Winter.

waiting for an odyssey.

a small journal entry from January.

The winter has the beauty of sailors wandering lost at sea. I wake and the mornings are overcast— twice this week fog has hung low over the ground. Grey clouds hang over us, and the evenings are slowly starting to get lighter once more. It is perfumed in a prophecy and a promise to be fulfilled, it smells of salt and olives and thyme, oranges, clay— it is a prophecy and a promise I pray for each night. Spring will come and I wonder what beauty it will hold. The winter has the beauty of sailors wandering lost at sea.

The wind holds into my hair and takes it in its grasp. The sea air is cold on my face. My fingertips stay cold long after I arrive home. The sea splashes up onto my face. I walk slowly on the stones. My hair whips into my mouth. On calm days the fishing boats are out at sea. The tide is rough. I wait for the summer where it will pour over itself onto the shore. When the hues of orange and gold, greens, are reflected from the light. Summer, where a thousand jewels are thrown into the sea, waiting to be found. The sea comes up over my toes— my shoes are old and I feel the water seep into my socks. My fingertips stay cold long after I arrive home. I watch the light through the oak trees and the leaves brushing together— small silver flecked greens- and the sea are the only sounds— they become one, I could not separate them. Time stands still. The house opposite has rosemary growing up the bank and a window open and the wind tugs at the curtain which refuses to leave the room.

I took my first pottery class in three years and ate cake for the first time in a cafe in four. I cried in the bath that I made more progress in a single day than I might have last year. Found a perfume that lingers in the same smell as my grandmothers hand cream used to and wrote a poem I might be proud of. Told someone I wanted to write a play or a film or maybe actually finish a short tale or publish some poetry and they said do it. I still watch the blank wall in front of me when I try to sleep. I tell it what I told it this time last year, and what I have told it every day for as long as I can remember. I’m a fisherman catching pieces of a fish and never a whole. I call to the sailboats on the rocks, but the breeze steals my voice. I cried in the bath that I might finally be becoming. I ate a golden peach and it was strangely ripe for this time of year and it looked like the sun bitten in my hand. The coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup looked like waves and I am waiting for an Odyssey.

The winter has the beauty of sailors lost at sea.

Beatrice.

cover image from pinterest.