Category Archives: Vermont

COVID-19: Oddity of a Shared Experience While Living Continents Apart from My Paraguayan Friends

Posted on by

Reposting a post I wrote for the Global Health Diaries, the blog of the Global Health Program at the University of Vermont Robert Larner M.D. College of Medicine and the Western Connecticut Health Network. Find the original post here.

In early March, I had a Zoom call with the other community health Peace Corps volunteers I served with in Paraguay from 2014-2016. One of my colleagues still lives in Paraguay and he shared his impression of the Paraguayan response to COVID-19 compared to that of the US this spring: “Here [Paraguay] everything is locked down. Police will stop you if you’re on the street to ask why you’re out. People are getting restless because, as you know, here many people don’t eat if they don’t work. But Paraguay is taking this seriously. It’s mind-blowing to hear what’s happening in the United States. It’s hard to believe the news of people protesting masks and attending large gatherings during these times.”

At the time of that comment, the US was still widely debating the validity of masks and COVID-19 cases and deaths were still increasing. Vermont, where I live, was among the US states that chose a more aggressive public health approach with the hope of containing viral spread. For much of the spring and summer most business in Vermont were closed, including gyms and many restaurants. There was no curfew, however school was cancelled or switched to completely online and wearing masks in public places was mandated. The almost complete shutdown only lasted a few months. In late summer, many businesses in Vermont started to open again. Now, schools are back in session (many school districts have a hybrid of online and in-person classes). As a second-year medical student, I have in-person classes twice a week and online classes three days a week. I am required to get a weekly COVID-19 test and report any new symptoms and contacts daily.

The short shutdown and recent opening of Vermont is in stark contrast with the experiences of my Paraguayan friends during these past 6 months. I’ve remained in contact with friends in the Paraguayan community where I worked when I lived there during my Peace Corps service.

This fall, just as in the spring, my friends in Paraguay are mostly restricted to their homes. When my friends and I spoke in early summer, they said that only a few members of their extended family were still allowed to go to work. One friend shared her perspective on Paraguay’s infrastructure, “Our hospitals can’t take care of people if they get sick,” she said. “We are worried.”

In early September, I got a voice message from one of the Paraguayan women who is like a mother to me. She was on the verge of tears. She is the primary caretake of her 90-year-old mother. In my friend’s message she told me that she is scared that her mother will die of COVID-19. My friend does not have a car. The nearest hospital is 2 hours by bus. I don’t know if the buses are running right now.

I’ve returned to Paraguay twice since leaving, once for a friend’s wedding and once to meet a friend’s son before he turned one. I was planning to visit again this year because two of the children I taught when I worked there will turn 15. In Paraguay, 15 is considered an important birthday and some families have a large, wedding-like birthday party to celebrate. The two children turning 15 are like younger siblings to me and I wanted to see them during their special year.

In late September, realizing that I probably won’t travel anywhere outside of the US soon, I made a traditional Paraguayan drink called cocido. It is a warm beverage made from steeped yerba mate (similar to tea) and burnt sugar. It’s a perfect study beverage for fall and it reminds me of my Paraguayan friends and our times together. I shared a video of making cocido with my Paraguay friends. One of them mentioned that I should make chipa, a traditional Paraguayan biscuit that is often eaten with cocido. “I miss chipa!” I said over text. “I haven’t made it because it’s better in Paraguay. I’ve been waiting to visit again so I can have it there.”

My Paraguayan friend responded, “You should make chipa. Don’t wait to come to Paraguay. You’re not going to be able to come for a long time. Things are not well. Lots of people are getting sick here now. We don’t know what is going to happen with this virus.”

My friend’s comment was in stark contrast to any previous conversation we’d had about me visiting Paraguay. My Paraguayan friends remind me often that I am always welcome in their homes. Before COVID-19, every time we talked they asked when I was returning to Paraguay. Now my friends seem too far away to visit. Yet, despite the feeling that travel to Paraguay is morally forbidden during these times, there is something novel about sharing the same public health crisis in my home country as friends abroad. It is not often that the primary public health concern in the United States is the same as that in Paraguay. It is the first time since I’ve left Paraguay that I feel my life is still intertwined with the lives of my friends in Paraguay. It’s not reassuring, but it is interesting to consider how interconnected our global community is despite the borders, oceans, and mountains that separate us.

