December's descent into winter was a fugue state in which commuting in darkness, the themes of currently experienced books and movies, dreams, memories, the banality of the Christmas season, and political gloom wove themselves into a poetic funk of the light-starved brain. Not a wasted experience; winter solstice speaks that mythopoetic language, the one that I often can't hear in the mode of hyper-rationality.

Now that's past and the cheery part of winter is here, bottom lit by bright snow and a lake full of winter activities. A snowy Saturday with the only trip out a ride to town to get the mail. A brilliant Sunday morning, 10 degrees but no wind, and I get the skiis out on the lake and work on my glide. An ice fisherman says there's about 10 inches of ice on the lake.

One of the best things about winter is the permission not to go places for a while. The weather can wipe out anything you might schedule. John has scheduled a few things at the theater, the best of which looks to be Crooked Still a neo-bluegrass band with a cello instead of a fiddle.