(Lists from 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, and 2009.)

• wedding anniversaries - our 8th, my parents' 36th, my grandparents' 65th
• the guides who have come into my life and the wisdom they share
• the fire tower
• my mom's retirement
• our passports
• Hulu
• growth from struggle
• fireflies
• the pelicans on Kiawah Island
• sushi and a saketini at my favorite restaurant
• pedicures
• growing herbs for summertime dinners
• hardwood floors
• the photoblog
• fun jewelry
• cinnamon
• my electric toothbrush
• Amazon
• great travel tales
• alpacas
• the Redneck Valley wine bar
• the birds that visit our feeder
• my man's five o'clock shadow
• Lake Woebegon
• each and every breath, bringing me back to the present moment

106. Watching you do pull-ups

107. The sweat that soaks through the back of your t-shirt when we work out - so freaking sexy

108. When you kiss me on the cheek or pat me as we pass each other in the kitchen

109. When you tell me about a joke or comment you made at work that fell flat and how you thought to yourself, "Kelly would have gotten it."

110. That when I was sobbing in the kitchen on a particularly desperate day, and you held me and said it was going to be okay, you somehow made those words seem believable to me

111. The adorable butt-wiggling dance you do

112. Dreaming with you, on cold winter weekends, of all the places we could escape to

113. That you can never remember if you like homestyle or curly fries at Arby's

114. That you pour my to-go coffee every morning because I am always running late

115. That when I came into the kitchen the other morning you proudly exclaimed, "Choose your lunch!" and had lined up the various side options on the counter, grouped by type: chips or caramel corn, apple or orange, Skittles or a Reese's Cup.

116. Your eyes

117. That while I was completely, utterly overwhelmed by the huge mountain of snow at the end of the driveway, you just calmly began chipping away at it ... and how that's a metaphor for pretty much everything

118. That you blare Metallica during the evenings I'm at the rescue squad

119. That you download podcasts of our favorite radio shows

120. That you are a master at finding and planning hikes when we travel

Our marriage is the thing I'm most proud of, and that has every bit as much to do with you as it does me. Happy eight years, dear.

breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the deck - all spent watching the bluebird couple build their nest

We drive in the dark to the trailhead. It's early morning, and we are not fully awake. There isn't much to say at this time of day, so we ride mostly in silence, sipping coffee from a travel mug.

At the trailhead, we park the car and strap on our backpacks - his filled with photography gear and mine with jackets, snacks, and orange juice. Thankfully, before we left the garage I had thought to check the flashlight we keep stowed in the glove compartment. It was dead, and without the replacement light I'm now clutching, we would not be able to see a single bit of the trail.

Even with the flashlight, obstacles on the trail ahead are just dim shapes. We stumble on rocks and roots here and there, although for the most part we navigate our way through the woods easily enough.

I've always found hiking in the woods at night to be a bit creepy and unsettling. But somehow, hiking in the hour before the sun is about to rise feels very different. There's a sanctity in the forest at this time. Perhaps its the promise of the impending light that changes the nature of the darkness. For me, morning has always brought with it a sense of calm and reassurance. Whether fevered with the flu as a child or tossing and turning with anxiety as an adult, many times the sun has brought me a sense of relief by signaling the night's end.

Now I switch off the flashlight. Just enough light is escaping the horizon, at the place where the sun will emerge, that we can begin to see the outline of things. Our strides become more sure, but then there's a sudden sound nearby and we stop. It was a rustle in a nearby tree, loud but not threatening. "A bird?" I ask.

"Most likely."

We continue on, feeling blind despite the increasing light. Soon, the predawn glow is enough that our black and white surroundings turn to color. It is happening so steadily that I begin to wonder if we'll make it to the fire tower in time to watch the sun as it rises.

We do, easily. We crest the hill and climb the stairs to the top of the tower, where we sit to wait. A cluster of dotted lights marks the spot of a small town far below in the valley. We can make out a cloud near the horizon, and we wonder how far or close it is. Will the sun rise in front or be obscured behind?

We wait a few more minutes, sipping orange juice and staring ahead at the horizon. I'm reminded that the sun knows how to make an entrance. It understands the value of suspense. Rob looks down to fiddle with the camera, and in that moment I see the first, slightest edge of brightness peer over the mountains. "There it is!" I exclaim.

It is no wonder past civilizations worshiped the sun as a god. It brings light and warmth and life, and to witness its majestic rise feels humbling and spiritual. I'm struck by the silence with which this happens. No trumpet fanfare or joyful chorus? And yet the silence makes it all the more sacred. I gaze into the valley and wonder how many people are staring up at the sky, witnessing the day's birth. Is there anything else so ordinary that is also so extraordinary?

I am always surprised by how quickly the sun slides into the sky. If the earth is turning that fast, shouldn't I feel it? We watch the sunshine fall on the mountains, a line of light that moves across the land. Where the mountains ripple, shadows form. From here, the scurrying and worrying that will fill the day below seem insignificant. From here, the only truths are the solidness of the mountains and the steadiness of the sun.