Twenty-some years ago, in a conversation with a new boyfriend, I alluded to a song he didnít know. He asked me to sing it. I donít sing, I told him; Iíd always been told I was tone deaf. He insisted that I try. About an hour later, tearful but triumphant, I mustered the courage to squeak out a phrase.

Last night, when Eric Utne, now my husband, and I were doing a dishwashing-kitchen-cleaning dance, he turned to me, slack-jawed, and said, "I heard you singing just now and thought you were a CD!" In the intervening years, Iíve been gaining the courage to put my voice out into the world.

Writing this note is a signpost on my journey. When Eric founded the magazine 16 years ago, I was sounding board and support staff: I wrote, hosted salons, combed through letters late at night. Iíve spent untold hours eating, drinking, and sleeping the magazine, going off on family excursions that found their way onto its pages, and otherwise growing up with it. After Ericís sabbatical a few years ago, we stepped back into active involvement together.

Now another chapter has begun. As I sit writing at an outdoor cafÈ, listening to dry leaves scratch the pavement on a rogue Indian summer day, Eric is tending an ailing child, meeting with the tree trimmer, assembling Halloween costumes, and figuring out dinner. Weíve done a do-si-do. He has stepped out of day-to-day magazine operations, and I have stepped in.

I am simultaneously a repository of the magazineís history and completely new to it. As I feel my way, Iíve been flummoxed by what to call myself: Chairman? Chairwoman? Chair? Sofa? Chaise? (Other suggestions: Goddess, Queen, Humble Servant.) Iíve also been trying to understand just what it is I am stewarding.