Bone cold. Courage little sparrow.

‘The harshest of winters makes of all of us dreamers for something better …’

A bleak day.  I cannot get warm.  All thoughts of snow and silliness are dissipate with the howling gale outside.  It creeps through windows and underneath doors.  Under and up, inside my bones.  These are cold bones today, cold is all.  

Silence is deafening. Night close, the wine needs no ice.  I am no longer amused by the whiteness outside and dream of its ending now.  Strange that I was hoping winter would result in snow, in something other than the perpetual greyness that has seeped into my veins.  How do others endure this now I think?  I see them plodding to work outside my apartment, heads down, muffled thoughts beneath the black coats. I think happiness has been buried.

Seems the worst time ever to put my apartment on the market.  Would even the daffodils in the delft vase give for imagination of spring?  Lights on all day, heating frail against the elements, but I have.  I have to.  The winter has reduced me to the bones, to the poetry of restriction to place, the depletion of spirit in that place.  To action.

As I long for the changing of season, I long for the changing of me.

We should never begin in a place of haunting winter.  As I pray for the sparrows out there.  The homeless in corners, the dulling easiness of routine, I wishing away of cold days, it is not enough for this Silver Street woman. She basked in the Summer too long to give it up now that all has changed, and this bone cold winter, with the cold wind inside her heart, she is beginning to realise that the warmth of life will only begin in her own steps.  And so, the winter of this discontented soul will plan for the summer of something else.  I have no idea where I am going, where I will end up, but it only begins when the artist picks up the brush, when the first word is written, when I am sure all I love are safe enough for me to move on. Godot is not for me, waiting is no longer for me.

Have courage little sparrow. The winter may whip.  The cold may freeze your soul, but it will thaw and we need to be ready when it does.

Image Daily telegraph