The warm liquid trickles down my throat, as my fingers slowly come back to life. In their excitement, they have asked the nervous system to light up some fireworks. Mistakenly, my brain translates this into a tingly pain. Outside, the raindrops now race each other to the ground, not knowing that their destination is an ungrateful concrete wall rather than a thirsty flower. We made it back inside just in time.
The world is slow, this time of year. Although the first snowdrops of the season have already made their appearance, Mother Earth is not ready to awaken yet. She knows the weight of all the baby lambs that are soon to be born will require another year of patient endurance. “One more dream”, she moans in her sleep.
She is right, I think to myself. Januaries aren’t made for carrying baby lambs or new beginnings. Dreaming might be for the lazy and imperfect lover – as William Congreve professed -, but it is all we should long for when much of the afternoon still basks in moonlight.
While I sit there, pondering Januaries and baby lambs, I suddenly notice the howling wind. He is trying to catch my attention. With him, he carries not only the fresh ocean air but also many stories from faraway places. Unable to bear the heavy load any longer, he drops a few of them at my doorstep. I can hear a big sigh of relief as he continues his journey a little lighter. More stories mean more to ponder I suppose, but I will leave them for another day.
There is hope amidst the moaning and yawning of the world. Tips of noses are no longer red, so – with careful optimism – we store away our tissue boxes. Gatherings around the dinner table produce draft proposals for journeys to be taken and changes to be implemented. Moreover, each passing day, the light steals back a few moments from the enduring darkness, tickling Mother Earth as she takes her last restful breaths. Our stiff limbs yearn for another hot summer’s day. In hopeful anticipation, we await the dawn of spring.
Not much longer now, but not today – I muse, as I slowly drift to sleep.