Cusp of the year
I’ve been seeing lots of posts about Imbolc/Candlemass saying that it’s celebrating the turn of the year into spring. In this as in most things, I’m slower than everyone else. For me, February is the dark hour before the dawn, the moment when even the memory of light seems furthest away. February is 3am, the suicide hour, writ large. It’s only when March comes along that I start feeling that I’m not going to die after all.
Every year, I reach that stirring of spring with more surprise, as it seems more and more unlikely that I will ever get out of the clutch of winter depression – I’m worthless, what I write is worthless, what I think is worthless, what I say has all been said before. The world would be better off without me.
I don’t like feeling like this; avoiding everything because I don’t have the energy to deal with anything. I wish spring would hurry up, but I don’t believe in the snowdrop in my garden. I’ll only start to believe it’s all over when I see daffodils.
On a more positive note, at least the sun is out today – which helps immensely. When the sun shone on Monday, I spent the day in the conservatory with a fan heater on, so that I could soak in the light. Today, when the sun shone, I walked along the footpath half way to Haddenham, and it was lovely. An icy mist hung over the fields and the ground was mud topped with a crackling layer of ice. I was completely alone. The sky was white and so was the sun. And the horses in the fields looked like shadows, with their breath smoking. I walked for an hour and didn’t want to come back. Now I have glowing ears and a cup of coffee, so I hope today is going to be better than yesterday. Tomorrow can look after itself.