January is moody. Sullen skies, heavy with rain, reflected in the polished surfaces of grey lakes. The unrelenting brown of fields and hills and trees form a hard horizon. The icy breath of winter hangs on the air. Our childish lights and coloured baubles have been taken down, put away for another year, already forgotten in a corner of a dusty attic.
Breathe in, breathe out, your complicated feelings, your grief for endings, with the new year. She begins sometimes in sorrow.
All things begin in the dark.
We curse the cold mornings, stamping life into freezing toes in muddy boots, blowing heat into raw fingers, and wonder how our hope, our joy, could ever bloom in such conditions.
Yet, bloom they do.
Patience. Notice.
The dancing raindrops on the window, staccato pop-pop-pops, flickering with rainbows cast from buttery-golden streetlights on the other side of the glass. The golden fire of stormy skies. The slow lengthening of mornings. The cold, white morning sun creeps across the counterpane. The splash of puddles under gumboots and the waxed feel of a raincoat transform you into an invincible space invader, capable of walking through waves. Your darkened silhouette in the water waves back at you with a friendly face. Wood smoke, sweet scented with memories (cozy nights, good books, comforting cups of tea placed on the table beside you by a lover, the nights spent talking about the inexpressible and ephemeral with fingers touching to explore), rises from the chimneys of boats bobbing on the mirrored canal.
January is bittersweet. It is quiet glimmers. Old magic, which must be trusted to be seen. The inception and the close.
Once Upon A Dandelion Dream 