Winter arrives in a huff, draping the mountains in low cloud cover and shaking off slushy snowflakes onto the ground. I raise the thermostat, add another level, keep freezing. It's not a day for business as usual, it's not a day for keeping your shoulder to your wheel or your nose to the grindstone, it's a day for curling up with a dear old book, a day for keeping a drink in hand, for long baths, the season of rest is here.
You feel like the answers are persistently at the tip of your tongue, feel like they are a dream that you almost have but cannot quite catch, but they linger like a delicious memory, a conviction. And maybe that's a hint in itself, the timelessness of dreams, the sweet mindfulness of watching smoke curl from a cup of tea or the cloud cover tumling down from a mountain. The answers may lie in time being irrelevant, in creating a bubble wherein your spirit may rest. I feel it settle somewhere in my bones, and attempt to make itself at home.
We do not need much. A comfortable place to rest, sunshine when it is offered, companionship when it is apt to make life better than without. Beyond this, but a lung full of creativity, but a fingertip on fire. The stories weave themselves, when the seamstress is lost in song.
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