The light is pale and thin this season. Whenever I catch a ray, I settle in like a cat with a nap. There is precious little of the sun, and I want to take full advantage.

Every winter has a personality, I believe. Last year’s was hostile and biting, keeping us prisoners with icy indifference, coldly holding us hostage to its frigid whims.

This year’s cousin is an antidote, a poor relation to the last one’s power. It is soggy and mild, and oh so drab. The clothes it wears are always monochromatic. It can creep up on us without a threat, and cover us with the dull ache of sameness before we know it.

I find myself almost missing the former’s ferocious dedication. Like a demanding lover, it made me feel alive.

The vortex of Bowie. Or the end of my neighbor's PVC pipe. Take your pick, I'm flexible.

One of the worst parts about getting older, I have discovered, is not the gradual deterioration of body parts, the slow numbing of libido, or the downward slide of mental calisthenics, as distressing as all of that is to be sure.

It is the fear of impermanence, instability and nasty surprises. I, who have never blinked an eye over uprooting my household or completely renovating my persona, have been caught unawares.

It has crept up on me like Geritol in the night, smelling of aspercreme and denture adhesive, muffling my adventurous mojo in flannel and lap rugs. I have become stodgy in my habits and constipated about my future.

I am stuck.

So, in the spirit of the One Little Word project seen popping up around the blogosphere, I have chosen a theme for this year. As a caveat, I am well aware that the Universe can and will give you what you ask for. That is the point, after all.

The word? You guessed it.

But the Universe can be a fickle and mischievous mistress, and she favors tricks over plans at life’s cocktail soiree. In other words, I am asking for it.

That is, however timidly, the kind of party game I want to relearn at this point in my journey (notice my reluctance to actually say the word yet?)

Since I’ve already had my emotions pulled out from under me in December, it’s not like the energies need to be put into action. My sense of control light has been blinking uncontrollably for weeks now and I can’t find the manual.

Because there is none.

I like to think I’ve just misplaced it, a mere oversight due to the ever-shrinking menopausal memory, and that I’ll find it stuffed behind the fountain of youth any day now.

However, the one thing I can control is my reception of the one little word for this year. I can either fight it with an arsenal of glam rock wrinkle reducers and Ziggy Stardust age reversals, or I can invite it in for a cup of tea. Have a chat and see which way the wind’s blowing.

Okay, you can’t blame a gal for a little heads up, now can you?

Meanwhile, I’m renovating the attitude and putting my spiritual house in order. A little preparation won’t hurt.

And, you might notice that this blog looks a little different. It’s small change, but a step toward nonetheless.

You have no idea how many shots it took to catch this.

I got nothing. No top 10 lists, no best of show, no majestic summations, and most of all, no desperate resolutions.

It could be that we’re all waiting for the big show, a grand finale, some final word. Perhaps we’re hoping for an apocalypse of reason that will transform us into sane beings who push compassion rather than punishment.

Maybe we will come to our senses about the state of our house, and trade the cloak of conquest for humble coveralls of care. There are rumblings all over this world for change. Are we listening?

When the end times knock, will we be caught in the eternal exchange lines, still unhappy with the fit of our lot in life? Or found napping in the complicated coffers of the conglomerate dragons, seduced by sweet promises of greed beyond all hope.

But this is no fairytale, for even in the land of suburbia unsettling winds are winding along the manicured driveways and multi-level decks of our complacency.

I have a feeling it’s going to be a wild ride. But one that I signed up for.

I’ll see you in a new time, my friend.

The darkness comes quickly, wrapping us in its quiet grief. My family has suffered sudden loss in the final days before holiday, a profound shift that is just starting to sink in.

He was a man who was always there, for his country and community and family, a voice that told us more than we knew, a believer who lifted up thousands of students by his words. The landscapes he painted brought peace to our dreams.

We are led through the shadows by his legacy. Forever accompanied by his faith that the light will return.

It is just up ahead.

Yes, that’s right. I’m over here making up my own shopping holidays. Or should I call it a very “unconsumerist” season. What the ho, ho, ho?

It all starts on the Friday after Thanksgiving, when my small family celebrates the over-abundance and gluttony of the previous day by doing nothing. No crack-of-dawn pilgrimage, no angry crowds, no hyper-discounts, no consumer coma.

Instead, there’s a rather lengthy occupation of pajamas, leisurely pots of (looseleaf) tea, the traditional family walk, a picking over of ample leftovers, and much TV watching of collegiate pigskin between blatant appeals to spend money. (We have no DVR to avoid the snake oil.)

Friday was also a beautiful day weather-wise this year, a fact I noted by giving my ancient, but faithful point-and-shoot an afternoon workout. There was even plenty of time to put up what is left of our old outdoor lights for one more year of LED joy.

Saturday and Sunday went pretty much the same way. Making do, patching up what we already own, decorating with less and less, enjoying all the leisure time we have on hand instead of wrestling with lawn ornaments and long lines at the registers.

Monday has dawned raw and wet, reflecting the spirits of grumpy consumers everywhere, no doubt hungover from the excessive mall grog and department store ails. Never fear, the internet is ready and waiting to pick up anything missed on Friday, the perfect remedy for buyer’s remorse.

Lest you think I’m some minimalist saint espousing the virtues of a shop-less life bereft of price-tagged temptations, I can honestly say that I am not. I am simply lazy and tired.

