The Longest Months

It’s about now, towards the end of January and all through February … and OK, through much of March … that seem to be the longest months. Despite the fact that the days are getting longer, the sun rising earlier and there now being light at 5 p.m., it feels like the darkest part of the year. Some call it the Winter blues or the Winter blahs.

The holidays are over, and for those of us who don’t care about football there’s not much exciting going on … just a wait until Spring. So I remind myself, that even though it’s cold there, too, there is still phenomenal beauty around us. Somewhere, (in this case, Canada), the aurora borealis is dancing ….

AuroraBorealis-DaveDyet

And somewhere, here Hawaii, the sun is bright and the water is calling.

HawaiianBeach-DJSlane

And somewhere, right in our own hearts and homes, there is still warmth and love and creativity and reason to celebrate the winter. Whether it’s curled up by a fire or in front of the TV, making a pot of soup or doing a jigsaw with the family, each day is new and holds the promise of some small wonder. We’re called upon, as always, to be in the present, and not spend our time waiting for something to come. It’s already here.

Open the door and welcome it in.

Winter Sunset

“Your eyes register only a limited degree of the creative vibration that makes up everything in creation … Those persons who have perceptive eyes enjoy beauty everywhere.” – Paramahansa Yogananda

 

(Thanks to my friend, Pat, for sharing this lovely quote.)

Bones

Although I wrote this poem December 4 and had made a few edits, I intended to tighten it up further and submit it before the deadline to children’s book author David Harrison’s blog. He has a poetry contest each month, writing to a specific topic. December’s was “Bones.” I’m guessing with the holidays, my intentions got lost in the shuffle as I missed the deadline, so I’m posting it here. If interested, David’s topic for January is “Time.”

BONES

In violet, indigo and dusky blue,
they shadow their bones
across silver snow
in the sharp morning sun.

They bare their essence
and nod in silence
to admiring passersby.

Standing tall
in their most primitive selves
they are visions
of grace and pride.

I am Oak.
I am Ash.
I am Poplar.

Soon enough
Spring will come
cloaking their branches in
effusive greens,
in camouflage,
and playful disarray.

But for winter …

I am my bones.

Jeanne Balsam
December 2009