The Mountains

Posted on by

These days between the hours of studying, the doctorhood quest unfolding slowly and quickly at the same time, I find myself hiking whenever time allows. It’s difficult to describe what I find in the forest as I climb to a mountain’s peak. Some days I go quickly, not observing the trees and moss as I forge up the trail. Other days I step slowly, methodically looking at the ferns and the rocks and the sun rays that scatter across the forest floor.

Sometimes my mind buzzes with thoughts—of friends, family, and school. Of puzzles I still have left to solve or chores that await me when I get home. But, more often as time goes, I find my mind mostly empty. An uncommon feeling in my daily life in town. As I get lost in thoughtless contemplation, the chipmunks make me smile as they scuttle around me and the grouse make me jump as they burst into flight before I see them. The sound of their wings is in stark contrast to the silent trees around me.

I stop for a sip of water partway up a steep stretch of trail. My forehead is crusted with salt from sweating. I feel my heart pounding. The wind picks up and the trees creek and groan. I look up and see their branches waving. Even a brief pause allows my breath to slow before I hoist my backpack to my shoulders again. Onward.

I’ve done enough trails to know which rocks are most likely to make me lose my footing. I avoid them. Mud jumps from the trail to my pants. The trail gets steeper and I shed a jacket layer. Once taking off the layer, I climb higher and the wind gets stronger. I put the jacket back on. It’s a dance of layers—just enough to stay warm, not so many that I roast. I sweat regardless.

As I climb the final pitch to the mountain top I have on my warmest layer—in summer just a windbreaker and in winter a hefty coat. I hike so much, there are many days when I get to the highest rock and there is no view. Clouds never did bother me, so the clearness of the day doesn’t impact my decision to take to the hills. When it is sunny and clear at the summit, the landscape around my mountain stretches away from me. I think about what all the distant hills and valleys have seen, countless stories they can’t tell me.

Some days the wind threatens to push me over as I pause at the summit. On days when I can see the mountains beyond my mountain, I ignore the wind and take time to watch the sunshine. The rolling hills and fields below are a patchwork of cloud shadows and sun patches. Beyond them are the mountains of some other state. When I hike in Vermont, the mountains beyond are always pointer than the one I climbed. The green mountains were scraped by glaciers and, therefore, have softer features than their neighbors in New York and New Hampshire.

I don’t doddle as I descend to my car. My heart is filled by the fresh air of the summit. I’m ready to return to the hustle of regular life by the time I get back to the parking lot. At the same time, as I turn my car toward home, I’m already daydreaming of my next hike. The mountains don’t let me forget them, no matter what adventures I have waiting for me in the lowlands. 

Climbing Mountains

Posted on by

One year when I was young we celebrated my mom’s birthday by hiking a nearby mountain. Our family has loved mountain adventures since our beginning, so it seemed like a perfect way to celebrate another good year.

The hike was beautiful and challenging and magical in the way hours spent in the woods while climbing a slope always are. When we got to the top we settled on the peak rocks to enjoy the view, eat snacks, and let our heartrates drip back to resting. Us kids sat down, pulling out our normal fare—peanuts, bread, cheese, among other easy-to-pack items.

My mom wore a happy smirk as she opened her backpack. First, she unpack a stack of plates and forks. Then came some bags containing several layers of chocolate cake. Then came the Tupperware with the sauce for between the cake layers. And then the whipped cream…She’d also brought sparkling cider.

My mother had secretly packed and carried an entire black forest cake up the mountain. That’s dedication, determination, and the proper way to start a new era.

I’m turning 30 this year, so I’ve been thinking about birthdays a bit because it seems like ending my twenties might be a big deal. I can’t really think of a better way to nod goodbye to my first complete decade of adulthood than cake on top of a mountain. There is something about icing that makes the horizon seem promising and clarifies the path you’ve already trod.

Golden Leaves and Golden Sun

Posted on by

Autumn in Vermont is like a pendulum; it swings between cold rainy days and bright sun that reflects off the yellow, orange, red, and brown leaves soon to fall off the trees. The damp days and frost-laced evenings are a prelude to the winter soon to come. The strong sun on the loveliest days of October is not only a reflection of the summer just past, but also particularly appealing because it contrasts with the brisk wind and cool damp air inherit of autumn.

