I love a good sexist joke about why the Magi were so late to the party.
The truth is that among the diverse cast of characters that tells this story, it's them I identify with most. I can totally see myself among them, following the stars, grossly underestimating travel time, fretting that my gift is all wrong, second-guessing my decision to make the trip in the first place.
When else have history and time conspired in such a perfect way? The journey to Epiphany begins as one year ends; it ends as another year begins.
And somewhere among the starts and stops, beginnings and endings, my reset button gets walloped. I'm able to let stuff go: To the thrift store, recycling bin and trash; to forgiving and forgetting; to imagining, wondering and wandering.
I'm happy to be traveling.