Winter has always been an intense time for me. Over the last few years, I have waited patiently for her arrival, for her strange and potent ability to make solitude seem enchanting, as though suddenly I had the perfect reason to sink deeper into my cave.
Throughout my teenage years however, and well into my twenties, things were very different.
During wintertime, I felt weakened - much more than anybody else, and her mysterious darkness would render me invisible, as if I had disappeared inward.
As I grew older and became more conscious of my own cyclical nature I was better able to prepare for that first stark wave of emptiness, for the blood-coloured dusk, for the paralysis. Alone in my cave again and I have at last come to cherish Winter's dark and beguiling beauty.
I have surrounded myself with a mountain of books - books that I have acquired over the course of a year but have not had time to read.
Last night I took a long, hot, perfumed bath - the kind adorned with lavender and frankincense and candles. I made a pact with myself and with grief (aka depression), to write and read my way out of the darkness, whenever it gravitates my way.
These days, I no longer have the time or the inclination to be held prisoner by the darkness - I no longer have that investment.
I cannot change the past or the way I am put together, but I can change the way I walk through the fire.... Who said that? Does anyone out there remember?
Throughout my teenage years however, and well into my twenties, things were very different.
During wintertime, I felt weakened - much more than anybody else, and her mysterious darkness would render me invisible, as if I had disappeared inward.
As I grew older and became more conscious of my own cyclical nature I was better able to prepare for that first stark wave of emptiness, for the blood-coloured dusk, for the paralysis. Alone in my cave again and I have at last come to cherish Winter's dark and beguiling beauty.
I have surrounded myself with a mountain of books - books that I have acquired over the course of a year but have not had time to read.
Last night I took a long, hot, perfumed bath - the kind adorned with lavender and frankincense and candles. I made a pact with myself and with grief (aka depression), to write and read my way out of the darkness, whenever it gravitates my way.
These days, I no longer have the time or the inclination to be held prisoner by the darkness - I no longer have that investment.
I cannot change the past or the way I am put together, but I can change the way I walk through the fire.... Who said that? Does anyone out there remember?
Here are a list of things to carry you through the winter.
2. Which famous writer do you write like? Now you can find out.
3. If your cat went missing and you asked the world's funniest graphic designer to make you a poster this is what it would look like.
4. I am every asylum seeker is Greg Foyster's contribution to the factual side of what it really means to be an asylum seeker.
5. Phil and Me is a moving multimedia essay by Amanda Tetrault about her schizophrenic father.
6. All Joy And No Fun is a revealing essay from the New Yorker into why parents hate parenting. Think what you will but big props for someone finally telling the truth and keeping it real.
7. And as if Tony Abbott designed these posters himself, the Huffington Post provides The Funniest Sex Education Posters Of All Time.
Happy hibernation.
1 comment:
Awesome mate as ever xx
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