December has quietly seeped into my life,
and such a sordid sourness has taken its space between us,
and all seems frigid, all seems struck by the numbness,
that touches my cold fingers as I reach out.
Living in a subtropical region, I should look forward to the sweet short winters that last barely a quarter of the year, but the frost is not just outside it manages to creek in and the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starts eating it's way into all warmth and hope. The terrains inside become so cold, that if you haven't been to those lands it might just become hard to justify them to you. It's like the poles, only more vast and more lost and cut off.
I have often wished to save the summers or it's vibrant sister spring in a jar, put in the safe corner of the corner most wooden cupboard so that the winter does not ravish it like all things that make the slightest contact with it, and so I did.
The pebbles from the bedrock of the river Tavi brought back from a short summer jaunt, or the seasonal herbs that sprout in the February fervour.Then there are flowers, blossoms that have fallen off after a short lived romance with the spring breeze. To soak in the sunshine I opened the cupboard the other day, and took out these priced possessions, gathering some optimism when I needed it the most.The pebbles round and smooth took me back to the stream with it's deep grey waters,white foam swimming atop, It felt good.The herbs, (I admit it was not jus herbs but herbs soaked in a bit of Calendula essence) comforting and lingering scents swarmed my nasal tract, revived a bit of hope.
I skimmed through the coarse pages of hand made diaries looking for the flowers that I had preserved in their realms, Some flaked petals fell down , before they could touch the floor, I sat down in a reflex trying to catch hold of them. As I gathered them I felt something eerily wrong, the petals that were now strewn, half withered, half faded, did not give me the same joy as the other mementos . It felt rather sad looking at their lamentable state,the winter had seeped in my little wooden cabinet. and become worse.
I ruefully held the last of them in my palms, afraid to fold them. I studied them for some time, thin lines of phloem visible on their surfaces like wrinkles on an old face. That is when it struck me. winter with all it's ruthless and merciless carnage , it's creep like curse was like revival. The blossoms that I had tried to preserve had died indeed and they could serve no purpouse other than arousing nostalgia,that would become a deep depression if there were not an anticipation of the new. Suddenly the transition seemed peaceful and the concept of creation stemming from carnage was demonstrated.
I love the pressed flowers still, memories of every season are worth a keep, but they do not remain with the feel good winter essentials any more. They have their own place. As for hope, it still lives. I can not negotiate enough with winters to call them a pleasant experience but I have accepted them.
and such a sordid sourness has taken its space between us,
and all seems frigid, all seems struck by the numbness,
that touches my cold fingers as I reach out.
Living in a subtropical region, I should look forward to the sweet short winters that last barely a quarter of the year, but the frost is not just outside it manages to creek in and the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starts eating it's way into all warmth and hope. The terrains inside become so cold, that if you haven't been to those lands it might just become hard to justify them to you. It's like the poles, only more vast and more lost and cut off.
I have often wished to save the summers or it's vibrant sister spring in a jar, put in the safe corner of the corner most wooden cupboard so that the winter does not ravish it like all things that make the slightest contact with it, and so I did.
The pebbles from the bedrock of the river Tavi brought back from a short summer jaunt, or the seasonal herbs that sprout in the February fervour.Then there are flowers, blossoms that have fallen off after a short lived romance with the spring breeze. To soak in the sunshine I opened the cupboard the other day, and took out these priced possessions, gathering some optimism when I needed it the most.The pebbles round and smooth took me back to the stream with it's deep grey waters,white foam swimming atop, It felt good.The herbs, (I admit it was not jus herbs but herbs soaked in a bit of Calendula essence) comforting and lingering scents swarmed my nasal tract, revived a bit of hope.
I skimmed through the coarse pages of hand made diaries looking for the flowers that I had preserved in their realms, Some flaked petals fell down , before they could touch the floor, I sat down in a reflex trying to catch hold of them. As I gathered them I felt something eerily wrong, the petals that were now strewn, half withered, half faded, did not give me the same joy as the other mementos . It felt rather sad looking at their lamentable state,the winter had seeped in my little wooden cabinet. and become worse.
I ruefully held the last of them in my palms, afraid to fold them. I studied them for some time, thin lines of phloem visible on their surfaces like wrinkles on an old face. That is when it struck me. winter with all it's ruthless and merciless carnage , it's creep like curse was like revival. The blossoms that I had tried to preserve had died indeed and they could serve no purpouse other than arousing nostalgia,that would become a deep depression if there were not an anticipation of the new. Suddenly the transition seemed peaceful and the concept of creation stemming from carnage was demonstrated.
I love the pressed flowers still, memories of every season are worth a keep, but they do not remain with the feel good winter essentials any more. They have their own place. As for hope, it still lives. I can not negotiate enough with winters to call them a pleasant experience but I have accepted them.
