I hear myself bemoaning January in New England. Why do I live here? When will this cold ever end? Dressing in layers, heavy winter coat, boots.....I feel the weight of it, the still short days, the bitter cold, the ice. This year, my ex-husband has now retired and moved south to be near our oldest daughter and her family. And one of my best girlfriends has done the same, moving even further south, away from the New England winter.
My Aunt Ruth used to always say that after this longest month, February flies by and at St. Patrick's Day, she would declare that it was now spring. I've adopted that view and it helps. Although I do think her frequent sojourns to the Southwest probably helped quite a bit. When I was much younger, I didn't dread this long cold month; it was a time to hope for a storm to cancel school, skate at the frozen salt marsh, sled with neighborhood schoolmates.
But it is really not so bad. It is easy to enjoy a roaring fire in the wood stove in the evening and fun to make a nice stew to warm up with after a Saturday of running errands. Being somewhat more housebound can get tiresome, but there are always closets and bureau drawers to clean and organize, interior painting projects or painting and writing. In the deepest time of winter, it is a time for solitude and reflection and perhaps some self-improvement, too. January is the springboard to a new year, and brings a time to look ahead and close old chapters that we need to leave behind, that weigh us down and hold us back. And in the words of New England's poet laureate, Robert Frost, "there are miles to go before I sleep".
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