I’m sitting at my desk watching the moon rise over the Berkshires, shivering in a flood of cold air pouring out of my cathedral ceiling that looked so airy and open when I rented the apartment in August. I’m wishing that I’d learned that wood-only heat was no more capable of giving me a spiritual life than a BMW was of giving me happiness back when I lived in North Carolina where it doesn’t get as cold in February as it already has up here. I have never been able to see around the corner until I get to it, and I sense that I’m approaching another corner. This time, at least, I’m not so sure that the next one will be the last one.