When I was sitting on a lump of rock in the middle of a cenote in Quintana Roo, Mexico. No one anywhere except the birds and the dragonflies. I was looking out over the perfect clear water full of tiny fish and boulders covered in a moss that made everything glow a celestial blue under the sunlight.

When Ten and I took a long walk along the beach, heading into town for tacos. Just the two of us and twenty years of friendship. Then fish tacos and cold beers in the Mexico afternoon. That never sucks. 

When I met MN. It didn't matter that he lived in a completely different state—both geographically and existentially. It was just an especially delicious date. It also turned out to be the beginning of an exquisite and excruciating process that would unmake and remake all the expectations I'd had for my life up to now.

When Jeffy and I went to see bands. So many bands. Standing in the middle of the Fox or the Independent or the Rickshaw or the Fillmore, hearing music that was brand new or nostalgic or horrible or fantastic or rocking or wistful. Always whiskey tipsy and happy to be lost in the sound of things with a friend. 

When I walked through a hot New York evening with music in my ears and had dinner alone at one of my favorite restaurants. Ate three courses at the bar with Infinite Jest and a bottle of wine all to myself. 

When MN and I were alone in the moody, eery lobby of the McKittrick Hotel, dancing to an old standard that I thought would be seared in my head forever. Somehow I've forgotten it though. We were both wearing masks, as you do at the McKittrick Hotel, but I knew he could still see the dumb awe of infatuation in my eyes. 

When I finished the latest draft of my novel and realized, halle-fucking-lujah, I really do have a story after all. This whole time I'd been writing and writing, not really sure what was going to happen. Now I know. 

When I got a new job, and got to wrap my head around a new set of circumstances and people and information. When I got to make a change. 

When I finally stopped running out of money between paychecks. Finally. 

When I realized I've had my houseplants for more than two years and they're still not dead. 

When I ran a half marathon and only hated the last 4.3 miles of it. 

When it occurred to me that being independent and being alone were not necessarily the same thing; when I realized that, for the first time, I wanted to plan my life with someone besides me in it, and thought I might actually have the nerve to do that. 

When Ten, BV and I arrived at the house in Santa Rosa where the three-day Bacchanal of my 40th birthday was to be. The huge sweeping view of golden California splayed out under a perfect summer sky, and all of my favorite people gathered in one perfect place. 

When G, Nelly, and I stayed up later than the rest, splayed out on chaise lounges by the dark pool, happily bickering about the constellations. 

When we sat around a huge table in the cool night, 15 of the most excellent people I've ever known, falling over with laughter and wine. 

When MN and I went to my favorite place in Healdsburg, sat in the shade, shared a loaf of sourdough and a bottle of wine. When I got tangled up some more in his complicated way of being, and loved it. 

When my work partner, Jess, and I arrived in Buenos Aires and sat down to one of the world's longest lunches consisting almost entirely of meat and wine. The first of many hours of appreciating the fuck out of the wonderful South American adventure we thought was never going to happen. 

When Jess and I walked onto the smoke-filled set, goofy smiles big on our faces while we listened to musicians play a jazz tune composed just for us, and watched a crew of 50+ people make our idea come to life with such perfection it could hardly be believed. 

When I was sipping Malbec in a cozy bar in Buenos Aires with new friends during a thunderstorm; sheets of rain filling the streets and lightning flaring up the sky. I watched my coworkers and friends laugh and talk. KP stood in the doorway and watched the rain while she danced to the music inside. 

When we drove down a narrow dirt road on a ranch in Uruguay—the headlights off, the fields blue in the moonlight and sparkling with fireflies; the sky unbelievable for all the stars. 

I had never seen fireflies before. 

When I said what I wanted. When I learned that saying what you want is more important than whether or not you get it. It is, right?

No one said you could have it all. And certainly nothing really ever turns out quite the way you think it will. But that's an easy thing to forget when you're on the cusp of a new year. When there is the hope that something wonderful might be waiting for you, something that could fundamentally change you, perhaps even improve you. In that moment you are nothing but the embodiment of raw, gorgeous optimism. Everything is possible. And nothing has hurt you yet.

So here's to fresh starts. Here's to 2015.