Mid-Winter

I think I’m starting to wake up now. Slowly I feel the sense of emptiness give way to one of almost surprise - surprise that I hadn’t noticed things like the sunset over the snow these past few weeks. How easily it all unravels when something of the spirit falls asleep. I can remember frightful dreams, and a vague sense of resignation. And in the middle of it an old longing: I wish that I didn’t have to resort to sadness to evolve, that happiness could be something equally sensitive and therefore refrain from blocking out experiences with contentment. And now it’s mid-W inter, and Imbolc has passed. The days are longer and the air is icy, bright and pure. The sometimes startling emptiness of the landscape is so beautiful to me, I want to drink it in.

When it’s over, I wonder how it happens. This time I saw visions of the sea, thrashing about within myself. The answer always sits directly in front of me, and really sadness often feels more like cowardice, the fear of living, the fear of picking up what lays before me. I still can’t say why, and I’m starting to have the inkling that I don’t need to. Forgiving myself, for ills I’m not even fully aware of, is something I keep returning to, something that continues to draw my attention.