Winter growth

Another morning comes and snow falls again, or still. In the middle of winter is when I feel that it will always be here. The cold, the wind, the white. The icy feet, the blankets, the scarves, the boots. I remember spring, summer and fall but the memory is distant and quickly receding, like a dream once awake.

I don’t know why, but winter is my time to sew, stitch, and knit. Perhaps I need to see color and hold soft things in my hands. Or I need to feel something real and physically immediate that I have generated with my own ideas and my own hands. At this moment I am in the middle of three different sewing projects, have one that’s been set aside in a drawer for several months that I think about every few days, have two upcoming projects fully formed in my mind, and one that is a half-formed maybe. I stitch on them sometimes late into the night when I should be in bed. I want to see them continue to take shape or take on color, or become closer to the vision that’s in my head. I want to see something happen and I want to make it happen.

I think of this while I look at the plants that I surround myself with at home. These plants have both anchors and wings. Roots buried deep in soil without legs to walk. But still they move and grow and reach for the light. They are bright with beautifully infinite shades of green, some with an exotic hint of red or purple along the backs of their leaves. A few among them work even in the depth of January towards that distant spring, pushing up a stem that will try to hold a blossom. I watch these plants every day and sometimes adjust their placement. This one needs more light, this one less. This one doesn’t seem to like being so close to the window, this one doesn’t like the heat vent that blows every few minutes. This one needs a trim and this one needs a support. Tuning into the needs of these plants helps to grow trust in myself and reminds me that there is life. There is growth.

I arrange objects among the plants too. Guan Yin is about eight inches high, golden, pouring the water of life from her tall vessel, her little dog at her feet. She stands under the waterfall of Christmas cactus leaves this winter, so elegant. Her bare feet solidly on the ground, her robe flowing with ease. Mary’s statue is different than many. She is about six inches tall and looks so young, could she possibly be a mother already? She looks peaceful but strong, as Mary always seems to. She stands near the orchid that hasn’t blossomed in three years but has this winter sent up a shoot intending to try this spring. It makes me so happy just to see that shoot every morning and see how quickly it grows taller and taller. The orchid reminds me that all things happen in their own time and growth doesn’t happen until we’re ready for it. That sometimes living is enough. Sometimes living is plenty.

The guardian angel is taller, about ten inches, and stands with her lamp among a clutch of smaller plants. I just yesterday gave her a stained glass dais to stand upon. She is mostly white porcelain, with strands of gold paint deep in the grooves of her hair, worn by the years and the hands upon her head. I don’t know how old she is, I’ve had her with me for three years, since I brought her home from the Goodwill. I thought I could use the help.

I used to kick myself for all the things I thought I should know but kept forgetting. There were so many things in school that I was supposed to know but kept forgetting. The years of this or that war and the reasons why it started. The location of that county, the name of this capital. I never had a brain for this kind of remembering. Today the things I think I should know are that I’m a worthwhile human being without needing to prove it to anyone. That my life has been what it has, I’ve learned what I’ve learned, I’ve made the decisions I’ve made, felt what I’ve felt, and there is nothing to regret, no apologies to make. I forget that I am not alone in the world, that I am not the only one who fears mistakes, who looks to others for approval instead of looking within. I am not the only one who thinks I’ve ruined my one precious life with my own bad decisions. With the continual mistakes. With my slow and stupid brain. With not being good enough. But — remembering is a good thing. It used to be I didn’t remember, I just got sad and confused. Now I remember that I can have these thoughts and then I can remember that they are lies. I can remember that life is to be lived and experienced, that mistakes are needed in order to learn and get stronger. I can remember that I am human and I am not alone. I can remember that I go slow because I want to pay attention and be here in this moment. Because I don’t want to miss the good stuff. I can remember that spring will come again, and I can also remember that the good stuff is here even in winter.