GO BACK AND DO IT AGAIN?

What would I do differently if I could go back and live my life again?

Not be a dancer?

Golly, dancer was my big dream ever since I was five-years-old. No, I'd be a dancer again, but I'd pay attention to my feeling about theater -- go further in drama -- use words, actors, as well as dancers -- become more abstract choreographically.

Have you ever viewed what you are right now, successes or failures -- and picture what you'd be if you could undo all those small decisions you made that got you doing what you've done, or haven't done -- things that succeeded, failed, disappointed, or defeated you?

Yes, all that -- viewing your life with ifs -- if I hadn't done this, if I'd done that -- is ... well, it's not good or bad, just discomfiting.

But dancing -- earning a living dancing, touring the country as well as Europe -- was a dream I made come true.

What about love, other possible life partners -- go back and consider the possibilities again?  (Instantly I think what would I wear? I gave my wardrobe away -- all those fantastic outfits created by me to catch the eye.) No, I'm not geared by my upbringing, my era, to socialize in the current scene.

Even if I could turn back the clock, could I unlearn what I know and feel? Would I want to not marry my first husband? Gee, we created a dance company! That company, in residence at the summer theater in Knoxville, was how I met John, who is part of me, I'm part of him -- I wouldn't change that.

Hey, does my wandering into my past get you contemplating a lot of things you'd do differently? The beginning of a new year gets us pulling into the starting gate, like horses -- like California Chrome -- we were sure he'd win the triple crown. I envision a large field  -- green grass and sand-colored earth -- that beautiful horse and a mare or two.

I'm certainly not at the starting gate. Thousands of things, endless pros and cons bring me to this page with the older, wiser me telling my younger selves to shut up, stop this unproductive thinking process.

All that I've done, learned, yearned for, tried, avoided, regretted, loved, hated, mourned, and sought -- is me moving ahead, sticking to what I am, because that's me.

I have things to write and things to say and do that have to do with now, and not knowing what the next minute, hour, day, week, month, year will bring, is -- well -- it keeps me going, eyes wide, ears listening, wondering what's next, and then next.

So okay! I've shared my first-of-the- year thoughts with you in order to help me help you to help me settle into the new year and  now I'm settled.

(VIDEO) IF YOU TURNED BACK THE CLOCK

Emily asks John what best, most favorite time in his life would he love to revisit.

It's a question that many of us ask ourselves the first month of a new year, as we're remembering past January's, hoping what's ahead will be as good or better than last year.

Expecting that he'll mention one of the hit shows he starred in, Emily is surprised by John Cullum's answer.

HAIR

Obama's grey hair dismays me.

My son JD'S greying hair dismays me because it dismays him.

I didn't react to my husband's greying hair -- I just refused to see it as grey. "Hey, it's getting blonder" I told myself as I started doing J.C's hair with "Clairoil Pale Blond."

My own hair? After my car-crash accident in Indiana, when I was back home, pillows propping me up in my bed, I asked my husband for a hand mirror.

Shock.

Hair -- my God -- thinner, grey streaks -- it pierced me -- I was focused on HAIR for months, like JD is going to be.

Golly, thinning hair has preoccupied some of the world's most beautiful women, and men -- famous actors.

A show biz pal, "S," (who was balding), told us that the aging Marlene Dietrich wore a wig to bed, and stopped going out -- wouldn't even go out for a walk, (S. had an affair with the over 65, or 75-year- old Dietrich, who never revealed her real age). It reminds me of Garbo vanishing around age 38. Which of the "age" things was it? Was her hair thinning? At least she went shopping -- I know a New Yorker who saw her emerging from Sak's Fifth Avenue.

Anyhow, Obama's hair pains me. I wonder how does First Lady Michelle feels about it? We were so thrilled when he was elected, and now are attacking, weakening a brilliant man, who could have helped our country in so many, many more, more, more ways.

I look at Obama's and find myself murmuring --
   "My hair is grey, but not with years,
          Nor grew it white
          In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears."

Yes, that's the start of the poem by Lord Byron -- his 392 line fable about prisoners in the Chillon Castle prison.

Obama's hair is grey from fears, unshed tears -- not for himself, but others, sisters and brothers, for whom he cares, dares to sow seeds that don't usually grow despite his concern at every turn in the road of his Presidency, his residency in the White House.

The grey won't go away today or tomorrow, so I turn the page on my sorrow, and have a good time, making my thoughts rhyme -- making a ditty song to send to son JD, about the things about age and politics that make me feel sad and wrong.
   
Hey guys, grey hair happens -- you adjust or avoid it -- dye it -- change your hairstyle, or your part -- wear baseball caps.

HOLIDAY DEBRIS

I'm looking out my window. Tomorrow will be the first Monday of the first work week of 2015.

Yesterday, in the buildings across the street, like last year and the year before, I could see decorated Christmas trees on quite a few different floors -- bigger, trees than ever before -- all appeared to have been expensively, creatively, decorated.

There's already a tree lying at the curb, in the street below.

Soon, all the trees will be in the street, along with steel dumpsters that are piled high with red, green, gold, and silver things -- ribbons, bows, labels, cards, protective tissue, wrapping paper -- all the pretty  things we picked out carefully, purchased, debated over how to handle, then wrapped, tied, taped, and fussed with.

Ah Christmas trees ... After the holiday you can keep the tree up for a week or so and pretend not to notice the branches becoming brown and pine needles beginning to cover the floor, until you notice pine needles in other parts of the house.

Nobody wants pine needles on the kitchen floor, or in the bathroom.

So we'll move our tree into the hall. Like our neighbors in the tall buildings across the street, who elevator their trees down -- our tree and theirs will be carried to the street, and laid to rest ignobly on their sides at the curb.

Sometimes, the trees lie there and brown turns to gray until the garbage guys arrive, and the remnants of what once was your marvelous -- oh, this is IT tree! -- are disposed of.

Ours was a lovely tree -- a little crooked, but it grew somewhere from a sprout to five feet tall, to be just right -- beautiful despite a slightly crooked spine -- ready for us to choose it, buy it, and make it into ours.

Well, it'll be Ground Hog Day, then Valentine's Day, first day of spring, 4th of July, Halloween, and in a minute it'll be Happy New Year two zero one six!

Oh dear, I didn't give a holiday present to person who delivers the mail these days. The woman who replaced our friendly postman (who retired), barely says hello and only buzzes when she has something that won't fit in our box. The next time she buzzes, I'll  buzz back and say, "Hey, I'm Emily -- what's your name?" I'll get her to spell it out. "Next time you deliver there'll be an envelope in the mailbox with your name on it -- an Xmas/New Year's gift or you."

Things have changed since last year, but if you know who people are, even my bustling business street turns into a small-town neighborhood.

This year, more than ever, I  want to say "hi" or "how're you doing?" and know all my neighbors, all the UPS, mail, garbage men, even the parking lot guys' first and last names.