Wintering

November 8th.

The wet clings to my hair, my eyelashes, my lips. For three days now the sky has been so grey and low I feel I can touch it.

If I could touch it, I would push it upwards, back where it belongs! Rain and yet more rain pours from the blocked stable yard gutters in sheets. Strong winds send the leaves ever spiralling downward. Melancholia invades every sense, collaborating with the sky to press me downwards.    

What happened to the girl who liked the rain? Who would deliberately get wet and rejoice in the seasons?  Who never let a little weather beat her need to get stuff done? She seems a long way back, right now. I give myself a shake, put up the hood on my partially waterproof coat, and head out of the barn into torrential rain.

It is after all, the best time to sweep the fallen leaves away. Use the rain to sweep the leaves. Use the melancholy to lift itself. Lift my face to the rain in defiance and push on with lightness.

Somehow, it works.

The tidy yard gives me a feeling of satisfaction. I am wet and cold but that is no big deal, really. I quietly cheer myself for turning the gloom into action. I am happy for a small win, although really I feel like I have won some huge battle.

And that I totally deserve the tea and cake that I intend to eat.          

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