I moved to Cold Ridge in early December. I fell in love with the old farmhouse, the gentle slope of the south yard, and the craggy steps which lead to the forest. Winters are stark and lovely, and winter dreams pile heavy and deep like the snow, which inevitably comes. Perennial garden fantasies take over the thoughts, but the winter itself is barren—it frees my mind to follow a world of boundless introspection.

In a hot tub on a timber decking, I had a “defining moment” that I didn't like very much. It exposed me to others, opened me up, almost physically, and showed me something about myself that I hadn't fully realized. I was very good at hiding my emotions, from myself as well as the world at large.

As a mother, I was there for others: my children, my husband. Along the way, their achievements became mine. I was proud of them all, pleased with how they were all doing.

But my children were growing up, soon to leave home. My cozy existence was changing.

And again there was this feeling that if we had tried to make this evening as special as it had become, if we had tried to plan it all—the topics, the books, the order of reading—we would never have gotten it together so easy, so inspiring, so unique. Or like de Winter put it: “I really wanted to make it perfect. Maybe that was the mistake.”