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.

Life is feeling particularly full right now. Full in a good way, like a nightstand stacked with books or a basket piled with yarn or a stomach stretched after a satisfying meal.

Surely the start of spring has something to do with it. The daffodils peeked out this week, and although a chill still hangs in the morning air, there's a promise of warmth to come. Sunlight becomes a little stronger and longer each day, and each week is now a significant step forward. We can feel the progress.

At the same time, Rob and I have had a plentitude of quiet moments, a whole string of wonderfully empty evenings and weekends to while away as we please. Even as we've made steps toward spring, we've felt a near suspension in time. We're about to enter into a busy, tumbling time of year, but for now, in this brief transition between seasons, we've had minutes and hours to spare.

For me, it's been a time of creating. And I think this is the crux of my contentment. The knitting, for sure, has been a newfound pleasure. Acquiring a skill is always satisfying, and particularly gratifying is learning to make something. Especially when the process is so beautifully simple. But there's also been time to enjoy, perhaps more than usual, other kinds of creation. Like creating meals in the kitchen. Creating order in a chaotic closet. Creating, with words, a cohesive collection of thoughts.

Not to mention making plans. Such as my ever-growing list of projects, of things to do. Things to knit, to paint, to plant, to cook, to write, to read. Things to revel in.

This weekend, of glorious 70-degree days, has been one of bidding farewell to winter. Which is not to say winter is gone, but it is certainly on its way out. I expect it will linger a few weeks longer, but it is beginning to pack its things, preparing to take leave. And we have been only too happy to help.

I've taken down the winter decorations - removed my wooden snowmen from the shelf, replaced the evergreen wreath with one of purple flowers. We moved the clocks forward. Slid open the windows with a sigh of satisfaction. Ate lunch on the deck. Trimmed dried flower stalks and dead leaves to make room for new growth, for the buds below the surface that are waiting for the right time to emerge. Just like the new life in my cousin's belly, the precious growing we celebrated yesterday at her baby shower. Signs of spring are everywhere.

Right now through the open window I hear a bird chirping and feel a tiny breeze swirl around my legs. We're preparing to go on a walk, without coats. We're preparing to part ways with winter. We're ready for spring.

I was one of eight thousand people who filled the huge room for a glimpse of history in the making. For a chance to see him and hear him on the path, we hoped, to being elected President.

What struck me as I stood there, waiting for his entrance, was how small the stage was, and how small he would look standing on it. We have made him to be larger than life, casting him in our minds as the answer, the future, for some maybe even The One.

As he strode onstage, he did not sag under the burden of our expectations, didn't buckle under the crush of our cheers. His grand, euphonious voice filled the room, his words wrapping around us before rising to the rafters.

He stood tall. But he was, still, so small. One singular person, spotlighted and standing before thousands. And millions more.

And I thought, What a sacrifice. A willing one, of course. But, regardless, what a sacrifice to offer oneself. To accept the responsibility of fixing lives and fulfilling promises, to take our every hardship and hope ... while knowing that a lamb can so quickly become a scapegoat.

We have pinned our hopes and dreams onto him and propelled him forward to carry them out on our behalf. The weight of the world is on his shoulders.

I urge us, every citizen, to join together to support him. To carry our own part of the burden. United we stand.

And to his protectors, I plead: Keep him safe.

Godspeed, Mr. President.

I remember waiting for the election results in 2000. Rob and I were sitting on the futon in my dorm room watching the numbers come in on my 14" TV. We are registered independents, and had both voted for Al Gore, although perhaps for different reasons. The environment was one of the issues that Rob cared most about, and he felt strongly that Gore was the right leader for that cause. And I felt strongly that George W. Bush was a pompous moron. For me, intelligence was a key issue in that election.

It was the first presidential election in which I'd been old enough to vote. Watching the results roll in, I had absolute confidence that the rest of America felt as I did, that no way would a man who could not properly put sentences together be voted President of the United States. I didn't follow polls, or politics, but I remember thinking he didn't have a chance, that his candidacy was a joke.

And I remember watching, dumbfounded and horrified, as he won. (Or at least was believed to have won, pending recounts.) There is no word strong enough for my disbelief at that moment.

A sense of unease settled over me, and what I remember most clearly from that evening is turning to Rob and saying, "What happens if we go to war?" That was my first thought. I don't know why that came to mind, except that I was so certain of his inability to lead that my mind jumped to the implications of a worst-case scenario. And I remember Rob scoffing at the notion of going to war, assuring me that wouldn't happen.

We were naive. We had no idea what could happen. And I mean all of us, not just Rob and me. Although certainly Rob and me. I was not a well-informed citizen. I paid no attention to the workings of our government or the issues in this country. I was a junior in college with other preoccupations.