Earlier this October when the sun looked like a flood of gold as it reflected off the hills, I set out with a friend on an easy, wandering hike through the woods, past beaver dams, and up the tame slopes of a hill with an outstanding view. The shade and wind carried the hint of frost, but the sunlight danced so joyfully through the birch, beech, and maple leaves that I didn’t feel cold while wearing only a light jacket. The pleasantness of the day penetrated through my slight haze. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of adventure, topped off by working the night shift the night before our hike and running a half marathon with my sister two days earlier. But, as we parked the car and started walking I didn’t feel tired. My mate had kicked in and the day was too charming to pass inside. There’s something about the woods in Vermont…they recharge me more than anywhere else. [Text continues after image.]

20181016_144557

I grew up in Vermont, but moved to the city for college and work and then moved abroad. I’ve been back a few years, enjoying the time until more schooling picks my next home. I imagine, just as I did as a new adult, I have more city turns and many places to live before I sleep for good. I imagine many of those places will be about as different and as far from Vermont as possible on our small planet. While I never really miss the Green Mountain State in its entirety, when I live elsewhere I periodically find myself aching for the quiet woods that always awaits me here.

The woods in the fall are my favorite. Fall is my favorite season in Vermont for its smells—piles of leaves, apple cider, wood smoke, and pumpkin baked goods—and perfect temperatures. The leaves already fallen rustle underfoot and the tangy, earthy smell of the soil and crisp foliage tingles your nose in an only pleasant way. The natural world is getting ready for sleep and a long stretch of harsh weather. The chipmunks and squirrels are in overdrive, jumping about like bunnies with cheeks full of nuts. Wild apples, acorns, cherries, and berries adorn the trees, weighing the branches down and feeding the deer and other woods dwellers. There’s an influx of geese and other migrating birds—their flocks fill the ponds and trees and raise a chorus of excited chatter about their long journey south.

The forests of Vermont aren’t epic like those of California and Washington state. They aren’t misty, exotic, and lavish like the Amazon or the jungles of Central America and Africa. Nor are they tangled and concealing large snakes, jaguars, and anteaters like the forests in Paraguay. In contrast, it’s their humble scale and unassuming beauty that brings thoughts of the Vermont woods, my childhood haunts, to me when I’ve spent too long away. I always know when those thoughts percolate it’s time to visit.

My friend and I paused on the hilltop to enjoy the view and take in a few golden rays before our descent back into the forest. I sat, knees pulled up against my chest, and gazed out over the rolling patchwork of gold, green, and bronze. The stone face on which I sat was slightly warm thanks to the sun. We were shielded from the breeze. No one else was around. There was a quiet that’s forgotten even in the smallest of towns. The calm was a relief after the rush of work in a hospital and traveling for medical school interviews—places full of complicated thoughts and human interaction. In those moments on the hill, I was thankful for the forest. I also felt a pang of bitterness about the cold winter soon to come, but I know (as I’ve said before) that the cold is one thing that keeps people from flooding Vermont. And, anything that keeps the autumn woods here quiet so I can sneak away and meditate on life’s challenges is welcome.

20181016_154000

Christof

Posted on by

There’s a guy, Christof, in my neighborhood who collects returnable bottles from the recycling we put out on the corner for the city each Friday. One day when my father was visiting me, he struck up a conversation with Christof. One of Christof’s daughters went to college and the other didn’t–Christof joked that the daughter who finished college doesn’t have a job while the other one does. He collects bottles to help both of them.

I don’t often drink anything that comes in a redeemable bottle, but since chatting with Christof, my father started saving his seltzer bottles…he drinks a lot of seltzer. My father brings the bottles to my house (even though I live about 2 hours away) when he visits so I can give them to Christof.

I work nights, so it’s challenging to put out the recycling before Christof passes. One morning I saw him, though, collecting from the neighbors. As he walked by, I ran out and asked him to wait a moment. He paused, a smile lighting his face. I handed him 2 huge trash bags of bottles I’d squirreled in the garage for a few weeks. He thanked me a million times, wished me a blessed day, and was on his way.

At first, I thought my father was ridiculous for saving bottles for Christof. But, that morning when I saw Christof’s face after I handed him our bags of bottles, I realized that my father was right. We can get so caught up in all the big things we should do that we do nothing. Christof reminded me that it’s the small things that add up in the end. And, luckily, life is full of small things.

Determination: 2 Girls, 1 Hill, 1 Tree, and 1 Ladder

Posted on by

As children, my friends and I spent hours wandering the woods. We lived in rural Vermont in the middle of hills covered with sugar maples. One of my best friend’s families made maple syrup as part of their living—they collected their sap using draft horses. And it is with that friend that this adventure took place.

