First and foremost, I hope that the community of New Orleans will receive all the federal support necessary to repair its system of levees and to rebuild successfully those devastated areas that, after careful scrutiny, are deemed salvageable. Secondly, I hope that the architects, planners, and politicians of this new city are able to come together to design a safer, more environmentally responsible and progressive town for its considerably reduced population (all forecasts seem to concur that, at best, the city may grow over the next three years to half the size of its pre-Katrina population). Thirdly, I hope, perhaps futilely, but deeply, nonetheless, that the devastating Hurricane season of 2005 is not, in fact, indicative of seasons and events to come.

I guess I like to shoot for the moon.

Meanwhile, my real life experience of the national and local government and the global environment in the past year is far less inspiring.

The day after Christmas, my husband, Chris and I go with my brother and his wife from Texas on a tour of the lower Ninth Ward, the neighborhood decimated by a break in the levee. What we witness there is difficult to capture in words. The area closest to the levee looks as it were hit by a bomb. Nothing but rubble, the foundations of houses, the occasional door or steps leading to nowhere remain. Cars and boats have been carried—or tossed—into the branches of skeletal trees or perch upside down atop mounds of debris. As we drive further from the breach, we find the semblance of a neighborhood, but a neighborhood gone seriously awry. Houses have collapsed one into another, or, simply, been moved; cul de sacs exist where none existed before, roadways that were clear are now clogged with tilting and flattened structures. There is no sign of birds or other life. And the air is bad. Within fifteen minutes, my sister-in-law and I both complain of burning throats. But here and there a statue of Mary or Jesus stands defiantly upright amidst the rubble, as if to insist that no disaster, natural or manmade, can break the spirit of the community. Someone has scrawled on a scrap of plywood the words "Take Nothing for Granted." Apparently, residents have returned to erect these mementos of their faith. Faith in what, I wonder as I survey the tortured landscape. That this poor, if historic, black neighborhood, built on low ground, will be resurrected? That this mess will, in the coming year or years, be effectively cleaned up? That the government will assume responsibility for the faulty work of its Army Corps of Engineers to whom we are indebted for the breaks in the levee?

Meanwhile, the city, or, rather, the mayor and his council, are embroiled in an argument about where to put the thousands of FEMA trailers that are needed to house displaced New Orleanians from neighborhoods like the lower Ninth Ward, or the more upscale, but also decimated, areas of Lakeview and Gentilly. Suddenly, those with homes in relatively good shape are filled with anxiety about the omnipresence of these tidy white structures. The argument goes like this: if you enable the creation of massive trailer parks across the city, people will become comfortable and complaisant in their makeshift new communities—so complaisant that they will lose any motivation to actively rebuild. New Orleans will become a city of trailers. The class and racial connotations of trailer park developments historically no doubt fuel their fear and distaste. On the other side, it is argued that if we want people to return to the city—and there is no city, after all, without people—we need to provide them with shelter anywhere we can. It only makes sense, does it not, for those who survived the storm well to reach out to those who are homeless. Yet, somehow, while this argument is being waged, and the delivery of trailers is stalled, people across the city have set up campgrounds. Yes, in the middle of winter, which can get chilly, even in New Orleans, people are living in tents as they await the city's assistance.

On the anniversary of the Tsunami, I watch a documantary about that cataclysmic event that ushered in this troubled year. It is read as a powerful sign that, like the monstrous threats of Katrina and Rita, something is very wrong with the Earth. That governments, like ours, are finally reaping the harvest of economic greed and environmental disregard.

At the zoo on New Year's Eve day, Dylan and I meet my friend Hannah and her daughter Ute for Audubon Park's annual New Year's Eve celebration. This is pleasant, a bit of normalcy amidst so much uncertainty. Dylan and Ute run and dance to the music of a band while Hannah and I lounge on a picnic blanket, snack on cheese and croissants, and sip wine. The day is warm and sunny, and the zoo is buzzing with people (though Hannah is quick to observe that the crowd is a mere quarter of its size in previous years). Later, however, when we make a tour of the animals, we are met with fresh reminders of our currently fragmented existence. We discover that one of Dylan's favorite exhibits, the sea lions, has been evacuated to a park in Galveston. We explain to the children that the sea lions were moved to Texas because of the storm. Dylan and Ute nod solemnly. Hannah suggests that we visit one of Ute's favorite animals, the hippo. When we reach the hippo enclosure, we find a sign announcing his death in 2005, another storm-related casualty. Hannah and I stand before the sign, speechless. "Well," Hannah finally musters, clearing her throat, "I guess we'll go see Satchmo, the Rhino." "But where is the hippo?" Ute wonders, straining, on tiptoe, to peer over the fence into the empty pit. Hannah takes Ute aside and explains that the hippo is underground with her deceased pet cat.

The day ends quietly, as Chris and I eat chicken soup, bathe Dylan, and put him to bed early and toast the New Year from the balcony of our home. We are asleep long before midnight. It is a soothingly routine evening and before dropping off, I resolve that, regardless of whether or not my wishes are fulfilled, wholly or even in part, I will remember my tremendous fortune in 2005. For having survived Katrina. For having a house to which to come home. For my family; intact despite our travels, physical and emotional, over the past four months. And for being able to share moments, however bittersweet, with friends. I resolve that, as a mother in New Orleans, I will work, in the New Year, to savor my life, and to take nothing for granted.

Now back home in New Orleans, Laura Tuley will continue to chronicle her life going forward after Katrina for mamazine.com every six weeks. Watch for her next column in early February.