To last the winter requires desire. Your ancestors knew this. They sailed in wagons from Tennessee to the New World (Texas), settling there in a crevice of mediocrity, their vision daily whipped by an ever chilling wind. They look on you now calm-eyed from the fair banks of Canaan, your own cloud-burst of witnesses. They claim you. But they’re worried about your core: you’re wobbly. You’ve put too much stock in who’s following rather than where you’re bound. Your ancestors knew above all else you must have a center. The winter can be long.