I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each

I crossed a threshold today.  No turning back, though it's an ominous world here Over the Hill.

There were some rainbows in among the louring clouds:  an utterly glorious February fortnight in England, spent with old friends and all the arts; a tiny but splendiferous home Shakesfest in April in Maine; a far-too-brief sudden trip to Chicago on the train (always wanted to do that); and a blissful week at folk camp (Martin and Eliza Carthy!) in August with my silly sister negothick . It was a vintage year for enjoying the arts.  And above all, I got to welcome an enchanting, curious, and ever-changing small person into this world.

This year's first:  I sang in public.  I was determined to bring something of my own to camp, so I remade Child Ballad 270, "The Earl of Mar's Daughter":  reworked the lyrics, fit a Playford tune to it, stood up in a ballad session and sang.  I was absolutely terrified.  All my life I'd thought I was a loud, flat, gruff, raucous, chorus-wrecking alto.  No.  Turns out I'm a tiny soprano.  The voice coach tested me:  tweet twitter warble chirp. Who me?  It felt almost like a gender reassignment.

Beyond deaths and politics, I hope there's light.  I hope that I get to spend time with said small person as they grow; that my dear friends will get well and stay well, and as happy and productive as they can be; that we'll have each other's company; that no one else will be run down in a crosswalk (thank you, 2016); that Jarndyce will be over; that I write something new and strange.

Nine