The thinking seems to be that it’s because it’s February, and I’m beginning to believe therein lies the real reason February is usually only 28 days. There has to be some kind of buffer between January where ‘new beginnings’ are said to begin and the major capitalistic type holiday celebrations have ended. There’s March with its promises that someday, someday, that yes, it will be warm again; we will see green again. And meanwhile we’re stuck with February.
There have been times where I haven’t felt ‘up to’ writing, reading or even watching TV. Nothing really spikes much interest. I will, however, watch the birds eat from the feeder and fly around in the trees. On the few days the sun actually managed to break through, all I wanted to do is either lay on my bed in the sunshine or stand outside in it. Maybe I need more milk. Or maybe just some fresh air.
I happened across Big Ass Belle’s post from the other day about her own little quandaries.
I’ve been in a strange place lately and I can’t seem to shake the winter blues. I really feel like I should go to bed for another month, wake up about the time the goldfinches come through town.
What I’ve been up to waiting for spring:
‘A strange place lately.’ I think that’s it – just some strange place not quite knowing what to do. Standing, turning in a circle, looking to see which direction sites the most promising view or excitement.