The time has come to do my first writing of the new year. In Japan, the first words a person writes on January first are very significant. That stops me. What if I don't have anything significant to say?

What if the ache in my sinuses and the congestion in my lungs has throttled out the words and creativity inside me? What if my words aren't as good as the words I've been reading on-line and in journal and novel this morning?

But they are the words given me. They are a gift, to be used. I refuse to let fear holdme.

The dishwasher roars and retreats, like a wave too steady to natural is in the background, our third load in two days--so much used glasses and plates. My husband has just gotten up from a nap. We didn't welcome in the new year at midnight, but sank our heads on our pillows at 10:30, exhausted from colds and serving dinner to guests two nights in a row.

“The girls” (my 19 and 21-year-old daughters and one girlfriend who spent the night) have left for Stanford Shopping Center and Savers, a low-end used-goods store—two extremes in price, fashion and quality. (But I do cherish the Saver's brown corduroy pants my daughter found last December and placed under the tree.)

I completed my own shopping this morning on-line, while the girls slept or made pancakes. I wondered if the jacket I'd pick would be of correct size to fit a fleece or sweater underneath and briefly considered getting into my car, but my lifeless-feeling legs protested.

So I've stayed home. I'm glad for the quiet now that the girls are gone, but missing them too. Missing being invited to go even though I wouldn't have gone if asked. I'd be a drag on them. A fifth wheel.

 They had four friends over last night at 8:30, two of the four arrived in short black dresses and tights and heels. Thus the second party started as our 5:45 dinner party ended. We'd been savoring with another family our homemade Korean style vegetables as well barbecue beef and blackberry pie until the doorbel rang and my daughters got up. Our conversation at the table suddenly seemed dim and dry.

I watched the young women lean into each other, eyes big in sympathy or surprise. or laughing and congratulating. We were contained, dreary, insipid apple juice compared to sparkling champagne. We were four 50+ adults of similar age and stage to us, merely chatting about a trip to Death Valley, parents visiting and asking questions to include the three collegiate and one high schooler sitting with us. (Such as, “What advice would you give to a high school about ready to start the college decision process?)

They are young women stepping towards independence. How to live and work after graduating. How to handle boyfriends, or parents. Whether to marry the man she loves. Major decisions. Major reports. They know the angst and the excitement, the certainty and the fear each faces, the sense of a future wide open before them, because they're all in it.

 For me, it was long ago. I wish to be one of them, but I can't. My best shot for deeply connecting is my own girlfriends, those of my own stage. The sense of daring and connecting these young women have calls to me. How or shall I attempt to capture that in this New Year or is it a gift I wait for?