It’s the second of March, and winter has returned. Beyond the safe green of my house plants there is a blizzard; fast, white and dangerous. Even as I type, the flakes are becoming thicker and the garden toys are disappearing under an icy veil.
I tell myself I’m done with winter.
I’m done with the cold.
I’m done with not being able to get to work.
I’m done with Nathan missing school.
I’m done with damp laundry hanging miserably on radiators and hard-done-by cats glowering at their snow imposed prison.
Yet I stop, and stare, and am hypnotised by the swirling spirals of soft, chilly wonder. I know it makes life harder, yet somehow I feel joy at its presence.
I lowered the dose of my anti-anxiety medication a couple of weeks ago. At first I felt much better, like the tease of spring sunshine in February. But just like the March snow, darkness and uncertainty flurried into my mind, fogging my feelings and leaving me a fractious egg, ready to drop and crack.
I burrowed out of hibernation too soon, and was met with ice and emptiness instead of warmth and growth.
I look at the blizzard now and wonder if I will ever gather all those flakes; ever see the swirling stop and a gentle order resume. I seek balance, where the ice and fire sometimes battle but in doing so make steam, not muddy puddles. Give me hot steam, to drive this engine and make tracks with the tasks I long to do.
The sun is coming out now, and I have gone back to my recommended dose of meds, not feeling a failure for not being able to cope without them, simply using them as one with a broken leg uses a crutch. I must remember they are a tool, not a stigma. They are the gentle slowing of the blizzard of the mind. They are a little sun when all is cold.
And it’s only for now. Only in winter. Because there is a season to all things, and even in the deepest, bitterest chill, spring will come.
Bright poke in the eye
From Lugh, golden in the blue;
I reflect, moon like.
It’s Imbolc
And I want to
Lick the sky
Those fiery stripes
Must surely be
As sweet as sunrise ice.
The blackbird nods
Tail bouncing on the wall
Of a run down council house.
The Honda Prelude that
Cuts me up
Is a square assed snap chat
Of the past
And the wind turbine
Crazy in the cruel bite
Of winter’s last stand
Is a bright spark of
Future hope.
It’s Imbolc
And I want to
Grasp the earth
Bulbs tickling my cheek
With first new shoots
Reach out with great
Goddess hands
Surround the sky
And lick.
When I was little I rescued an injured crow, and as it was too damaged to return to the wild, the crow stayed with my family and usually lives with my mum and dad. Crowley the Crow is visiting me, however, because mum and dad are decorating and it will be too dusty for him.
This week I will be writing more about our relationships with animals and the animal kingdom, but for now I’d like to show you a little snippet of my inspiration for this. My cheeky, bratty and adorable companion, Crowley.
My other half bought me a gorgeous tagine for Yule, and after having taken it out for a successful maiden voyage (mutton with olives and apricots) I’ve been inspired to explore North African cooking a little more. These preserved lemons are easy and satisfying to make (you literally cram them into a jar!) but they have to be left for 3 weeks before eating. So I shall report back on the flavour. I hope I have the patience not to crack into them early!
Recipe from daringgourmet.com