As we navigate our way through the year’s transitional phase, I savour the sight of winter on the horizon. It glints comfortingly at me and gives me the sign that the days will no longer be irrepressibly bright like a suffocating spotlight upon my form.
I love winter. The excuse to wrap-up in soft layers as if to pretend that you were still snuggled in your duvet indoors. The excuse to scourge your roughened throat with hot drinks and comfort food. The almost nostalgic feeling of curling up to read a book whilst rain hammers at your window and your world is framed by grey clouds.
Someone asked me today whether the shorter days and darker nights make me more sad. I just laughed and breathed a quiet but definite “no”. I feel at home in winter, even akin to it. I find comfort in it’s look of sadness as if it is simply reflecting my feelings back to me, like a mirror which returns my features to the landscape. When the rain thrashes down it is as if the sky is crying with me, or maybe more than that. Perhaps the world cries with me and we use these watery tears to replenish ourselves. We both go on to another day after the relief of a stormy cry.