“To be sane in a mad time

is bad for the brain, worse

for the heart. The world

is a holy vision, had we clarity

to see it – a clarity that men depend

on men to make.”

–  Wendell Berry, the Mad Farmer, First Amendment

This winter has settled in with a grip, snow, ice, bone-chilling wind. This kind of cold – I haven’t seen it since my first memorable winter in 2003, when it settled well below zero for days and weeks, transforming the very chemistry of this world and it seemed like the presence of Rose was the only thing that kept me from blowing right off of the hillside. I think of how sweet Spring will be, when it comes. And here’s something, a neighbor pointed out to me – this year the ticks will actually die over the winter.

I am a storyteller, and have been all of my life, and I think of my life – as many people do – as having a tone, and a spine. Lonely. Angry. Set upon. Rebellious and resentful. I was telling a friend the story of how an insurance company wanted to come into my house and give me an EKG, gake my blood and urine, ask me questions and take my blood pressure, and how I said no and stood up to them. “It’s a victim story,” she said. “A struggle story.” Stop telling them, she suggested. The insurance company didn’t break into my home and invade my life. I invited them in because I wanted to buy life insurance.

Oh, I said. I thought I stopped telling those. Almost, she said, smiling. My life is one big struggle story, or was. I am constructing a different story, and construction is the right word. I can’t blame anyone else for anything in my life. I am responsible for it, and am very comfortable with that.

From this strange perch in the country, it seems to me that the subsidized world is vanishing, at least for now. Publishers don’t coddle writers, galleries are vanishing, schools are not offering tenure, resources are dwindling. We are on our own. That is good for me, and I welcome it.

Stories are the spine of our lives. We are what we tell. We can change our stories if we wish, and see ourselves anew. That is something one either believes or not.

So, I keep telling myself. It wasn’t just me that was crazy.