I recently attended my children’s holiday concert. Their brilliant music teacher, a man who could play Lincoln Center just as easily as a grade school cafeteria-cum-auditorium, had put Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening to music, and I found myself back in the fifth grade, staring at once forward, toward a life yet unwritten, and back, at one well spent. Reading Frost at age eleven may have been the first time I understood melancholy or mortality or both. Perhaps it began to sediment a resolve to lead a life well-lived, to realize that making “all the difference” was a very conscious matter.
We are, as always, living in very present times. We are reminded that we are a fragile species, still in our infancy of existence when cast against the age and breadth of our universe, and may prove ourselves a dust mote in the eye of it all.
I learned recently that there are more trees on this earth than stars in our galaxy. That is hope. At least for the trees.
Our authors this issue fold all of the above into the batter. I encourage you to lick the spoon.
Raymond Prucher, Editor
Issue 16, January 2018