Far up on one of the hills behind her house, maybe a 40-minute hike across a river and bushwhacking through the sugar bush, was a monstrous tree. It was a Pippi Longstocking tree, a tree of wonder and stories. It was the most perfect tree for a tree fort you can imagine…and the branches didn’t start until 20 feet above the ground.

Those high branches spread out in such a way as to almost make a floor. My friend and I thought that if only we could reach those branches it would be the best thing in the world. We dreamed of hanging a hammock from those taunting limbs and eating a picnic up in the canopy. We thought about our future tree fortress on many occasions, staring up from the ground, until one day we contrived a plan.

Her father had a very tall ladder—one of those aluminum ones that has two sliding parts so it can get even longer than it appears at first.

We started in the morning. She took one end of the ladder and I the other. Those ladders, though hollow, are not light. We discovered this not long after crossing the river and starting up the hill. We also realized that zigzagging through trees was a lot harder when you are attached to another person by an 8-foot, stiff ladder.

We stopped occasionally. We argued about the best way to go through the trees. We sweated and got scratched by brayers.

And, after what seemed eons, we reached the tree. We lay the ladder against it, expanding it to its full length. We observed the ladder. We were scared. It was so tall and the ground wasn’t even. Surely, we’d fall if we climbed it. Surely, if we fell we’d die. We talked about climbing the ladder. About falling. About how amazing it probably was up there. “Fine, hold the ladder,” I said. And I put my foot on the first rung. I was shaky. It was high. My heart pounded. I got about 6 feet above the ground. I paused. The ladder felt wobbly. I wasn’t sure if I should keep going.

Slowly, carefully I reached the top rung. The branches were still overhead. I’d have to grab them and then swing my legs up and hang sloth-style to get up in the tree. I stood at the top of the ladder a long time. My friend first shouted up that if I wasn’t going to do it I should come down so she could. Then she suggested that we not do it at all.

I grabbed the branch and I swung up. “This is awesome!” I said, sitting and staring down at her on the ground. She joined me, with the greatest care because the ladder was unsteady, especially without someone holding it.

We sat up in the tree until we got hungry. The only reason we ever left the woods was because we were starved.

Some people will tell you your dreams are impossible. Don’t bother with them. Someone else will help you carry a ladder.

Springtime Rambling

Posted on by

My goodness how quickly time passes. It’s hard to believe that the last time I wrote was in the dead of a cold, dark winter—the hallmark of New England. I won’t bore you with the reasons why there was no time to write for so long, except to say that I know a great deal more about equilibrium, acid-base reactions, electromagnetism, circuits, batteries, optics, quantum mechanics, and special relativity than I did in February. Science.

Spring arrived in Vermont with the timidity of a mouse crossing a barren stretch—one step forward, three steps back. But, the soft, new leaves are starting to unroll; the grass needs to be cut, the flower gardens need weeding, and the fruit trees fill the air with soft scents. It’s the lilacs more than the tulips and daffodils that make me think the warm weather will stay a while.

The winter was long and cold. I dared not count the gray days that melted into rainy days between frost and flowers. It goes without saying that spring is a time of new beginnings and the return of the sun.

How I missed the sun! When I went on a walk today rays of golden light danced on the path between the yellow-new, pink fresh leaves. The spirals of young ferns lined the walkway and the damp mix of old leaves and new growth saturated the air. I paused on a bridge over where the river meets the lake. There in the flooded marsh lands a fish swam almost lazily in circles. It was over a foot long. A fin lined its back waving back and forth like a ruffle along its spine as it waved its tail. What a bold fish to be out in the open in eagle, kingfisher, and heron territory!

I’m sure you guessed, but the sun makes me think of Paraguay. I completed my one-year anniversary of my return to the States in April. This is my first full spring in Vermont in many years. And the humming of the frogs, bugs, and birds make me think that this coming year will not only be as productive as the last, but more hopeful.

It is a new beginning because I’m taking my learning out of the classroom. Not so long ago I started running as an EMT. I’m still quite a newbie, but I’ve learned that every patient is a puzzle, and that solving each puzzle is more thrilling than anything else I’ve yet encountered. To realize what I can do to help someone by looking at a few measures—for example breathing, pulse, and blood pressure—is far more interesting than piecing together the clues of a physics exam question.

