Sparse.
Stark.
The vast expanse of winter.
The landscape of a new calendar year.
Beauty. Benevolence. Brutality.
Grasshead gone to fluffy seed – a horticultural feather boa – because that’s what winter does. It strips everything bare, leaving the only vestiges of glamour in the drying and waving stalks of desiccated grass. Winter holds its own, wrapping brittle arms like gnarled grapevine around the heart. It hurts and it helps, like a hug at the right moment, or the wrong moment.
I don’t quite know how to begin this year.
This year that I turn 50 years old.
This year that Andy and I have been together for 25 years.
This year that we’ve been married for 15 years.
This year of milestones and markers…
Let us be wholly present for all of it.
Let us be mindful of every moment.
Let us… be.
