"Hello." "Good morning." "Happy New Year!" "Have a nice day." Most people, I've noticed, are friendly to each other on walking trails. Some are even willing to stop and pass a few moments to cheerfully talk to strangers. Maybe we should imagine that all streets, roadways, paths, sidewalks are trails. Today, I'm linking up with The Weekend in Black and White , hosted by Dragonstar. Click here to see other black and white photos be bloggers around the world.

I like taking selfies of the Husband and me. Some folks think he takes our selfies because he's taller. Nope. I got proof, too. Check out my reflection in the Husband's sunglasses. And, yup, that's me in the hat beside him. Weekend Reflections is where I'm hooking up today. Click here to check out reflections from other parts of the world.

"Here we go, Su- siee ! Here we go!" claps my internal cheerleader. "Come on, Su- sieee ! Mac!" encourages my internal coach, "You can do this!" Where am I going? What is this?  Beats me. That's untrue. I do know. I've been reluctant to say it aloud. For quite a long while. Deep breath. Another deep breath. Another. And, another. Here I go. Here I go. I shall not be afraid of the words. I shall not be afraid of how they may combine. I shall not be afraid of writing. Forget the baby steps. A giant step is what I need to take.   The only permission I need is my own. Here I go! Here I go!

Yesterday, I made bread. White bread, to be precise.  I even followed the recipe, almost precisely, which is pretty good for me. I forgot to add the salt, but that's okay. We already finished one loaf. I thought about putting up the Christmas tree yesterday morning, but chose to bake bread and make carrot and leek soup for lunch instead. I had a yen for freshly baked white bread for the past two days.  And, since I wasn't going to find what I wanted in the local grocery stores or bakeries, I might as well knead one to fulfill my need. Yuk, yuk . I don't make bread much anymore. Not that I was ever a bread baker. I just like pounding the dough. Okay, the kneading. Knead, knead. Pound. Pound, Knead.  Easy pounding. Not like the first time I made bread many decades ago. Imagine me, a 20-year-old college girl living in a second-floor apartment in San Francisco's Richmond district. It's late in the evening. Because I'm either stressed or bored, or both, with

Plod, plod, plod. I jogged nonstop all the way around the block. Nearly one-quarter of a mile that first day. Yes, it was tough. On my lungs. On my knees. On my whole body. Lumber, lumber, lumber. The second day, I jogged, gasping, but nonstop, for half a mile. When I got home, I told the Husband that my jogging went from  plod, plod, plod to lumber, lumber lumber . The Husband asked, "How is plodding different from lumbering?" The sound is different. It is. Pad, pad, pad. My gait sounded like Molly the Cat's when she scoots across the kitchen floor in search of something mischievous to do. I went three-quarters of a mile that third day. I remembered to breath in through my nose and not my mouth. I tried not to think of the twinge in my right knee. The fourth morning, I laid in bed thinking which route around the neighborhood would make one mile. And I thought about whether I ought to run at all. Maybe I ought to pay attention to the twinge that was now t