The flip over into March seems to be awakening a sort of restlessness in me. I can’t stop tidying, clearing out, organising things. I feel an impatience for the heat of summer, but also for something I can’t quite put my finger on. A need to be ‘doing’ after months of stasis. A little chink of hope in Boris’s latest announcement, downhill to freedom and all that. I don’t want to get my hopes up, after all, we know how terrible this virus has been, and any one thing can turn the tide again. But surely, surely now, the end is almost in sight. It feels like a weight lifted. Just a few more months.
Amidst this strange movement, self-doubt raises its head and shouts in my brain about self and Patreon and writing and university and the very body it resides in. I try not to listen, to shut it out, but it digs its teeth in and shakes confidence to the core, as usual, as every day. I want to carry on, though. I want to do it anyway. Live as if, as though. As though the voice flipped from foe to friend. As if it cared, encouraged, believed. I will try, keep trying. That is a difference, in this season of movement. I will try not to stop, brought down by my brain. I will keep on walking forwards.
The days are longer, and a few of them are warm. Such a soul feeling, raising my face to the sun, catching that heat from millions of miles away, feeding me, bringing joy in such a simple action. Birds in and out of the boxes. The sunset reaching the shed for the first time this year, creeping around the stonework, setting just a bit further west each evening. The orange-gold rays softly lighting hanging crystals, scattering muted rainbows on white wood. Hyacinth flowers wait nestled in green leaves, two weeks later than last year already. February has been cold, a change from the unseasonal warmth of recent years. The cold is welcome, a real season.
I find a rhythm. Movement and doubt, movement and doubt. Start and stop. I hope as spring unfurls, the stops are loosened. Flow and belief, warmth and hope.