The cold weather creeps into the nights, and spills over into morning walks and afternoon excursions. My many fall coats revolve on me as I don little toques and fingerless gloves. One of my favorite pastimes as I walk is to imagine the troll who lives behind my house. The forest offers dark nooks and hidden corners and I find pleasure in thinking of him rubbing massive hands together, in front of a fire. Has he relented so the squirrels can perch on a log by him? Has he made new clothes for the winter cold? Did he bath in the cold Okanagan Lake on a starry night? How lucky our children and grandchildren are to have this vivid nature alive in them. How can you nurture this? How can you join in the awe of the magical world? How can you allow them to be children who play, rather than children who must grow up to deal with this complex world? For me, I have a vivid imagination. I am lucky, in my view. I allow myself to spend time in magical beliefs. It is where my stories come from. It brings me joy. And, yes, a part of me believes that the troll is there. Irrational? I choose to be okay with that. And I smile.