.

deux mille douze