January is finally over. January, the most frigid, frozen wasteland of days in the year. Since it heralds the official beginning to the Gregorian calendar, it is often heralded as a time of well-intentioned resolutions, but for me, January holds out little hope of change, just like its hard, harsh weather. I do not like the month of January, not because it’s winter but for its endless days of unrelenting, white sameness. No holidays to break it up (my company does not close on MLK Day) and since I prefer to hoard my precious vacation time for later in the year, no days off work either.
To break up the monotony, I went to the library yesterday after the usual Saturday errands to pick up some books and cuddle in a chair next a wall-sized window that affords a spectacular view of a snowy, silent field. The sun was slanting west, leaning into tomorrow’s considerations, and I relaxed into a comfortable chair for some quality reading/writing time.
Suddenly, one of the trees started twinkling. I sat up and looked closer. The rays of the sun were highlighting the icy twigs of the branches. A mixed flock of Eastern Bluebirds and Cedar Waxwings were flitting through.
I bolted out of the library and galloped over the mounds of snow and ice to the edge of the parking lot to see these jewels of winter. And traded in reading and writing time for looking and listening time.