January. . .

It seems I have already begun to sink into this January.  Despite the fact that there are events requiring a lot from me until January 24th, the pull has already begun to exert itself. 
January is a poet’s month, all sparseness and concentrated, concealed power. It seems a little astonishing that our response is to lose interest, to look away, to put on more clothes and move indoors, our eyes away from the windows.  What is there to see?  All bleakness, gray, no brilliant color.  Only when it is all covered, in blankets of comfortable looking snow do we pronounce it beautiful.  Only then, when hidden.  This is the child’s view of the world: I must be entertained; I deserve to be constantly courted, by bright greens!  Luscious flowers! Butterflies, bees, deeply colored birds and birdsong! The youth of the year we pronounced beautiful.
But it is now, with its bones revealed, it is now that the unflinching truth is told.  This is what is underneath it all. Here is the support, the source, the life-energy, the sap, concentrating.  This is wisdom, not knowledge.  This is true power, not just strength. This is what I want to absorb, through osmosis, through paying attention.  This is January, my January, roots deeply sunk into this Earth.