I celebrated a birthday last weekend. It wasn't a milestone birthday in the sense of marking a new decade or half-decade, but for reasons I'll get to in a moment, this year feels like a significant one to commemorate all the same.
 
Not that I really need significant to celebrate; I just like to celebrate. I've never understood those people who say their birthday is just another day. Maybe it's the five year old in me, but I want my birthday to be special. Not necessarily attention-must-be-paid-to-me special (although, okay, I do love opening cards and reading Facebook posts on the big day), but definitely not-my-usual-routine special.

Definitely a not-my-usual-routine day. In fact, an altogether glorious way to spend birthday #67. Which brings me to some of the reasons I'm feeling especially celebratory this year.
 
First, it was fifty years ago that I turned seventeen in American Samoa, during the year I chronicle in my memoir, Mango Rash. The night of my poolside birthday party at Pago Pago Intercontinental Hotel stands out in memory not only because I was heartsick over the boyfriend who was moving back to the States, but also because I was surrounded by a cadre of loyal and big-hearted friends—Samoan and American—who embraced me in spite of my eccentricities.

In that Samoa year, I came to understand impermanence as never before—through a house fire, a hurricane and numerous wrenching departures. But I also forged some of my most durable friendships. Val, my constant companion in Samoa, is still a cherished friend. Though I can no longer amble over to her house in my flip-flops—she's in North Carolina, I'm in Michigan—we keep tabs on each other on Facebook and catch up with long phone conversations about once a month. Wendy, too, is still dear to my heart, as are many more Samoa comrades and friends from other times and places who've stuck with me through the years (plus all my new friends here in Newaygo!).

When she and my brother married later that year, Joy and I became sisters—forget the in-law part. And like most sisters, we've had both tense and tender times. But lately, tender has far outweighed tense, and I've realized I truly love Joy as a sister. So this year, I celebrate the strength of our sixty-year sisterhood.

As long as I've got so many big things to celebrate this year, why not celebrate some small ones, too? I'm starting a list, and after reading mine, maybe you'll make a list of your own and share it here. Here's the beginnings of mine:
 
In 2016, I hereby resolve to celebrate: 

• Every encouraging word about my work from a reviewer, agent or editor, even if accompanied by criticism or rejection.
  
• The first contingent of bluebirds staking claims on the houses Ray built for them two years ago.
• The first summer day warm enough to drink beer on the front porch.
• Every bud on the wildflowers I'm encouraging to grow in front of our house. I say "bud," not "blossom," because the deer and groundhogs usually nip off the heads before the flowers can bloom. But instead of cursing the critters, I'll applaud the flowers for their efforts.
• YOU, dear readers, who make this whole endeavor fun every week.

You can certainly expect a unique perspective from Valerie Deur, who plans to create a "pixie palace" in a mossy tree stump.

"I believe in little people, and I have a special fondness for pixies," says Deur, who once co-wrote a book about pixies with her daughter and even donned pixie outfits, complete with turned-up-toe slippers, for the photos that illustrate the book.

"I'm thinking of making this house a retirement condo for pixies," she says, "although of course all small creatures would be welcome--pixies don't discriminate."

The camp would like to have 25 to 30 little houses to hide in the woods, so that's going to take a lot of busy hands and fertile minds between now and April 1, when creations need to be finished and delivered to Camp Newaygo.
 
Here are a few guidelines to follow:

• Homes must fit a fairy, gnome, pixie or elf that is 1 inch to 6 inches tall
  
• Structures may be made of wood, clay, stained glass, felting, twigs, driftwood, wire, or whatever you dream up
• Houses may be in a container (basket, pot, box) or a stand-alone home (using a base or tray of some kind will make the house more easily transportable to and from the woods)
  
• You may incorporate plants—real or artificial
• Homes must be turned in to Camp Newaygo by April 1
• Be creative and have fun!

If you plan to make a house or just want more information, please contact Valerie Deur at 231-652-3058 or [email protected] or Christa Smalligan at [email protected].

When my husband and I told friends we were moving to Newaygo, some thought that was a made-up name for the phase of life we were entering or the Nirvana we were seeking.
 
"New Way Go?"
 
"New Age, Oh?"
 
"Come on, where are you really moving to?
 
By now, enough of those friends have visited us in West Michigan to know Newaygo is a real place. A real remarkable place. It's a place of fields and forests, sliced through by the Muskegon River, the North Country Scenic Trail, and a growing network of bicycle paths. It's a place where artists, writers, musicians and all manner of interesting folk have crafted an open-hearted community.
 
Of course, we knew next to none of this when we decided to move here. We'd simply fallen in love with a house in the woods and snapped it up after little more than a hasty Google search to check out the area (It's got rivers and lakes! And a bicycle path somewhere! Sounds great!).
 
Only after we'd signed the papers did the middle-of-the-night misgivings begin. What would we find to do during the long, dark winters? Besides each other, who would we talk to? And were all those camouflage-wearing guys we saw around town sportsmen or backwoods wackos?

As we ventured out to explore our new surroundings, we saw hints that kindred spirits inhabited these parts: the funky, artsy café down the road; a neighbor's People for Peace yard sign; a glimpse of an art gallery and a hip-looking coffee shop in town. Then we began to meet those folks. Linda, the café owner, welcomed us with fair trade coffee and an imaginative menu. Through her, we met her sister Kendra, mixed-media artist and earthy-householder. Those two women introduced us to Ellie, yoga instructor extraordinaire at Woodland Yoga, and the Monday-morning yoga women and Tuesday-morning yoga men, who made room for our mats in class and for us in their social circles. A flyer posted on the café bulletin board tipped us off to a writers' salon at the coffee shop in town. We checked it out and met the leader Sandra—a poet and chanteuse who also runs the coffee shop's weekly open mic. Through the salon, we met more fascinating people. Little by little, connections grew.  
 
Now, nearly eight years after buying the house and four years after moving here permanently, we've come to know many more good and talented folks and found a sense of community we lacked in our pre-Newaygo life. And with the lifestyle changes we made when we moved here, we've found space and time for creative pursuits that previously got pushed aside by busy schedules or deadened by nightly TV watching. Did we have to move to the woods to accomplish this? Certainly not. I know people who are building community and doing extraordinarily creative things in Detroit and other cities large and small. The fresh beginning of a move or a new life chapter can kick-start the process, but more important is a commitment to cultivating creativity, connection and contentment wherever you are—in physical space, in phase of life, in circumstances.