Last week, I drove alone through three states, to and from a Funeral. My cousin had died, at age 63, of lung cancer. She had an unusual life, but it's not mine to share with you here, and it feels somehow sacred and right to keep it private. Anyway, the heart of the matter is that I went to the funeral because of her mother--my great aunt, who is 103 years old and one of the people I love most in this world.

Due to her advanced age, I always expect to find my Aunt Ann looking frail and decrepit, but then she always surprises me by looking beautiful and (relatively) strong, her white hair neatly coiffed and hairsprayed, a little lipstick staining her lips like a kiss. I hold her soft hand and it reminds me of a child's worn leather gloves. I hug her tightly and we cry together. My grandmother--her sister--died when I was 14, and frankly, I was too young to fully appreciate her. But I'm very good at appreciating my aunt. I treasure each visit, fearing each one will be the last.

Another cousin kindly hosts me for the night, and we talk about the relatives no longer with us--the list sadly grows, but there are happy memories for balance.

The next day, after the funeral, I start the long drive back home. I travel through my old hometown, a small Beach town on the southeastern coast of Connecticut. I pass familiar streets, the old houses of childhood friends, my grammar school, my high school (almost unrecognizable with its renovations), two churches I used to belong to. A flicker of memory is attached to each passing place. It's like a slideshow of my life.

I go a little out of my way to drive by my childhood home. The house is painted brown now (it was white when we owned it) and looks smaller than I remember. The new owners are taking good care of it, so that brings some comfort. But I don't think I'll ever get over the grand sweep of woods behind it being replaced by a posh housing development. That remains a dull ache, a lump in my throat, a splinter never fully removed.

I stop at the town beach and get out to take pictures. This beach--there's something so grounding, so comforting, about returning to a place that never seems to change. Even in winter, the beach draws some visitors. There's a person alone in each car parked at the beach's edge, eating a sandwich or just gazing out at the water, as if the answer each one is seeking will rise up out of the lazy waves.

I crouch down very low to take pictures of the bold seagulls flapping and strutting around the empty beach. A gust of wind blows and the birds hunker down, shivering on the cold sand. I realize I'm shivering, too, and head back to the car.

With each funeral and every ending, I think we learn that life doesn't get easier, but we do get to know ourselves more and more as the years tick on. With luck, we find the people and things that matter to us. We trust ourselves more, reaching deep down inside to feel on a gut level what works, and what works no longer.

At the end of last year, with the help of Susannah Conway, I chose two words to guide me through 2015: Contemplate and Radiate. Those words still resonate with me, but with a new year right around the corner, it feels good to have a new word to latch onto, a sort of guidepost, or theme. So in the spirit of really listening to myself--to what I want to keep, where I want to go, how I want to live--my word for 2016 will be Intuit.

Because I want to feel--deeply--what's important to me. I want to keep the most sacred things close.

I wish you a wonderful new year, filled with all of the people who mean the most to you. And thank you so very, very much for visiting me here!

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Enrollment is now OPEN for the next session of The Art of Photography: How to Take Your Pictures to the Next Level. (Spaces are limited.) Click here for all the e-course details and join me online in January 2016!

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