In 1724 Margaret Dickson was sentenced to death for alleged infanticide, hanged from a gibbet in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh, pronounced dead—and then woke up a few hours later complaining of a sore neck. She was scorned in street ballads and cheap printed broadsides, only to be celebrated in verse in our own time. She was known as “Half-Hanged Maggie.”

“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” Long before words like “affirmation” or “motivational” were commonplace, before “inspirational” became an industry, William Ernest Henley—who suffered lifelong illness, amputation, poverty, and devastating loss—wrote a poem reminding all of us not to give up.

December 26th is known by many names, including “Wren Day.” Named after an ancient ritual known as Hunting the Wren, its roots lie in sun-worship and symbolic sacrifice; the death of the old year and the birth of the new. “The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,” the chant begins; and on Wren Day that king, a tiny bird, was hunted, killed and laid to rest, only to sing again with the rising sun. The king is dead; long live the king.