Like a tree, creative work has seasons. Part of the work is to know which season you’re in, and act accordingly. In winter, “the tree looks dead, but we know it is beginning a very deep process, out of which will come spring and summer.”

In the winter, we like to look out of the window and see snow, pure and white, making our experience of deadly cold air meaningful. If it must be cold, could we at least have snow? If I must shiver, might I at least look good in wool and argyle? If I must live in hell, I'll look for anything to convince me I'm alive. But in the winter, I'm not sure

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