Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams/Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems

On Thursday, January 25, 2007, we had big things to celebrate: writers Pam Porter and Sharon Dilworth were in Mankato, of course, and Rick Robbins had a book of poems accepted for publication. We raised our glasses to them, and we also toasted the new year, the new semester, the moment. We had pizza and cake and champagne; we had a Martin guitar and a Taylor and a Washburn and people who actually knew how to play them; we had a choir who knew at least some of the words to "Moonshadow," "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and "Carolina in My Mind." We were soulful and enthusiastic and out-of-tune, but we didn't care. We were inspired. Why not put some Zeppelin on the hi-fi? Why not stay up until the wee hours singing about going to California with an aching in our hearts? Why not stumble around the next morning, blurry-eyed and wondering when, oh please when, can we do this again?