Until the Fog Clears
Although I just read that writers should never indulge in talking about the weather, I’m afraid I’m going to have to rebel against the authorities and dive right in.
A streak of foggy days and above-freezing weather had been making for an incessantly grey and muddy week. The ducks seemed convinced that it was finally spring, and were happily quacking about it.
But as for me, it was making me mildly bleh. Not quite to the point of woe or that apathetic state where all you want to do is sit under a plushy throw with a spoon digging its way into a tub of delicious ice cream.
No, the desire for productivity lived on, but I just wasn’t feeling very excited about it.
And things that in moments of zen I resolved to see through (like summoning compassion for Keeko despite his daily Spot-bullying antics), withered away like flowers in the harsh, winter snow as soon as that cat came around.
Yes, patience was in short supply. I had been unsuccessfully mediating an ongoing cat feud. My Facebook feed was full of Trump’s face. And I was out of Sense8 episodes to watch on Netflix.
This was the long haul of winter. And if I recalled correctly, it was that part of wintertime that got dreary no matter where you were.
Last year, this time, I was sitting inside my windowless cubicle in a poorly ventilated government office, no sign of a vacation day until mid-spring.
I’d walk out to slushy streets and concrete buildings that matched the colour of the sky, then board a sardine-packed streetcar where I’d stare glazed-eye out the window at more slush.
The good thing about winter at the farm though is that the cold weather does compel you to hunker down inside, under a warm blanket, laptop at the ready, to plot just how you’re going to save the world come Spring.
So, until the fog cleared, I’d just have to keep keep brewing up good things in my little cave until it was time to come out of hibernation.
Photo Credit: Samantha Saunders
>> Read the next post in the #farmlifebestlife series: The Children I Never Had