And relieved that I have finally found the grace of contentment. Time spent with my nearest and dearest is far more precious to me than stalking the latest electronics.

I am not without holiday spirit, however. I can still stream my (semi-free) internet music stations while I collect more elvish castoffs for Goodwill.

Ho, ho, ho, indeed.

11-11-11. Okay, I know. I’m jumping on the bandwagon, which is unusual for me. (Normally I’m trailing after another kind of wheeled cart involving beer.) However, I do believe that this is a momentous occasion for a variety of reasons, some not even woo-woo related.

For one thing, the combination above looks kinda cool. Ever catch the clock at 11:11? Better yet, did your heart skip a beat when the old-school digital timepieces (or car odometers for that matter) flipped their little flaps into single sticks? Then you know what I mean.

And then there’s the whole numerology romance with eleven as a master number symbolizing intuition and vision. The New Age websites are full of words like “vibration” and “rebirth.” Groups everywhere will be gathering for prayers, blessings, alignments and meditation. (There’s a global moment of silence at 11:11 a.m. going on.) After the horrendous news stories of the past few weeks, I’d settle for a little peace and quiet.

Which brings me to the habit in numerology of breaking numbers down by adding them together, like 11 as 1+1= 2. Twos invite companionship, unions and couples. Hence, the rash of weddings that will take place today. No doubt the bridal industry is grateful.

Along the lines of history, this numerological phenomenon coincides with Armistice, Remembrance and Veterans Day, not to mention the International Day of Peace. Merely coincidence? Perhaps not. If nothing else, this lucky number (at least in Blackjack) may cause buzzing humanity to pause in its building of worlds to note the passing of time and the power (creative or destructive) of our potential.

This is, after all, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. We think.

Besides, I want to savor this moment before tackling the whole 12-12-12 debacle. Where are those Mayan mathematicians when you need ’em?

This worn seat holds my time out, the corner I put myself in when I no longer play nicely with others. It holds me in peace as I gaze upon my days with the eye of the beholder.

My family laughs at me for photographing this yard relic religiously in every season.

Here it is in winter, when snow and ice become frequent visitors:

In spring and summer, it provides rest for the weary gardener:

And now in autumn, it gives just the right advantage to look back on time spent in the cycles of the year:

That distance can mean everything.

I’ve seen those eyes before: in high school parking lots and open-air concerts, at parties your “mama told you not to come” to. He sits by the door waiting for another hit of aromatherapy.

I was smart this year and planted it in the front porch pot with the basil as olfactory camouflage. And that is the only reason his supply has lasted this long.

Let’s face it — dude is an addict. He doesn’t even roll in it anymore, just swallows the entire leaf like it’s his last day on earth.

Which it might be if he doesn’t shut up.

Most years I’ve tried to grow the stuff, he sniffs it out and mows down the whole crop like a kitty combine. Later, I’ll come upon yet another sad scene of destruction, plants inhaled down to broken stems, nothing left for a single, solitary . . . locust.

Oh, and he’s too good for store-bought bags. He turns up his little pink nose at the stuffed mice, herbal sachets and smell-enhanced teasers on a stick.

Only the real thing will do. Which is what I discovered this summer growing as a healthy volunteer in my flower bed, hidden in the weeds. Just to be sure, I pulled off a leaf and passed a sample under my sleeping tiger’s snout, causing a miraculous resurrection.

Next thing I know, he’s racing around the house high on life, munching at the food bowl, crazy as a — cat.

So yeah. This explains the all-night howl jams at our house.

He knows he’s busted.

I spent a weekend at a women’s retreat and ended up sleeping under the stairs. (That’s the short version.)

It was love at first sight, that little cubby hidden behind the steps. You could have missed it. You could have dismissed it as a closet.

But the door stood open wide, light shining out in welcome, and tucked underneath the diagonal slash of stairwell was a comfy twin bed made up of old quilts and soft mismatched pillows.

I felt pulled into its spell even as I ducked my head to look at the rest. Space enough for a chair and dresser, not to mention a bedside table to hold the day’s pocketful of healing and peace.

Enough, and more. I knew I had to sleep there, under the soft footfalls of a great group of women practicing their nightly bedtime rituals.

I didn’t notice my roommate until the dark came, when hallway beams shone in through a timber teepee cut above my head. There he was, perched between reality and dreams, the long wisdom of his earlobes comforting me into quiet reflection.

I can’t help thinking Harry would have been a lot happier if an enlightened being shared his cupboard.

Resting safe in the knowledge that Buddha got your back.

Pieces of me keep falling off. Like an overused machine, I find parts to future prospects in the grass. Worn. Cracked. Trampled by life.

My primer is slowly detaching from the body of my youth, as I frantically pump in any elixirs that worked in the past.

I push forward, coughing through polluted expectations, trying to stay within the lines.

Then one back wheel stops propelling along in time so that I waltz sideways into forces of nature, head down against the straight-line winds of loss and age.

Losing precious momentum, I find myself wandering all over my world, cutting short where I shouldn’t, but leaving thickets of doubt to grow unchecked.

Eventually, I’ll end up in the garage, undrained, unwinterized. Obsolete.

Hoping on the spark of a prayer that I start up in the spring.