The bleak midwinter

I am the type of thinker that forms my thoughts in prose and poetry. I wax poetic about anything and everything, and if you spent any length of time with me I’d wax poetic about you, too.

Most often, however, the poetry I write in moments of inspiration is merely a pale reflection of the evident lyricism that is the very world we live in. Allow me to share some of the poetry that inhabits the start of a new year.

The brown crunchy foliage of once thick treelines is inviting and chilling. We stack piles of wood near the door, rake leaves for the gardens of our future, and our kitchen is alive with pies and food for the soul. The silence heard outside is a frosty hush, layering itself over the rush of back to back holidays, whispering “rest, and prepare.” Anticipation ebbs and flows as the excitement of Thansgiving, then Christmas, then New Year’s piles up so high it shapes itself into a mountain of expectation. We climb steadily through the months, only to realize that the top of the mountain is the same as the bottom, only louder, brighter, and much warmer. Days blur into days blur into days, on and on until we finally become aware of the calendar at it’s most crucial. Planners, journals, clear open blank slates are ready to behold all our hops and dreams for the fresh days.

My mother spends her time as usual: communing with the space our summer garden will live in. My sister enters her writer’s hermitage, ideas spilling out furiously fast and frustratingly slow.

I, in my need of hibernation, return to my yarn and needles, my sketchpad, or my camera. Fighting the burnout of the year, determined not to waste my time off work, and utterly entranced by the shiny newness of the year I am prepared to embrace.

Friends, as the year comes (and eventually goes) I wish you well. I hope your dreams come to fruition, and your prayers are answered. Don’t forget to look for the poetry in every moment.

Happy New Year!