Are we sure that January has only 31 days? Because I’m not. Christmas is over, the decorations waiting in a clutter to be packed up and carried into the attic. Our poor dead tree finally had to be disassembled, its branches drooping under the weight of the ornaments. Not nearly as much fun as putting it up, and oh, how I miss the glow of its lights in the corner. And although I know that the evening light inches forward each day, when darkness descends it brings a shiver with it. January is a very long month. So what’s good about it? I’m thinking.
On cloudy days, soft pools of creamy amber light gather just above the horizon as night approaches, caught between the unremitting gray clouds above and the earth below. On brighter days, the giant oaks filter the lowering rays of sun through their branches. Rosy pellucid light seeps through endless lace. The sun ignites last year’s leaves and sets them on fire just before yielding to the darkness. Birds come and go in profusion – delicate chickadees, pig hearted jays, an occasional bluebird to delight us. A snowfall graces the woods and creates monochromatic beauty, unintended artistry of trees and stones. Flowerbeds wait in hope beneath the snow.
My food market unexpectedly gets shipments of plump juicy raspberries and blackberries at an affordable price. I feast and am transported into the summery warmth of my grandmother’s raspberry patch. My amaryllis blooms, my geranium thrives. I spend hours nourishing myself by contacting family and friends remotely. I’m inspired to try new soup recipes. I’m actually finishing books that I start reading. I sleep in. Who cares? Soon we will pass the halfway mark. But will I miss January? Probably not.
