How I Talked, Walked and Journaled My Way out of a Wintery Headspace

A Journal Entry from May 2023

I am in a winter season. Literally. Longing for spring, almost aching for summer. How bizarre to wish a whole season away. I hate the cold. I hate that feeling in the morning when you don’t want to get out of bed. That’s crappy for a morning person. Pull the covers higher, hit snooze for the seventh time, and tell yourself, “You can do this!” I love a sunrise. I love being outside. This just feels impossible. To be outside at 6 a.m. right now would require a snow suit. Yet, strangely, I have historically picked up a running thing in winters gone past. Actually jogging in the freezing cold—the burn in my chest reminding me how very alive I am. Perhaps that’s about running it out—or hoping the season itself will run out faster if I just get up and run?

 What does this winter season want from me? What will I give it? How will this island child thrive amidst cold floors, icy exhales, frosty mornings, and bare trees? Everything stripped away. What will be left?

 Fires. We can make fires. I love my slow cooker but load shedding throws a bit of a curveball. Potjie pot weekends. Fires. Did I mention fires? Warm socks and vests. Some decent tracksuits to sleep in. Winter walks. I can manage winter walks. Even better, winter prayer walks. I might be done with running for now. Dressed like the abominable snowwoman, I will walk. And I will pray.

 Warm scents in the house. Candles. Lots of candles. Doubling up there for load shedding. Bonus. Bath bombs and bath salts. Thank God for Rain. Not the watery kind. The natural skincare kind. Gosh—a wet winter is just the worst.

 Soups and stews. Homemade bread perhaps? Never tried that. Reading by the fire. Earlier nights. Snuggles and cuddles. Lots of those. More rugs? More sleeping. I will be like a bear. Hibernation. Yes. I like that idea.

 A reading-the-Bible-by-the-fire, moving-to-the-piano season? Eeking out the songs of hope and new seasons on the horizon. Spring will eventually come. I’ll sing it into being. I’ll watch and wait, and you will come through, like you always have and always do.

 Find me grateful, find me thankful, find me on my knees.

 Cold air, I will not fear you. I will step onto my stoep at night when you’re your fiercest and I’ll breathe you in deep. I’ll look up to the stars and praise my Father who flung them there. I am not forgotten. We are not alone. He is our very present help in times of trouble. Things are not dead. They are hidden. Under blankets of brown leaves and frosty lawns.