Leaning into the Light

And so we come to the end of January. This first month of the year seemed long, with days upon days of grayness, anchored at both ends by leaden darkness. 

Granted, the month afforded time for rest and reflection -- for stillness — especially after the holidays full of to-ing and fro-ing. There was time for reading by the fire and for cooking vats of soups and stews. There was time for brewing endless pots of tea and for streaming shows that everyone else had talked about for months. 

But now the calendar page nears turning and I find myself leaning into the light with an open heart. I find hope in the lengthening days. I linger a little longer by the kitchen window watching the sky turn pink as the sun inches its way over the tree line.

I sense time passing, bringing with it an assurance of the ever-so-slow return of life to the woods and meadows. The pussywillows just outside our study window show off their furry catkins; the star magnolia's gray villous buds appear at the ends of their spiny branches; and the hellebores send forth blooms that I can see only when I kneel on the soggy earth to peer up at their drooping heads. Soon the first snowdrops and early daffodils will grace the orchard ground and the tiny buds of  grandmommy's sedums will poke up. 

I know that spring must be coming as my days of hunting/gathering have officially commenced for the year. Yesterday, I successfully foraged for clumps of bittercress to turn into a vibrant pesto for our shrimp dinner. 

Before long, tender wild mâche lettuce will blanket large swaths beside our trails and ramps will return to the creek's edge. Early dandelions, chickweed and wild violets will offer up their goodness. 

And before I know it, spring will have returned, as sure as the sun rises.