Friday, 7 January 2011


The year has turned; and I feel quite happy about it, really. We are no longer snowed in. There is a modicum more light in the evenings - just a minute or two. But my internal clock has noticed and sighed with relief.

I always feel that the time between mid-winter on the twenty-first of December and Twelfth Night on the sixth of January is a sort of fallow, waiting-time. Everything is paused - weather, plants, animals; planets, the moon, the sun. Everything is in stasis, holding it's breath. And then, the world turns. It slips along, past some some invisible marker. And everything starts to breath again.

The hens are starting to come back in to lay - B is upstairs, drilling holes in the incubator to attach the automatic turning motors as I write this. I have done a seed order. The bulbs in the pots by the door are (rather optimistically) poking a shoot or two above ground. There is a the tiniest, almost indiscernible glow of sap rising in the hazel in the hedge behind the poultry pens.

This year, no-one has been in hospital over the festive season. This year we are not in shock from bankruptcy and bereavement. This year we do not have a new baby to exhaust us. This year I am not suffering from post-natal depression.

This year, we have enough head-space to make plans.

Be afraid, Universe. Be Very Afraid.


  1. All our plans this year seem to involve Little Ones. Which is good, though I think it indicates that next Christmas will be a busy one. Is a baby or a puppy more work, I wonder.

  2. There is nothing better than knowing the nights will get shorter.