The truth about my winter is that it is part of cycle thats a little bit ridiculous. Its the messiest part because it involves weeks of me acting like a 5 year old, in full denial, and then resistance, complete with fits and whining and consolation prizes that leave me feeling guilty and unsatisfied. And yet, the 42 year old in me knows its a necessary part of how I cope with change. Its how I let go of a good thing, kicking and fussing. Then, once it arrives and can no longer be denied, I give in. I love it with all of my heart. Mostly I keep my love of it to myself because I’ve made such a scene resisting it, its embarrassing to admit that I actually find it to be the most raw and beautiful season of all. Its the quiet season that all the other seasons make possible. The other three seasons are growing and saving and stacking and building all so that winter can be quiet. Messy and slippery, but basically quiet.
And once I give in to the dark silence, there is a deep peace that reminds me how okay it all is. The beauty, the uncertainty, the loss, the love, the unsteady ground, its all just going back to the bugs anyway so let’s just rest, when theres a moment to, in peace.