stars in the belly of winter
There is something so old about a winter's morning. Rather than rising, the sunlight seems to have always been there, and only revealed by night's parting. And there is such a blessing in the cold. It holds us with sharp fingers, but not cruelly, more like a reminder to wrap ourselves in softness, comfort, warmth. I love to watch my breath go like candlesmoke through the dimness. I love to feel the wild mother's bare presence so close.
The silence before a story comes is like a winter to me. Everywhere I look, the world seems barren and ragged. I find no ease. But deep within, a tiny seed like a white star will be growing, word upon image upon trust. I try to remember that the reading and pin browsing I do in this silent time is about nourishing that seed with aesthetics and ideas. Not every one will go into its making - most will supply the environment in which it grows. If I try to avoid this wintering, I only create something rootless.
As polar winds bring star-coloured cold to my town this morning, I hunker down under a blanket and get on with the work that is now budding and coiling through me after my own season of silence. The work itself is a surprise - but then, who ever knows what might grow from self-seeded wishes in the dark?
art by helen stratton