winter of wonder

myrtle edwards beach

I thought I had fallen in love with winter.

The gray, the rain, the shorter days and longer nights; these things are feeding my soul in this season of life.

I can feel my feet taking root in the dirt for the cold months ahead; like a tree, I hold my space in the soil and I wait. In the waiting, I hold my bare branches up to the sky. Am I worshiping the passing of summer into fall, into winter? Or am I lamenting the end of sunshine while lifting my face to the rain clouds that will call this city their home for an unfixed amount of time?

I’ll know it when I see it.

The cold sends me to my blankets, burrowed in to warmth poorly reflected back to me from my thin, cheap, cotton sheets. The game begins: how long until I break and turn on the heater?

I can just add another sweater,  another blanket, maybe a second pair of socks…

Comfort may be found in the changing of seasons; in the clockwork precision of the earth reminding me that the illusion I have of being in charge is just that: an illusion. I can no more stop the coming winter than I can stop the birds from taking flight, moving south to escape the frigid air that has taken my home captive.

I am not in charge. I am not in charge. I am not in charge.

Fuck. I’m really not in charge.

The gray days are a comfort to me, for I see them as the earth’s cycle of depression. Things die in order to be regrown in the spring. I, too, am gray these days, and I hope there are parts of myself dying off to be reborn. Dreams ending so new ones can take shape and begin to grow under the surface of the soil within me. Seeds of dreams and desires taking root in my heart and mind during the winter months, holding tight to whatever warmth my heart can give them while I rest in my 100 thread count cotton sheets, under the fleece blanket, under the cotton comforter duvet-covered-life I plan on living for the next few months.

Weigh me down to the earth, for I fear I may soon fall off.
Hold me together with bones and muscle and skin.
Plant me here and let me rest, nestling down for warmth and sleep.
Wake me when the ice thaws so I can see the cherry blossoms again.
They are my forever reminder that I will not die in winter;
that my winter will not be the death of me;
that winter is not the end of my story. 


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