Wintering

1^st February

Writing about not writing, or reading, or doing much of anything.

One of my rationalisations for writing a winter journal was to inspire myself to look for the light in winter, to find positive experiences, to practice actually writing, regularly, to work on my editing skills.

And then.

Christmas happened, always a non-event in this sparse household. Also a time of rest, which is of course essential to our wellbeing. Also boring for me when there is too much of it.  I did a little writing about the year before when I won a national award, and the embarrassingly  bizarre and wonderful experience the award ceremony was. When I came to editing it, I was bored, and could not summon the interest, nor the self-discipline.

And then.

January. In January I did not write, or even read a whole book, or achieve anything much. Sunshine days occasionally lifted my spirits in between the grey. Mostly I was just cold, shrunken and hunched inside my thick layers. I felt very Januaryish, the month must have at least 343 days.

And then.

I started to swim regularly which felt amazing once I actually forced myself to go.

And then.

I became unwell which stopped all of that.

I was feeling miserable about not keeping to my target of a weekly blog post, however short.  When I had missed one week it seemed irrelevant, and so I missed more. My head still spun with thoughts and phrases but the energy to either speak or write was mostly missing.

And then.        

It became February. The antibiotics seem to have done their job. I feel grateful that this is the extent of my miseries and that my life is filled with poop, hair, fur, and mud.

And then.

This. Not anything clever, poetic, literary, or original.

But done. Phew.