to everything there is a season

It is winter.

It snowed this morning, a steady consistent snow that dusted the world white.

The trees are bare.

Onions and potatoes, carrots and beetroots for colour.

I do not demand of the world that it produces tomatoes in winter.

Why then do I ask it of myself?

-

There is a rhythm to life, to being alive.

Does it follow the seasons? I do not know. But I know that it is has its own seasons.

There is a season of abundance, of fecundity and growth, of trees laden with peaches that burst against their skin.

There is a season when the earth is brown, when it seems like nothing will ever grow again.

In the depths of winter, I may sometimes wish it was spring. But I never try to make it spring when it is winter.

Why then do I try inside?

-

There is a beauty to winter, too.

Where I live, the sun often shines and the sky is blue.

There is a hard clarity to the light, a light that reveals everything as it is, a light utterly unlike any other light I have known.

There are red cheeks and steaming mugs, there are mornings underneath heavy duvets, there are logs crackling in fireplaces.

The problem isn't the winter inside me. The problem is that I am not living the winter inside me.

I like onions and potatoes. Why am I asking for tomatoes?