I’ve been thinking these days about how much I’ve learned since last spring. This time last year, I could not have told you what a healthy blood pressure was or if 5 was basic or acidic on the pH scale. Today I know those things and a great deal more. But, for some reason, Plato’s Socrates and his comment about what makes one wise has been on my mind as I take my spring walks, a translation of which reads:

“I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good; but he fancies he knows something, although he knows nothing; whereas I, as I do not know anything, so I do not fancy I do. In this trifling particular, then, I appear to be wiser than he, because I do not fancy I know what I do not know.”

The more I learn about the human body and illness the more I realize how much I don’t know. And what I’ve come to see, now that the frost has cleared, is that the doctorhood quest will not end when I pass my last board exam. It’s a quest for knowledge and better understanding that will only end when I stop practicing medicine. And despite the weight of learning so much for so long, the length and breadth of my journey does not seem daunting. I know that even if there are stretches like a Vermont winter as I make my way, they will always be followed by spring. After spring comes summer. And summer is full of life.

Photo Credit: my father

 

Winter In Vermont

Posted on by

Winter is defined by suffocating darkness. The sun rises hours after me and sets long before my work is done. The haze of dawn seems barely brushed from the sky before the long shadows of dusk push back the sunlight. But, despite short days, Vermont winters are beautiful and perhaps one of its key features.

When you enter the woods they are silent, not like a tomb, but like someone holding her breath. Frozen until spring comes. The snow crunches under your feet and the trees crackle, almost frozen. Sometimes the trees freeze, and when that happens their limbs splinter as whole colonies of cells explode.

On days when it snows, the daylight softens to the gray of twilight. Sometimes the wind drives the snow sideways like pellets, and other times the air is so still you can hear the snowflakes alight on your coat. The mist of snowflakes spreads a feeling of sleepiness. The animals find cover under the evergreens, and I settle by the fire when my hat and boots are soaked through from walking in the snow.

Sometimes it is too cold to snow. On those crystal days the air is so clear you can see the distant rounded mountaintops acutely, figures outlined harshly by the sky. The air freezes your nose hairs with each inhale. The wind gives you brain-freeze when it collides with the small patch of skin between your scarf and your hat. It is unbearable to take off your mittens because of the burning and numbness the air causes, so you simply learn how to navigate outdoor life with padded hands. On the coldest days, it’s a fight to stay warm. I must sleep under a pile of blankets. But, frozen days are good days.

The cold protects and preserves Vermont. The threat of harsh winters prevents people from moving here and therefore it ensures there is space for the streams that meander through expansive forests. The heavy frost and ice storms keep the mossy hollows and fern-blanketed forests safe from bulldozers, houses, pavement, grass, and hoards of people and their pets.

Other places have launched themselves into a more modern era with blind enthusiasm and as if shot by a catapult. But the cold makes one lethargic. Vermont is undoubtedly part of the modern world. But, we Vermonters enjoy new technology without thinking it necessary to replace the woods. We are happy to embrace the innovations of lifestyle and thinking that come, and yet we hesitate. And I think our tendency to pause comes from having weathered so many winters. We know what true silence is—it’s the forest on the coldest day of the year when the gray of morning almost shakes hands with the gray of evening.

Once you’ve encountered a truly silent place it stays with you. Unforgettable. No matter where you go the vividness of the place where you found complete silence comes to mind from time to time. And you realize that silence is invaluable and scarce. And you find yourself taking a moment to stop because you know deep-down that anything that would destroy the places where there is silence is terrible.

Happy Holidays

Posted on by

Spend Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year in another country and without your family for a few years and you’ll return with a whole new perspective about the holidays. I promise. I know. I did it.

You end up seeing clearly all the things you love about your holiday traditions. You also realize that the stress that often comes with the holidays is not required. The tension is something you add to the mix for a host of reasons, but is not inherent to the holidays.

Leaving the stress at the door is great, and I was only able to do it because I took a sabbatical. During my break, I had plenty of time to ponder all the things I love about the holidays, but especially Christmas with my family.

Top of the list was seeing everyone. This Christmas was special because I met my baby niece for the first time. She’s little and cute and the first of her generation in our family—needlessly to say she was the star. I also saw my brothers after over two years. Two years is a long time. The last time I saw them, one was in high school and the other was in college. They both graduated those occupations in May 2014. I left January 2014. Wow. Crazy, right? They both are taller than I remembered, and the younger is a giant. GIANT.

