TWENTY-TWELVE.

In twenty-twelve I: turned 34; learned how to whistle with my fingers; collected lichen and leaves; photographed a wedding on a boat; photographed a wedding in an orchard; became obsessed with coconut water and printed jeans; vacumed up 27 Lego pieces; toasted 333 slices of Dave’s bread; folded 523 pairs of socks; learned how to say “that’s ok” in korean; saw three movies in the theatre; found my heart in San Francisco; learned from my four-year-old how to play “secret-spy-agent-spy”; learned from my six-year-old how to play “old grandpa”; got blinded by the lights of Vegas; did not change my name; cut my hair twice; wore a red flannel button-down; wore a cheetah print t-shirt; jumped into a lake; cooked posole; cooked lentil soup; cried during a documentary about Bob Marley; cried during Les Mis; cried during a commercial for Target; dug tunnels in the snow and built ice bricks for an igloo; got trampled by a sea of Koreans at a Lady Gaga show in Seoul; jumped on a hotel room bed; wore a unicorn mask; went to a pool party where dollar bills were sprayed into the water with an air gun; did not get a tattoo of a bird; wore fake eyelashes and became obsessed with air plants; square danced in a Bavarian town; salsa danced in my kitchen; did not tweet; did not pintrest; dressed up as Santa; dressed up in British leggings; dressed up in faux fur; said goodbye to friends; said hello to friends; picked berries under a hot July sun; wore a fluorescent pink fanny pack; photographed brides in limos, on mountains and under bridges; walked my oldest through the doors of first grade and cried; watched my youngest blow out four candles on a cake and cried; sang “hurt so good” in five different karaoke bars; discovered that my animal spirit is the dolphin; discovered a ghost town in the middle of nowhere; rode the Seoul metro; rode the San Francisco BART; rode the Portland MAX; rode my bicycle slowly; had dreams that I could fly; had dreams that I conversed with an antelope; pretended that I could speak French; pretended that I could bake a pie; watched the sun set twenty times into Lake Pend Orielle; did not scream when a bat flew into my hair; did not win at Bananagrams; did not win the lottery; became obsessed with instagram; stayed in a room Paris (as in Vegas); sang loudly in my car; sang loudly in the shower; looked at my children every single night after they fell asleep; wrote letters on my typewriter; learned how to make a paper ninja star; played with legos; played with sticks; stacked rocks; collected old cameras; counted sheep; counted stars; conversed in Spanish; hugged my mom; wrote books in my head; found hearts in my lattes; covered my nails in zebra stripes; became distracted by clouds; laughed in my sleep; drank black tea everyday and slept diagonally on my Tempur-Pedic mattress.

They say that 12.21.12 wasn’t really supposed to be the end of the world at all; that maybe the Mayans just sort of ran out of paper. They say that the finish of this year marks the end of a period of stagnation, and that with 2013, we enter into a new age of growth and movement and renewal. So here are to new beginnings and fresh starts and opportunities to be better than we were last year. In order to move forward, I had to look back through my images from 2012 and wade through mountains of moments and memories. But now I am ready to say goodbye to the past twelve months and continue forward.

Happy New Year to you all, and may your days shine bright in the big damn ’13.

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