Good morning, good morning.
Here in Southern Maine, it’s snowing like rain. Winter finally arrived for real, it seems, in February – we’ve had good cold temperatures and wind and capital-S Snow. I mean snow that’s not cute, not fluffy, falling gently like feathers; I mean snow that’s small, persistent, steadily blustered by the wind, and not at all fun or romantic to go for a walk in. Snow you’re happy to get back inside from. Right now, Sophie and I are debating about how long we’ll have to be out there for her morning ablutions. Our debate consists of us sitting on the couch, bundled in a blanket, looking out the window at the snow being blown in waves through the glow of the streetlamp. She does not seem in any especial hurry to get up and go.
It’s the last day of February, and on Friday, I’ll be turning 51. I don’t really want to write this post, and I keep feeling myself pulled away, pulled toward something I can just consume, passively watch or read, not have to engage with or create. I’m moving out of yet another heavy deep trough of depression, which very much seems tied to my hormonal cycle and my periods, and I’m wondering when these are going to start to change — I mean, wondering when my periods are finally going to start to change.
There’s a way not to be broken that takes brokenness to find it. – Naomi Shihab Nye Good morning, good morning. It’s warm outside, warmer than it ought to be in February, but I can’t complain about it because the cold has been a struggle the last week or so. It’s true that February is always when the winter blues start to hover, or just the frustration, the weariness — do I really have to put all of these clothes on just to take the dog on a walk again today? But the moon is a full brightness behind the clouds and the light changed sometime earlier this month, so I’ve begun to imagine what spring might feel like, have begun to think about the garden, can start to let myself imagine what the yard will look like when it’s not just covered with snow and ice and mud.
