The smell is all wrong. As I step outside on a January morning I don’t even need a coat. Balmy breezes blow gently across the parking lot. The song of the birds indicates there must be something wrong. The thick, salty, hopeful scent of mud warming is what I’m getting. Much more March than January. Where is the iciness, the blast of frozen gusts chilling your outside yet somehow warming that within?
Within. Winter allows me to go within. I use this time to reflect, think my deep thoughts. My mind ruminates over everything from forgiveness to why the trees and grass catch that red brown light as the sun goes down but that’s not the color above the long shadows in the summer. I have taken to using the voice memo function on my phone to capture all of these musings.
While driving I imagine the life within illuminated homes. Within my own home, how safe I feel. It’s okay to hide inside during this time. With the exception of Christmas, there is little to celebrate. We nest. I clean out closets and drawers and discover things I forgot I have that bring me joy. Sandalwood incense that my sister always described as smelling like city hall. A knit hat. Honey suckle-scented candles.
Without. I still like being outside. I am lost yet connected. Empty but contented. I’m not ready to be hopeful. Where is the snow?