It is officially the first day of my favourite month of the year. I feel like each time winter twinkles back into my life, it brings out the best in me. I feel sharper, like the crisp weather, cleaner, like the air, more concise, filtered, and sanitized... I think more, the plucking of a guitar means more, and each clean breath is a delight... it feels like the McCarthy-reading, sweater-layering, and satisfying pressing-on-the-cool-violin-strings season I wish I had all year round. Comfort does wonders to the head and heart. I face an event-packed week, but I am at ease. Winter... each bare branch, the tinge of a chill, the thought of snow in another country... winter feels like literature, like delicate music, like a steady pulse. Winter is hours spent burrowing inside blankets with a book, a sweat-free walk in the hills, and a time to nail Jack Johnson, Marling and Mitchell songs on the guitar. Winter is for letting my hair down and feeling it grow. Winter - the word itself is poetry - how pleasant is the short 'i' and the turning of tone 't' brings after 'n'... winter is hands stuck in pockets, feet tucked in boots, and warming up next to the heater. Winter is keeping warm. Winter is lovely, and it is here!
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