I’ve never made a fuss about birthdays. Most years I hoped to slip on through before anyone noticed. This year I’ve received enough attention that I might as well just fess up and celebrate. (And that’s not to say that you should slide into make-up mode if you forgot or didn’t know in the first place. Please.)

My overall wish for myself on this return of the day, is that many moments of the year are special. Commemorative. Joyous. My inner-most aspiration is that I strive to make that happen. At times I fail miserably. Fret and fall and fail.

T.M. (also known as Bob or husband) made up a mantra many years ago that we occasionally trot out to spark up a moment. It’s one word. COLOR. And the guideline is that when spoken it snaps you to attention and you see with all your senses whatever pops into view. The continuum of trees across the Otter Tail river. The rosy soft of the bobbing robin. The sunlight splashing blood red across the Tibetan carpet. The lush brown of Cosmo’s fur.

Try it. Color.

And indulge me here. Because I’m going to indulge myself with visions of places in my heart.