Winter Weary

Winter is beginning to wear on me this year. Something about the cold seems deeper and more penetrating than usual. Getting out of bed in the morning is harder than I remember it being in the past. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Maybe it's always been like this. Maybe I'm just more fixated on it this year for some reason. Or maybe it has something to do with getting older. Whatever the cause, I find myself nursing an intense desire to hibernate, to just stay bundled up inside my house and not come out until Spring comes back again. A warm little den of rest sounds so nice right now. I have a craving for an extended period of quiet. A chance to slow down and breath and read and think and soak up the silence. I've had some writing ideas swirling in my mind lately. I'm thirsty for a little space and time to stir them and spill them into the page. The few snatched away minutes I have now is never enough time to do them any justice, so I don't bother to entertain them at all. But when I ignore them they seem to grow louder and more demanding, like neglected children. Maybe it's the noise from the thoughts themselves that is wearing me out. I find myself in a weird place, wishing either for Spring come immediately or for a month of terrible snow days all in a row which force me to stay inside. Both are silly, impractical wishes. So all I can do is try to weather the weather, and somehow shake myself loose from the grip of the gray and the cold. Lent comes before Easter.