Wintering, and

Prompt from Amelia Loulli, 19 Nov 2024

Photo by Sajad Nori on Unsplash

Winter, and I’m wintering, without having read the book by Katherine May. In August I drastically cut back two overgrown bushes in the front garden without knowing, but perhaps vaguely intuiting, that this would figuratively happen to my life just a couple of later. There was so much of my labour visible but anonymous around that house that I never had reassurace was my home even though I’d been invited to live there. I stayed in that fog for too long. I tried and failed to get jobs elsewhere. I tried to get better-paying jobs where I am, and failed. And now I live in means-to-an-end conditions until I fail better on the paid work front. Wishing I’d kept mum’s car - but it was leaking oil and its saled helped cover her funeral. Wishing I’d managed to behave myself - but the love I was told was felt for me should have included some grace for the tough times when I couldn’t also be everything for someone else. I should be writing but I need to earn money. I should be earning money, but I need to write. I should be reading but I need to move my body. I should Move my body but I need to rest. I should be resting but I need to read. Failing In Nearly Everything - a woman in her nineties told me that is what fine is an acronym for. But she’d lived so long. Had a loving daughter who visited regularly. Had had a career. What had she failed at?

Winter, and at least this house is warm. I struggled to feel warm enough in my not-home. I’d wear layers of thermals, cardigans, blankets, gloves, wedge a hot water bottle under my feet, all of it and couldn’t get warm. This house gives me less space, and space that is ill-utilised with furniture that cannot be moved, but I am not cold.

Winter, and I hesitate to book travel in case I lose the money. But I need to see people I love and who love me. I don’t know how long to go for. I don’t know what to take, whether to get hold luggage. I don’t know whether to go at all in case I haven’t the energy. I don’t know if I’d regret not going in case it would do me good. I don’t know what decisions I can make. I’m normally a good planner, good at seeing contingencies, but I’m so tired and beaten up this year I just want people to tell me where to be and at what time.

Winter, and the Christmas is already everywhere, blocking usually open spaces in the city centre, filling the soundscape as well as the physical area. It’s exhausting when you need gentleness.

Winter, and autumn’s fireworks are yet to stop. Still nightly they go off. Explosions since early October.

Winter, and I’m spent. If I didn’t get so sore I’d lie in bed until I had to get out for a pre-arranged thing, such as work or meetings or appointments or events.

Winter, and although it’s my least favourite season, I do not long already for spring because I’m not ready to feel its renewal. The wounds are too deep. I’m too cut back. I need to be in myself for a while before rejoining the world and perhaps blooming again someday. It might only be partial, and never the same as before. Never as vibrant. Changed. Hopefully more mature. More guarded but still willing to open, if only for the need of the sun after many long, dark months.

Winter, and this one’s for me.