Month: January 2013

Tangled ramblings on winter and spring.

I am a child of the winter, born to February – but a romantically hopeless disciple of the spring. Doesn’t everyone love the spring? Those first days of a brightening sky – nature’s ultimate symphony after the unending shroud of winter’s deep dark grey. Picnics. Magnolia trees. Crocuses amongst the grass and the first bare legs of the season. A certain stage has been reached by this point. Stage four, terminal January. (Forgive me the distasteful metaphor, won’t you?) Today marks the 21st January, a date rooted rather firmly in the winter. And yet, all I want is spring. I wake up in the morning, the house so cold I cannot feel my fingers. I fall asleep at night tucked in under three quilts (one 13 tog, for the record) and two blankets, the sheets so cold I cannot feel my toes. The rest of the day often a blur of numb fingers, feelingless limbs, wandering about my damp room in four layers and two pairs of socks. I drink tea. A lot of it. …

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” — Neil Gaiman {c/o Erika}