wintering
he knew that all my other beginnings
had purpose in preparing me
for endings.
-frieda hughes
the christmas tree in my living room is giving me an empty stare. i hate to see it like this - i hate these anachronistic days inbetween, when you're floating around waiting for one thing to end so the next can begin. each year i face this, and it never gets any easier. christmas is over and we face a long, bleak winter ahead.
so when the ball drops and the world cheers for their second chance, where do i go from there? every day is a new beginning, but it can't be denied that something is building. right now i feel stuck and lost and unsure, but just as i know that each day dawns anew i know that this too will lead somewhere. it's in these quiet, slow moments where we start to figure it out.
maybe we have more questions than answers right now, but that's okay. spring is distant, but it is in the cold months where life first begins to stir.
will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
succeed in banking their fires
to enter another year?
what will they taste of, the christmas roses?
the bees are flying. they taste the spring.
-sylvia plath
had purpose in preparing me
for endings.
-frieda hughes
the christmas tree in my living room is giving me an empty stare. i hate to see it like this - i hate these anachronistic days inbetween, when you're floating around waiting for one thing to end so the next can begin. each year i face this, and it never gets any easier. christmas is over and we face a long, bleak winter ahead.
so when the ball drops and the world cheers for their second chance, where do i go from there? every day is a new beginning, but it can't be denied that something is building. right now i feel stuck and lost and unsure, but just as i know that each day dawns anew i know that this too will lead somewhere. it's in these quiet, slow moments where we start to figure it out.
maybe we have more questions than answers right now, but that's okay. spring is distant, but it is in the cold months where life first begins to stir.
will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
succeed in banking their fires
to enter another year?
what will they taste of, the christmas roses?
the bees are flying. they taste the spring.
-sylvia plath