Before I even open my eyes, I hear it. Between the bushes and hedges outside our window, someone is singing. One bird, then another, then many. I lie in the warmth, listening, looking forward to a mild day.
Then I pull up the blind.
Snow. Overnight it settled quietly on everything - on the branches, on the garden table, on the sleeping beds. The world outside is white and still. Only the birds are not.
Last weekend we were in the forest. Snow still lay thick and firm underfoot. But sunlight shone through the bare branches. I stopped, as I always do, turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes. The warmth touched my cheeks, my forehead, while my feet stood in the snow and the cold air pulled at my hands.
And then I heard a tapping, rhythmic, close. There he was. A spotted woodpecker on a tree trunk. His red neck gleamed, his beak hammered against the bark. He searched, worked, undeterred by the snow all around. Everywhere in the forest, birds sang, as if they wanted to drive winter away and sing spring into being.
I love winter: the clear cold air, the quiet coziness, a cup of tea, a good book, the blanket around my shoulders and the glow of a candle.
I love the crunching beneath my shoes, the white silence, this muted peaceful world.
And yet.
I notice something stirring within me. A longing for the first sunlight that doesn't just shine but also warms. For the scent of damp earth, for the green, for the humming of the first bees, for the first butterfly. I soak up the first rays of sun. For nature it's a new beginning, for me too.
But it's not quite time yet. Nature still seems undecided.
It's not impatience I feel. More like the feeling when I've almost finished a good book. I want to know how it continues, and at the same time I'm a little sad that it will soon end.
The birds continue to chirp. The snow still lies. I stand at the window and smile. Perhaps the truth lies not in the beginning or the end, but in the in-between.
B.
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