The two faces of January

I regularly bemoan January’s negative qualities and whine about January to anyone who will listen.
How January pulls my shoulders to my ears, my chin to my chest, and hunches my shoulders as I hurry in with wood and hurry “Gracie” as we walk–not to mention how difficult the struggle is to extract myself from my warm cozy bed.
But just when I have had enough of January, January changes the game.
January has started the last two days with a bright orange sunrise, where the sky comes alive with colour and a fresh dusting of snow that is lighter than dandelion fluff and the purest of whites.
The snow is perfect, the sun filling it with sparkling jewels, and I feel if I were to toss a handful of snow into the air, the snow would hang, suspended as though hanging from invisible filaments, never falling to the ground and I could stop time.
It would be this sort of day that is perfect for snow angels, and perfect for cross-country skiing and tobogganing down steep hills; and shrieking and laughing when the snow climbs up your back and up your sleeves because you’re having too much fun to be bothered.
It would be this sort of day that is perfect for cutting a hole in the ice and while your hook waits for a bite, the sun warms your skin and gives it colour and makes you glad to be alive.
It is this sort of January day that tells you life is grand and all problems can be solved when you fill your lungs with the bright cold air. And it is this kind of January day that has me wondering why I ever complain about winter.
Winter for me in the last many years has been about surviving January, about readying my fingers to flip the page over on the calendar and then laughing at winter, saying victory is mine.
I never thought it was a good idea to be born in January. Oh sure, you’re the oldest in your class and supposedly the biggest, and have had more time than anyone else to figure stuff out. And if you were a racehorse, your value of a January birth was measurable.
But I wouldn’t like to be born in such a serious month; a month that can’t really be trusted. I’m partial to spring birthdays, like calves and lambs and me.
I know the weather will change and the winds will stir and rise up, and the snow will be heavy and nasty and cut into my neck and cheeks. I know the skies will grey over and sink low like a heavy wool blanket, almost too heavy to crawl out from under, and I will forget these glorious days I have had.
But then, when hope is all but lost and survival no longer a given … the seed catalogues will arrive.
Ahhh, yes.
wendistewart@live.ca