We are nudging toward the shortest day and the deepest of Winter. It’s a quiet time of survival, the silence for consideration, and the warmth of the hearth, even in this awful political landscape that torments us day in day out. I find the pleasures of living on the land remind me of the power of nature’s rhythms. It reassures me. Not all sappy sweetness, I conclude that we will never return to the way it was, what my generation assumed was the norm, the given. We watch, as befuddled spectators, the dismantling of the things we assumed were forever embedded in our democracy. Both parties sold their souls to corporate interests decades ago, and we have no one who works for us now. Greed is King. Every good thing is absorbed and corporatized or destroyed. For an artist there is the work and either naively or because we have no choice, we keep making and hoping that something good will survive. Were my creative life not so essential and nor so rewarding, I would be very morose now.