It’s Winter Solstice—the shortest day and longest night of the year. And I’ll be celebrating.

I don’t know what it is about certain flavors and aromas, but if it’s painfully spicy, floral, or giving “campfire smoke” in any way, I want spray it on myself or eat it.

The moon followed me on my walk tonight. That’s her above, top left, looking like a nondescript streetlight peeking through the bones of towering sycamores.

Every time I drop a trowel or sink a spade into the soil in my garden, I pull up a few worms, and/or the fascinating, otherworldly white threads of mycelium.

Well, it’s noisy out there, isn’t it? And for a while now, I’ve been uncertain about my place in all the shouting.