07/12/13 - in honour of

It’s been too long since I’ve sat down with the intention to write. It is December, and the leaves are only just realising it’s time to let go. The seasons are rolling around and the colours of autumn are fading.

I’ve always felt that winter is the most underappreciated season in England. In Norway, in Canada, in the Alps, it is of course adored. But winter in England is not crisp and white and glowing, bone numbingly cold and achingly beautiful in that clean way that snow makes things. Winter in England is dull, and grey, and drizzly. It is cold that makes your toes curl up, and makes the people walk faster and wear more scarves. Any snow that comes is quickly melted, or turns grey, slushy, icy. This is the winter I know best, and it is not as beautiful as many winters, but it is the winter I call home.

Home. Which is where I am, and this sits comfortably with me. It is right. I get to put up Christmas decorations in my house, and write Christmas cards, and light fires, and see the people I love. I get to battle through meals in a safe place, and have breakthroughs and see the web of support and hope around me. And sometimes I don’t see it, and I let those times pass and wear by until the cloud shifts and I can see again.

I will write soon.