I once heard someone say “Art wins in the end.”…that after rings, and veils, and birth… after maelstrom, and shrouds, and death …. that the words that remain most true are those we remember in our skin, the stories that give us the sights and sounds of a younger us, that stir the cavernous quiet of our souls below the surface. There is a part of me that thinks this is the stuff of bad marketing, poetic fluff of the kind of romantic who never lived up to his predecessors, Keats and Shelly…but I can never quit escape that I might be wrong; that the way a thing appears may only be the smallest corner of a much larger picture.… When this happens it is like being stirred by a touch of something while in deep sleep. These are the times when the winds of remembrance blow so deeply, past the hustle and bustle of the day, past the many distractions of the hour that they rustle the surface of the deep places in our hearts, where we know there is meaning, and not just for us, but o