In this quiet time of midwinter there is space, a pause; it is a liminal place I try to hold close for as long as I can. I find I am not ready to venture forth, I draw in for a little longer and am grateful to be able to.
It is a time of stars – I read about the colours of stars, long dark nights, a wintry night lit up from a full moon, dreaming deep during sleep, and gazing at the fire warming my bones. A time of not remembering the name of the day. A time for poetic images. The shifting colours of early dusk, late sunrise – blurring edges. It is the time of my birthday.
A few years ago I began to collect and keep some petals and flowers from summer solstice morning to winter solstice eve so we could put them in the fire as part of the beautiful small rituals that we develop over time in the cycle of our lives. Another is the winter walk with my cousin – a day of gathering greenery and weaving wreaths.
There were some deep dark red dahlia flowers – crimson, scarlet, cherry, garnet, then fading – always trying out names and wondering.. I had kept them back this year and, on a whim, I decided to make a rounded end to twelfth night by giving them to the last of the night’s fire.
Walks are swift between the rain and wind at the moment, the fresh air lifts my awareness enough for my eye to catch the green shoots peeping through and catkins dancing…