A close second is the food. I do Christmas Eve at my mom’s and Christmas Day as my dad’s. Both of my parents are fantastic cooks. We dine like the three kings. This year, my mom pulled out all the stops with the desserts—two types of pie, German chocolate cake, and chocolate mousse. On Christmas morning, we ate fruit cake and Christmas stollen. My dad served king crab, but this year I’m trying the vegetarian thing so I stuck to my favorite on the rainbow, orange. Specifically, squash orange. Some people get excited over steak and potatoes. I’ve always been a fan of squash and potatoes.

Next are the decorations. My family is full of artists—basically if you aren’t an artist you’re in the minority. What this means is that we have awesome Christmas trees and house décor. We aren’t one of those families that drapes their house in lights. But we have some great Christmas tree ornaments and we know how to place them just right on the tree. On Christmas Eve, my job is to decorate the table. I went for elegant this year—a garland and candles.

Christmas Eve we do fireworks and a bonfire. You should be jealous. It’s a perk of living in the middle of nowhere with snow all over—we can enjoy fires of all shapes and sizes with almost no risk of harm…this year one of the fireworks we set off did explode on the ground in many directions however.

Stockings. I love Christmas stockings, maybe more than presents. Why? Who knows, but it’s so fun to see all the little, silly things one can fit in a decorated sock. Tooth brushes, toothpaste, candy, tree ornaments, nail files…you never know what “Santa” will leave.

The morning. I’m a morning person. I usually get up early. On Christmas, I’m always the first up. I’ve overcome my childhood ways…meaning I don’t get up at 4 o’clock in the morning any more. This year I got up at 5ish. I love the quiet when everyone is sleeping and it’s just me, the Christmas tree, and the stockings. This year I finished embroidering a stocking that needed some love before anyone else got up. Victory.

My sister has changed and is now a morning person. Because she and I travel from our mom’s to our dad’s and split Christmas between them, the 26th is also part of Christmas at my dad’s house. This year, she and I finished making a pie before the parents got up. The crust had been in the fridge overnight and was rock-like. Luckily, my sister is buff—you should see her shoulder and arm muscles. She’s a professional fitness trainer—so she rolled out the crust like it was warm butter. I gave advice like, “If dirty dishes are in your way (when making pie) move them.”

It was nice to be home for Christmas. And, seeing as I was in Paraguay just before (and traveled 32 hours to get back in time for the 24th), it was even sweeter.

*Photo credit: Matisse, my brother.

Welcome 2017

Posted on by

You know, 2016 was a pretty awesome year. It was one of transition. My service in Paraguay ended and I returned to Vermont. As you may recall, I grew up in Vermont. I fled the state when I went to college. I swore I’d never return. But, minds and hearts change. Here I am. And, I’ll be in Vermont for a stint longer than I was in Paraguay.

So where does 2017 find me?

I’m in the midst of a post-baccalaureate, pre-med program. What does that mean? I’m taking the undergrad classes required to apply to medical school, which I didn’t take when I earned my BA in Public Relations.

The end goal? Becoming a medical doctor. But, one step at a time…

I guess we can say that 2017 officially marks the end of my Peace Corps journey and the beginning of my doctorhood quest. And it is a quest. A long, long adventure full of all kinds of tricky science and learning new things. Luckily, I gained some endurance and determination abilities while in Paraguay.

As always, I’m doing many things. I’m studying and working. I’m on the verge of becoming an EMT. Got my cert…now I just need a volunteer position. Further, I’m considering what other delights I can fit into my jammed schedule.

While I start 2017 as a busy bee, like every year I remember, this year isn’t about the work. Work is what I do, I’m just like that.

2017 is about attitude, not tasks.

We can’t know the future. Life is exciting because of tomorrow’s mystery. But, I have high hopes for 2017. And, despite some giant obstacles (not the least of which is a despicable human storming the Oval Office) I have some happy goals.

I’m expecting 2017 to be full of positive thinking and pep talks. That’s the nature of having hard professional and personal goals. But big goals aside, my main resolution for 2017 is to create moments of caring and sharing. What does that entail? Carving out time to spend with people I love. Smiling and seizing opportunities to discover new people to love. I know, it sounds wishy-washy. But it’s not. This year is simply about being happy as a human and sharing that happiness with others.

With that, let’s go 2017. I’m ready. Are you?