PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I woke up this morning to a chill in the air. I closed the bedroom windows and shivered into my clothes, then hurried down to the kitchen to consult the outdoor thermometer. It read 58 degrees. I knew that if I opened the front door, I would be greeted by a burst of light, that the cold front that had moved in had swept the dusty air out to sea. I felt as if fall had suddenly aroused itself out of the ground and was creeping around blowing frosty breath on the last few flower

Anyone who reads too much news these days, myself especially, falls into John Bunyan's Slough of Despond, that quagmire of doubt and misery in The Pilgrim's Progress that robs you of any hope of escape. Newspapers are very clever at offering you little wisps of hope now and then but always couched in very dark prophecies about Trump pulling out an unexpected win by playing the Electoral College lottery with great skill. You can't breathe deep and relish a moment of liberation