Four years later, I voted against Bush again. This time I was more informed and better understood what was at stake, that there was more at stake than before. And this time, as I watched the results roll in, I knew better than to assume that the rest of America felt the same way I did. But I suspected, and hoped, that after the lies we'd been told and the mess we were in, this country would not re-elect the same man. And yet he won. There is no word strong enough for my dismay at that moment. And if I'm being honest, I'll admit to feeling disappointment in this country ever since.

In fact, I have pondered whether or not I belong here. Strong words, I know. But it has seemed clear that my views are not shared by the majority of citizens in this country. I've wondered if rather than living under certain laws and beliefs that I strongly don't support, I should move to a place that's a better fit for me. This is a great country, but it's not the only great country. It's blindly patriotic to think that it is. But I could never really consider leaving, at least not now, because being near family is more important to me than living in a country in which I feel understood and represented. And so I stay. And hope for change.

Which brings us to this election. I have supported Barack Obama since the primary season. I've donated money and volunteered time to his campaign, neither of which I ever considered doing in past elections. I believe in this man, fervently. He is not a savior, but he is the one for this moment, this dot on the global time line. His leadership at this pivotal point seems inevitable, ordained by history.

And so on Tuesday I voted for Barack Obama as emphatically and enthusiastically as a person possibly can. He represents what I believe in and where I want to see this nation go. His vision of our future is the America I have been waiting for.

This time, as the results came in, I had no expectation of winning. Any real hope in that regard had been squelched by the last two elections. And yet as I watched state after state, including my own always-red state, turn blue on the map, this country's choice was clear. And there is no word strong enough for my elation.

We have risen to the occasion. It's a characteristic for which we were once known, but not a reputation we have earned in recent history. In the next four years, there will be many occasions for rising. Rising up, rising above. And with our joining of voices, and a leader whose faith in this nation has repeatedly brought me to tears, I believe we can.

Yes we can.

I'm strolling through the mall, gazing into the shops as I pass, the heels of my shoes clicking on the shiny floor tiles. I walk past an old man sitting alone at a table. A shaft of sunlight shines down from a window above, bathing him in brightness. It's as if he's sitting onstage in a spotlight, his shock of hair gleaming white. I give him a sideways glance as I pass. He looks up at me, but I avert my eyes. And then immediately I wonder why I avoided his gaze. He looks kind, and a bit lonely. Or maybe just bored.

I soon head back the way I came, and I decide that if the man is still sitting there, I will smile. Just to acknowledge him. After all, he is not anonymous, not an archetype, not The Old Man in a play. He is a person with a soul.

I soon see that he is still sitting at the table, still in the spotlight. He is looking down, his nose buried in a handkerchief. I doubt he will even look up, but when I walk by he raises his eyes to meet mine.

I smile, and he responds with a wink.

His timing is so impeccable, it seems we'd rehearsed it. As I walk on, my smile widens, and I suspect this exchange brightened my day even more than it did his.

When we arrive, an elderly man greets us at the door. He stands straight and speaks kindly. He tells us his wife is very sick and he didn't know what else to do. He thought about taking her to the hospital himself, he says, but she's too weak to walk and too sick to sit in the waiting room.

She is too ill even to talk to us. I ask for her birthdate, her social security number, her doctor's name. He answers the questions. He can tell me what she's eaten, when her last bowel movement was, when he gave her medications. I suggest he may want to bring her Medicare card along and he fetches her purse and knows right where to find it.

The one thing he can't tell me is what medicine she is allergic to. He knows there is one, but he can't recall the name right now. But he does not ask her. She has Alzheimer's, he tells me. I suspect that even when she isn't sick, he still takes care of her.

I ask him to show me her medications, and he leads me to the kitchen where he opens a cabinet door above the stove. The shelves are full of pill bottles. He scans the neat rows and chooses one bottle, then another, then a third. He hands them to me, saying, "These are all of hers, I think." He inspects the shelves again to be sure. "Yes, just these three. The rest are for my cancer."

Later in the evening I find I'm still thinking about this man and his wife, about "in sickness and in health." About what it means to grow old together.

I tell Rob about it, and I tear up a little when I get to the part where the man tells me, The rest are for my cancer. I say, shaking my head, "I am just now starting to see what it's like to be old."

And we are but only beginning to understand what it means to grow old together. The pain of illness, the ache of nostalgia. The blessing of waking to another day, just to struggle through it. The helplessness of watching one another deteriorate. The underlying understanding of where it's all headed.

I think back to my last glimpse of the elderly couple as I left her hospital room. He was standing by her bedside, talking to the nurses on her behalf. Answering questions. Expressing concerns. Advocating for her.

The fierce devotion. The inspiring patience. The strong alliance of a lifelong friendship. The loving touch of his wrinkled hand smoothing her white hair. Yes, we are but only beginning to understand what it means to grow old together.