I cannot but lean on this British bit of phrase as I reflect upon the infant year, my family, and my life. Not even a lesser patch rests unconsumed by hope and happiness for life, and for my children’s futures. They are beautiful, and happy, and far more resilient than we. Our sober and determined oldest. Our cheery, clever dancer. Our crimsoned & laughing redhead. And our Little Bits, the perfect one that we nearly lost. I wonder so very much what they will all be, and await the reveal with anticipation.

Now it is true that most friends of yesteryear are gone, but I think it is a winter that will not outlast the coming equinox. And I realize that no pleading is likely to convince my friends that the ebb of faith does not mean the end of happiness, but we have been told many myths. Uncluttered and unfettered, as a season of social quietus, it is the most unburdened that I can recall.

I reflect that the curious domino topple from Jericho has been an odd epiphany: what I began for my friends, many friends would not read. But others have in their stead, and they have leant a support as friends ought to. Cheers and a hearty thanks to you good folk. I’m dreadfully sorry for what I find to be my three and a half decades of down-looking. You’re the sort I should have been, had I been better.

Peace and Best Wishes, J.B.