I Will Hide from February A Little Bit Longer



February is almost here again

I have a stack of soft pink cut up paper sitting in my studio. Little pieces of paper and a quiet place in my mind where the compositions live. I am going for a walk soon, under the January sun, the large grey storm clouds scattered between light blue sky. The branches on the sycamore tree still bare. I’m afraid I’ll see tiny green leaves on the trees already. I hope not. I don’t want it to be February yet.

I walked up the trail, slowly. I examined every branch I passed. There is bright green moss on the trunks of the Bay Trees, Large white mushrooms and fluffy tan ones on the ground. There are tiny white flowers, the first flowers I see every year in late winter. A few more trees have fallen across the trail, a new trail has been started. I imagine the new homes the fallen trees have created. Under the lush canopy the fallen tree has created. A canopy that before was up high. A refuge for the crows, owls, squirrels and hawks. Now the canopy can be used by skunks, rats, opossums, and racoons.

I did not see any leaves on the Sycamore Tree or the Fig tree. This made me feel better for a moment. I felt like I could ease into the last bits of winter, take refuge under the evergreen in the damp woods. If I could, I would crawl under the Bay Tree Leaves that were now horizontal on the ground. If I could I would transform myself into a small furry creature and make a den. I would hide there and rest.

Once February gets here there will be no hiding. Everything that’s happened in February will be at the surface, like a glass top ocean. Reflections of the past, reflections of the future will cover my ocean. All my choices, everything that I am, everything that I’ve passed on, and every decision I make next will fit like a giant puzzle over the entire ocean made of glass.

The soft pieces of pastel pink paper are still waiting for me. My studio is still waiting for me. I will go in there and work for a while. This is my time. The house is quiet, I am alone. I will sink back into winter. Stash myself under my imaginary canopy. I will hide from February a little bit longer.

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About Dirty Laundry Blog

Thoughts on Motherhood Through the Eyes of an Artist