january, you can be so bleak. the cold is a sharp rouse in the morning. sleep stirred, i can feel the bite of a windchill beckoning for a quick reform. you’re awake now. it’s dismal, yes. the palette outside is muted. bob ross may be the only one smiling right now, a landscape sheer with ice and outfitted in a comfortable layer of snow. our hills seemingly honor and welcome the wintry adjustment, the ponderosa pines elevating into the most austere of circumstances. and while subconsciously i find a myriad of excuses to make tracks in the snow, it’s just the biting cold that tempts my somber. our afternoon mailman recently trumpeted that if one is cold “put some clothes on, you’re American!” – an exclamation that i’m still questioning the intended integrity of.

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i haven’t one doubt to the sultry expression of winter sun slinking along the windows of the house, taking turns in each room, inclining intently across the short list of hours she has to currently court the day. and yet softly the days are slowly growing longer. i let what sun i can court me and occupy the vestibule of my mind. i need structure but would rather bask. i seek her out, follow her down the hallway, sit tangled in her golden mane. she retracts gracefully – with tempo, patience, and measure. i edge ever closer just to feel her heartbeat and remind me of my own. the afternoon is spent in flirtations. eventually, because our time together is so limited, i learn to ask her out to dinner early. a meal together, perhaps? here in the hallway?

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busied myself this week dreaming up alibis for the frigid cold – copious reasons to burrow deep within the heartbeat of something resembling warmth and life. let me iron out the fact that the cool air does not burden me, i quite like sister winter, but the brutality of polar temperatures no doubt interrogate the depths of my affection. this week was a measure in time both fast and slow. a vacancy in thought in exchange for an observation of season. even the sun was tinted blue, her perpetual flame cautious of its own kiss.

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i’m attracted to the honest and open air of january – a genuine budding, if you will. the proverbial reset button pushed. the air is dry and cold, forcing town into a communal shuffle of shivers – yet no matter the often cruel, sincere, consequence (/blessing) of winter weather – spirits are creased and smoothed over with a delight for resolution. january is all about attitude. it is the genesis of all we aspire to be for a three hundred couple of days. my januarys are always fluent in ponder, intention, and an unabashed intimacy with my desires. the energy pulses and I realize a yearly epiphany that everything can wait and that nothing can wait at all. where did i collect all of this emotional new year vigor? i’m sappy, friends, it’s true.

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in flirtations with priceless feelings this time of year. there is a loud clamor, a rush, a hush, and then a different kind of rush – a flood, rather of all the commotion that ever led us to this point, coupled with all the intention that will guide us well past it. after the holiday, right before the new year, i’m a long exposure of reflection – readying myself to become as absorbent as i possibly can once january arrives. but first, the holiday. and nothing signifies it better than taking down the brussels sprouts.

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