I don't like to wish my life away, but I wish for Spring. I wish for warm air as I open my back door and step into a new morning. I wish for a scent of promise and optimism in the morning breeze as I hang out my laundry, a wish for that feeling of contentment as the sun arcs the sky like a splendid white gold ball. I wish to sit outside on my bench with a cup of tea and a magazine and close my eyes to feel that warmth on my face, and to open my eyes to a blue, cloudless sky.
I long for days when colourful flowers open their tender buds and share their colourful beauty, and I wish for the days that are cerulean blue and forever posted in my memory like hazy snapshots that makes me feel deeply happy whenever I remember them.
I look around my little home, my tiny, crochet strewn home and I feel grateful for it's warmth and cosy interior on this cold Winter day; the sky is the colour of dirty dishwater and even the skeletal trees that stand like sentinels on the riverbank seem sullen and miserable. I buy a bunch of Spring flowers and they instantly cheer me, remind me that Spring is just a whisper away, that already we are flying into February at the speed of sound and the first month of our new year is almost over.
We take walks in our nearby countryside, the air is cold and bites your skin, and there are icy puddles for jumping in. There is a weak sun, and at a lone farmhouse someone is burning wood; fingers of blue grey smoke curl up into the still air and hang like fine gauzy ribbons along the valley.
We wander through enchanted forests and hear birdsong from the treetops. Now and then something small and unseen flits between the branches, we sense movement and life, but see nothing.
We admire the frostbitten seedheads, wintery sculptures that line the side of the river before turning towards the cafe to warm our hands around fat mugs of hot tea.
Winter is making the most of the crisp outdoors, and cosying up indoors with gentle projects and crocheted blankets.
J x
